Theorizing Animals: Re-thinking Humanimal Relations (Human-Animal Studies)

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Theorizing Animals

Human-Animal Studies Editor

Kenneth Shapiro Animals & Society Institute

Editorial Board

Ralph Acampora Hofstra University

Clifton Flynn University of South Carolina

Hilda Kean Ruskin College, Oxford

Randy Malamud Georgia State University

Gail Melson Purdue University

VOLUME 11

Theorizing Animals Re-thinking Humanimal Relations

Edited by

Nik Taylor Tania Signal

LEIDEN • BOSTON 2011

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Theorizing animals : re-thinking humanimal relations / edited by Nik Taylor, Tania Signal. â•…â•… p. cm. — (Human-animal studies ; 11) â•… Includes index. â•… ISBN 978-90-04-20242-9 (pbk. : alk. paper) ╇ 1. Human-animal relationships. 2. Human-animal relationships—Philosophy. I. Taylor, Nik. II. Signal, Tania. III. Title. IV. Series. â•… QL85.T46 2011 â•… 304.2’7—dc22

2011001410

ISSN 1573-4226 ISBN 978 90 04 202429 Copyright 2011 by Koninklijke Brill NV, Leiden, The Netherlands. Koninklijke Brill NV incorporates the imprints Brill, Hotei Publishing, IDC Publishers, Martinus Nijhoff Publishers and VSP. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, translated, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior written permission from the publisher. Authorization to photocopy items for internal or personal use is granted by Koninklijke Brill NV provided that the appropriate fees are paid directly to The Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Suite 910, Danvers, MA 01923, USA. Fees are subject to change.

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For the furry folk in both our lives, past and present, who have inspired—and continue to inspire—our interest in all things humananimal. Here’s hoping they get as much out of our relationships as we do.

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Contents Foreword. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi List of Contributors. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xiii Preface: In Hope of Change: Rethinking Human-Animal Relations? Lynda Birke. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xvii Introduction Nik Taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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KNOTTY PROBLEMS: TO THEORISE OR NOT? 1. Mapping Human Animal Relations Peter Beatson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21 2. Theorizing ‘Others’ Lisa Kemmerer. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 59 part two

ANIMALS AND MODERNITY 3. The Underdog in History: Serfdom, Slavery and Species in the Creation and Development of Capitalism Mary Murray. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87 4. Dangerous Dogs and The Construction of Risk Claire Molloy. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 107 5. Ritual, Reason and Animals Gavin Kendall. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129

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Animal Performers 6. The Representation of Animal Actors: Theorizing Performance and Performativity in the Animal Kingdom Gregory S. Szarycz. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 149 7. The Gaze of Animals Philip Armstrong. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175 part four

Forward thinking 8. Can Sociology Contribute to the Emancipation of Animals? Nik Taylor . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 203 9.

Theorising Rider-Horse Relations: An Ethnographic Illustration of the Centaur Metaphor in the Spanish Bullfight Kirrilly Thompson. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 221

10. Ciliated Sense Eva Hayward. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 Concluding Remarks: From Theory to Action: An Ethologist’s Perspective Jonathan Balcombe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 281 Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291

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Foreword This volume takes on one of the important challenges facing the emerging field of Human-Animal Studies: the development of theory. It begins with the meta-theoretical question: Does the field need theory? What are the pitfalls of theory? Is a macro-theory, one that provides a framework for this multi-disciplinary field, possible; is it desirable? Can the field thrive with theory that is simply extensionist—that takes existing social theories and modifies them to include nonhuman animals? What are the prospects for “hybridized theory?” Finally, can the field develop sui generis theory—theory peculiar to this inter-species, relationship-centered field? Whether or not the editors, Taylor and Signal, have succeeded in meeting these tall orders in this slim volume, I think you will agree the questions are now clear and on the table. Kenneth Shapiro, Series Editor Animals and Society Institute, Inc., Washington Grove MD

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS Thanks to Ken Shapiro for recognising the potential of this collection and for his advice throughout the process. A big thanks to the authors for their patience throughout and thanks also to those who helped behind the scenes with the various skills needed to pull a manuscript like this together. It was somewhat of a steep learning curve for the editors so we appreciate your input. Thanks must also go to Lynda Birke and Jonathan Balcombe for agreeing to write the Preface and Concluding Remarks, respectively. Final thanks are also due to Chris Pearce from Liquid Nature who generously provided the photographs for the cover.

