Are We Animals?

Are We Animals?

I am interested in the concept animal, its analysis and role in our thinking and acting. I am also interested in the use of the word “animal”, its denotation, connotation, conversational implicatures, psychology, and sociology. These interests have a bearing on the ethical treatment of animals and on the nature of human intelligence. For most of human history it would have been denied that we are animals (“beasts”), mainly for religious reasons, but Darwin initiated a movement that denies this denial. For all intents and purpose, we are rightly classified as animals, though we do not always talk that way (ordinary language has not kept up with biology). The reasons for this are threefold: we are one species among others; we evolved from animals; we are similar to animals physiologically. How could these things be true and we not be animals, though no doubt exceptional animals. We are not plants and we are not gods; we are animals like other animals. That is our similarity-class. That is our taxonomic category. I take it this would now be generally accepted, if not warmly welcomed. But it would be fair to say that it has not completely sunk in; the culture has not fully absorbed it. Consider the following sentences: “I am an animal”, “You are an animal”, “She is an animal”, “Queen Elizabeth II was an animal”, “Jesus Christ was an animal”. These may all be literally true, but their connotations and implicatures prohibit their utterance in normal circumstances—they may be regarded as insulting, impolite, blasphemous. We don’t like the sound of them. They suggest dirty habits, aggressiveness, hairiness, lack of intelligence. They sound degrading. Why? I think it is because we have three main characteristics that set us apart from other animals: we live in houses, we wear clothes, and we speak. We are not unclothed, live in the wild, and bereft of speech. To this the obvious reply is that we are animals distinguished by the possession of these traits—we are exceptional animals, but still animals. Whales are also exceptional animals, but still animals. If they think of themselves in relation to other species (and I don’t doubt that they do), they probably regard themselves as a cut above, not as other species, not just animals. They don’t like to be classified as belonging to the same group as those creatures (“beasts”). They don’t care for the association—just as we don’t. We don’t like the label. But both species have to admit that their kinship with other creatures justifies using the same term to cover them. We are animals reluctant to be called “animals”.

The OED provides an instructive, if not entirely satisfactory, definition of “animal” that is unusually long: “a living organism which is typically distinguished from a plant by feeding on organic matter, having specialized sense organs and nervous system, and being able to move about and to respond rapidly to stimuli”, adding the codicil “a mammal, as opposed to a bird, reptile, fish, or insect”. The word “typically” is inserted to prevent counterexamples involving slow animals and fast plants, or the possibility of plants with eyes or ears, or insect-eating plants. Also, in their zeal to distinguish animals from plants the authors fail to provide a sufficient condition that distinguishes animals from gods or other supernatural beings (surely gods can eat, have sense organs, and can respond to stimuli). The codicil is interesting but puzzling: are the authors supposing that only mammals are animals? That is not zoologically orthodox and I would say plainly false, but it is not merely bizarre, because we don’t tend to use the word “animal” in application to these zoological groups. Why is this? I think there are two sorts of reasons: reptiles, fish, and insects are coldblooded; and birds resemble us in important respects, at least so far as folk zoology is concerned. Being coldblooded sets some animals apart from other warm-blooded animals, so that we need a subdivision in the total class of animals; we thus avoid calling the coldblooded animals by that name, while not denying that they are animals. In the case of birds, we recognize three features of them that bring them close to us: they build nests and live in them; they sing; and they have attractive plumage, rather like clothes. It is therefore felt to be demeaning to call them animals, as it is felt to be similarly demeaning to us. We are both animals with a difference, superior to other animals, supposedly (we are very fond of birds).

It is the human body that invites the appellation “animal”—its similarity to animal bodies generally. Our anatomy and physiology resemble those of animals already so called. Clearly, our bodies derive from earlier animal bodies; we might well be prepared to accept that we have an “animal body”, even before Darwin came along (but a non-animal soul). Hence the body is deemed a source of degradation, shame, mortality. It is not the human mind that encourages calling us animals; it isn’t flamboyantly animal in nature. If we didn’t have animal bodies, but supernatural or robot bodies, we would not describe ourselves as animals like other animals. Is it correct to say that we have animal minds? That is not such an easy question: for our minds are not indelibly imprinted with animal characteristics. On the one hand, we have minds far superior to any animal mind in certain respects: art, science, technology, music, literature, courtly love. On the other hand, our minds are in part clearly shaped by our animal body: hunger, thirst, fear, pain, lust. What an animal wants and feels is a function of its body type. Perhaps our psychological kinship with other animals might tip us off to an affinity with other animals and suggest continuity with them, but it is not so salient as the body. It would not fly in the face of the facts to say that we don’t have an animal mind, though we do have an animal body; at most our mind is partly an animal mind (but completely an animal body). This would justify the protest that I am not (completely) an animal, because my mind transcends anything in the animal world (my body, however, is stuck in that world). The correct form of statement would then be “The Queen’s body is wholly animal but her mind is only partly animal”. Does that sound a bit less discourteous?

How does all this bear on the two questions I mentioned at the beginning? First, it is difficult to defend speciesism once we humans are declared animals too; there is then no sharp moral line between us and the animals we mistreat. It doesn’t sound terribly convincing to say that we have a right to abuse other animals but not the animals we are. Why should we be treated with kid gloves if we can abuse and exploit our animal kin? “All animals are created equal” should be the maxim of the day. Mere species difference shouldn’t trump animal continuity. Second, full recognition that we are animals too, derived from other animals, should undermine claims of unlimited intellectual capacity: for animals are not generally omniscient. True, our minds are superior to other animal minds (in certain respects) but they are still the minds of an animal. We should therefore expect cognitive limits. The general lesson I would urge is that the word “animal” must cease to have negative connotations, so that no unease is produced by calling queens (and kings) animals. We should be able to say “Your royal animal highness” and not be accused of offenses against the monarchy.[1]

[1] A little anecdote may shed light on the origins of this paper. The other day I was feeding my pet tortoise and I noticed its tongue as it ate. It was small and pink, remarkably like a human tongue. I reflected: I am an animal too, just like you. I don’t think this is an easy thought to have, given the chasm we tend to set up. I wonder if any animal really thinks of itself as an animal. It doesn’t seem like something to be proud of (unlike species identity: does any animal feel itself to belong to an inferior species?). I myself am quite happy to call my tortoise my biological brother.