Humanising Everything!

An expert in local flora and fauna posted a short film clip taken on his travels in the interior. It depicted a Proboscis Monkey dining on some leaves.

The odd thing about it is that the monkey was described as ‘feeding on’ the leaves. Can’t argue with that, it was certainly feeding away most happily.

So why do I view that as odd?

If it was one of ‘us’ we should say that we were eating leaves.

Animals feed—we eat.

There’s a difference. A difference where there should be no difference. Because we anthropomorphise everything.

Yes, everything.

Anthropomorfication (yes, yes! I know there is no such word but, surely, us wordsmiths can smith a word or two when the urge comes upon us) abounds, it is all around us.

I know for a fact that computers do what you tell them to do rather than what you want them to do. And yet you will curse at it because it did something at variance with your wishes.

It did not comply with your wishes—not your commands. So it was you who got it wrong but, rather than blame yourself, you will say that the computer screwed up.

Then you will hurl abuse at it; maybe you will argue with it.

It’s a machine. You are in discussion, heated perhaps, with a machine. It is an inanimate object.

So your car won’t start in the morning? Soft words of encouragement are in order.

You will entreat it, “Come on, Baby! You can do it, Sweety!”

Further failure to comply with your wishes may mean that you will resort to a more argumentative posture; you may even, perhaps, indulge in language unbecoming of an educated young person.

You are arguing with a machine.

Like the computer, it is an inanimate object.

You might as well argue or rant at a snake.

Snakes have no ears. They are not deaf they have no ears to start with. They are incapable of listening to you.

A large number of snakes really do not care if you speak to them. They are, for the most part, above such things as conversations with humans.

What about things that have ears?

Bats, for example.

Surely we could have a conversation with bats.

We could if only they understood our language—or we understood theirs.

My capacity to squeak in the ranges above twenty kilocycles is sorely limited.

Perhaps something a little more ‘normal’.

Cats and dogs can hear us.

Of course, we hit the same barrier that we did with the bats. Language.

In spite of a fervent and heartfelt wish for our companions to understand what we say the inevitable answer is that they do not understand us. At all.

They possibly understand tone and actions but words? No. Really.

The idea that animals comprehend what we say to them is a terrible arrogance. It borders on the idea that we are alone in the Universe or that the sun rotates about the Earth.

What is it about us that demand us to become the ‘Masters’ of everything?

We are masters of almost nothing, in truth.

We have yet to tame soldier ants, rats are an incessant and ubiquitous problem and there are almost limitless diseases and viral infections that we have yet to fully understand let alone cope with or cure.

We are reliably informed that we have brought back some rocks from the moon and yet the deeps of the oceans remain a mystery.

Perhaps it is the idea of mastery over cats and dogs that satisfies that inner compulsion to rule over something, to be ‘Leader of the Pack’, the Lord and Master of all we survey.

Perhaps that is why we argue with stones that have broken our toes—to show that they will not have the last laugh over us, the 'Master of Small Stones and Rocks’.