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List of contributors Nik Taylor (editor) received her Ph.D in Sociology from Manchester Metropolitan University in 1999 where she addressed the sociology of human-animal interaction. She argued that sociology could, and should, take account of human-animal interactions in a thesis entitled ‘Human-Animal Relations: A Sociological Respecification’. Now a Senior Lecturer in Sociology at Flinders University, Dr Taylor currently researches human-animal interactions and is an Associate Editor of Society & Animals and an editorial board member of Anthrozoos, Sociology, and Sociological Research Online. She has published numerous articles on human-animal relations and is currently working on a book concerning animal identity and work. Tania Signal (editor) Tania received her DPhil from Waikato University (New Zealand) studying within the Animal Behaviour & Welfare Research Centre. She is currently a Senior Lecturer in Psychology at Central Queensland University (CQU). Her research interest is human-animal studies, in particular, the human animal violence connection from a psychological perspective. She is an associate editor for Society & Animals and regularly reviews for Anthrozoos. Peter Beatson Peter Beatson has doctorates in English literature from Cambridge University (1974) and in sociology from the University of Provence (1978). Formerly an associate professor of sociology at Massey University, Palmerston North, New Zealand, he is now retired, but remains an honorary research fellow at that institution. In the past, his two major areas of academic and personal interest were literature and the arts on the one hand, disability on the other. However, in 2005 he co-founded an inter-disciplinary undergraduate course at Massey University on animals and human society to which he still contributes. Although a comparative newcomer to the field of human-animal studies, he has developed a strong passion, both intellectual and humanitarian, for the subject. He feels his major potential contribution at this stage is the devising of an over-arching

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analytical framework for the study of human-animal interactions—a heuristic model that can be applied across historical, cultural and disciplinary boundaries. This is the subject of his chapter in the present book. His other nascent interest is in the representation of animals in world literature, with a particular focus for the moment on the depiction of animals in the fiction of the New Zealand writer Maurice Gee, about whom Peter is writing a book. Lisa Kemmerer Lisa Kemmerer earned a BA in International Studies from Reed College, a Masters in Theology from Harvard Divinity School, and a PhD in Philosophy from University of Glasgow, Scotland. She has taught philosophy and religion courses in Alaska, Washington, and Scotland, and currently teaches at Montana State University, Billings. Lisa’s reviews and articles have been published in journals, magazines, and newspapers; she has written, directed, and produced two documentaries on Buddhism, and has most recently completed a book on ethics and animals titled In Search of Consistency (Brill Academic, 2005). Mary Murray Born in England of Irish parentage and ancestry, Mary came to New Zealand in 1991. Before coming to Massey she taught at universities in England, Scotland and Ireland. She has researched and published in the areas of historical sociology and feminist theory, including a book for Routledge, The Law of the Father (1995). Her research and teaching interest now lie in the areas of sociology of death and dying, emotions, sociological and feminist theory, sociology of dreams, and the relationship between humans and animals. She is currently working on a book to be published with MacMillian on the sociology of death and dying. Claire Molloy Dr Molloy is a Senior Lecturer in the Department of Media at Edge Hill University. Her PhD, ‘Discourses of anthropomorphism’, was a critical history of anthropomorphism since the eighteenth century. She has published on the subjects of anthropomorphism and the relationship between animals and national identity and is the guest editor for a special edition of the journal Diegesis on the subject of

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anthropomorphism in 2008. Her book Memento was published in 2010 by Edinburgh University Press. Gavin Kendall Gavin Kendall is Professor of Sociology at Queensland University of Technology, Brisbane, Australia. His books include The State, Democracy and Globalization (Palgrave, 2004, with Roger King), Understanding Culture (Sage, 2001, with Gary Wickham) and Using Foucault’s Methods (Sage, 1999, with Gary Wickham). His latest book, The Sociology of Cosmopolitanism (with Zlatko Skrbis and Ian Woodward), will be published by Palgrave. He is on the editorial advisory boards of the journals New Zealand Sociology, Foucault Studies and Athenea Digital. Gregory S. Szarycz Greg Szarycz holds a PhD from the University of Otago, New Zealand, where he was also a contributing lecturer. He has subsequently held teaching positions at the University of Guelph, the University of Waterloo, and Wilfrid Laurier University. He is a regular presenter at international conferences, including at the British Association for Canadian Studies (BACS), the University of Oxford, and the Society for Cross-Cultural Research (SCCR). Philip Armstrong Philip Armstrong (MA, PhD) is the co-director (with Annie Potts) of the New Zealand Centre for Human-Animal Studies (www.nzchas. canterbury.ac.nz), and he teaches English and Human-Animal Studies at the University of Canterbury. He is the editor (with Laurence Simmons) of Knowing Animals (Brill 2007), a collection of essays on “the animal turn” in philosophy, literary criticism, film and cultural studies; and he has just completed a monograph entitled What Animals Mean in the Fiction of Modernity (Routledge, 2008), which surveys the representation of human-animal relationships in novels written in English from the 18th to the 21st centuries. In addition, Philip is one of three scholars collaborating on a three-year project funded by the Royal Society of New Zealand, which entails researching and writing a book entitled Kararehe: Animals in Art, Literature and Everyday Culture in Aotearoa New Zealand (under contract with Auckland University Press).

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Kirrilly Thompson Kirrilly Thompson is an anthropologist who carried out doctoral research in Andalusia looking at the human-animal relations of the corrida de rejones (the bullfight from horseback). Her academic interests in sport, performance, embodiment, human-animal relations and the human-animal boundary arise from her involvement in the equestrian discipline of dressage. She has also researched sports fan culture in a public health context through research into the role of alcohol in South Australian football fan subculture. Eva Hayward Eva Hayward is a guest researcher in the Centre for Gender Research at Uppsala University, Sweden, and an assistant professor in the Department of Cinematic Arts, University of New Mexico. She has lectured and published widely on animal studies, experimental film, and embodiment. Her recently published essays, “Lessons From A Starfish: Prefixial Flesh and Transspeciated Selves” and “Spider City Self,” explore intimacy, transsexuality, and animality.

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PREFACE In Hope of Change: Rethinking human-animal relations? Lynda Birke1 Writing this while the world’s humans busily debate how badly we have affected the climate, I think about the interconnectedness of life on earth. Humans, nonhumans, ecosystems—all are profoundly entwined, and interdependent. Just maybe, out of all this intense debate, we might wake up to the fact that we humans are not alone, that we inhabit this world with an astonishing array of others, whose lives we affect by our actions. It is that interconnection with other animals that fascinates so many of us, and which forms the basis for the newly emerging scholarship in human-animal studies. Wherever and however we live, we are always relating to animals—from companions by our firesides, to the animals whose flesh some eat, to the animals who are used in scientific research, in zoos, as transport, and to the parasites living in or on us. But these interspecies minglings have been absent from many areas of academic inquiry—especially in the social sciences and humanities, which have focused on what we humans are up to and ignored our co-travellers. At last, however, these omissions are being recognised, and nonhuman animals are (slowly) creeping and crawling into the ivory towers. The study of animals is, of course, traditionally a concern of the sciences, especially biology. That is the sense of theorizing animals that I am most familiar with, framed within the discourses of evolution and animal behaviour. Here, we can learn about the behaviour of wild animals and how they adapt to their particular environments. But that is only part of the story, and the flourishing field of humananimal studies testifies to how we can think about other animals and their relationship to us, in many different ways. Slowly, we have begun to acknowledge the importance of other species of animals in the creation of our societies, our cultures and our histories—as well 1

╇ Biological Sciences, University of Chester, Parkgate Road, Chester, UK

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as our roles in creating, and sometimes destroying, theirs. To think about our relationships with other animals is to engage in a serious intellectual challenge, for we must range widely and across academic disciplines. My own approach to human-animal studies derives partly from my background as a biologist specialized in the study of animal behaviour. It emerges, too, out of interest in our social relatings with other species, and how such relatings work within, and produce, what we understand as culture. But it is also founded in politics. While human-animal studies within the academy runs in parallel to broader cultural attitudes toward nonhuman animals, it has roots in animal advocacy politics as well. As such, it can both chart how we think about animals and help to create further change. But to do that effectively, it needs critical theory as well as activism; it needs the people prepared to do things (often radical things) which challenge the status quo, and at the same time it needs theories which challenge and develop our ideas. Perhaps it is my own history of working in the women’s and environmental movements which makes me always want both the practices and the theories to underpin political and social change. That is why I welcome the challenge posed here, in Theorizing Animals: Re-thinking Humanimal Relations. Theory matters. It matters because it helps us to understand these relations, it matters because it can inform politics, it matters because it can help drive change. And change we certainly do need. Within Western cultural traditions, there is a long history of domination, and of perceiving other animals as there solely for our use2. Although attitudes toward (some) other species and some forms of cruelty have altered over the last couple of centuries (we no longer consider it acceptable to have bear-baiting in the streets of London, for instance), there is still widespread abuse. Billions of animals suffer and die in the name of providing us with meat, with drugs, with entertainment—practices which show no sign of abating3. And billions suffer daily as their world is torn apart through our destruction of the earth’s habitats. ╇ I am not for a moment suggesting here that non-Western cultures necessarily relate to animals in non-dominating ways, simply that my concern here is with the Western intellectual heritage. 3 ╇ And some of which—the felling of forest to provide pasture for more cattle for meat production for instance—contribute to global ecological crises. 2

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While a separation of ‘us’ from ‘them’ is a very old habit, it was exacerbated by the modernist separation of nature from culture (and resulting separation of academic disciplines). While we are now much more aware that we inhabit hybrid naturecultures, that the dualism is deeply damaging, those old habits are hard to break. Thus, we continue to abuse animals, and we continue to search for ways in which they are ‘not as good as’ us. Theorizing human-animal relatings, however, has to recognize that all kinds of dualisms are interlinked in modernist thought. As several contributors to Theorizing Animals note, the justifications we use to separate ourselves work just as well if the ‘other’ is a human of different background to us, or another species. It’s precisely the tenacity of dualistic thinking that means we have to keep working at new theoretical approaches. Any new theory must find ways to transcend those entrenched habits. There are, inevitably, many ways to theorize animals, as this book attests. And we face many challenges in doing so. How, for instance, do we get away from the modernist heritage that leads us to talk about ‘animals’ (as implicitly different ‘from’ us)? Even though I’m a biologist, well-trained in Darwinian evolution, I still find it extremely difficult to escape such linguistic either/or traps. We always slip back—why else talk about human-animal studies, as though we are not them? What else is conveyed when I speak here in this preface about humans and ‘other animals’? And what is glossed over by referring to the generic ‘animals’: which animals are we talking about, in what contexts? We can welcome nonhuman animals into the annals of sociology and other disciplines—and doing so is leading to a great flow of fascinating and fruitful ideas. But there’s another hurdle facing us in our theorization: where exactly are real, material animals in our theorizing of them? Can we produce ideas that acknowledge other species’ abilities and integrities, or will they always be in the shadows of our anthrocentric notions? To be sure, recent work in cognitive ethology helps to emphasise the consciousness, capabilities, and sentience of all kinds of nonhumans; but how are those insights of ‘who animals are’ brought to bear on thinking in the social sciences and humanities, to inform how we think about relationships between us and other animals? It is extremely important that we recognize the involvement of nonhumans in the creation of cultures (human or otherwise), that we understand that they are not only ‘good to think with’, but are also crucially partners in the making of our world. How

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we theorize that, without marginalizing or trivializing them, continues to pose the kind of challenge admirably addressed by contributors here. Yet to me, the fundamental problem facing our theories lies with the inarticulacy of human-animal relatings. I often ponder this as I realize that however much we might write about what other animals do, or what they signify to us, we still cannot put into words what we feel. It is in those profound moments of connectedness, of touch or gaze between us and an individual who is of another species, that I become dumb, inarticulate, unable to express what is going on. I may be in touch every day with the horses and dogs living in my domestic sphere, or in earshot of the wild birds who squabble at the bird feeders in my garden: but despite often feeling that sense of profound connection, I still cannot speak their language(s). And they call the others ‘dumb’ animals! It is, however, often those inexpressible moments that make me want to work with ideas about how we relate to these myriad others. Despite the intellectual challenges, theorizing how those relationships work is vitally important—for all inhabitants of this world. It is through connections with/to other species that we might begin to challenge prevailing views of the world around us—and it is through those connections that change might be implemented. And by that I mean radical change; as some of the contributors here have noted, tinkering about on the surface of how we think about animals will do little to change long-established practices. To get to those points requires some serious work. Re-theorizing animals is an important part of that effort. It is imperative that such re-theorizing takes nonhuman animals seriously, treating them as aware actors on the social stage; it must recognise their awe-inspiring abilities rather than pointing to other species’ inability to do things like write poetry or software. And, in a world where these others are treated as mindless, disposable, our theories must emphasise their mindfulness. Theorization is critical for change, and change there must be in how we think about, perceive, behave toward others, of whatever species. Only when we stop inhabiting spaces and practices in which animals are rendered inarticulate, can we feel the wonder of meeting other minds.

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INTRODUCTION Thinking About Animals Nik Taylor This is a book concerned with the way that we humans think about animals. As such it is a book concerned with epistemology, i.e., how we know what we know and the processes by which certain facts and beliefs come to be considered as legitimate knowledge. The book is broadly post-humanist and post-structuralist in that it questions taken for granted assumptions about the human-animal divide and points to the ways in which this divide is maintained through the operation of knowledge. So, for example, many of the authors are concerned with discourses about animals, i.e. the taken for granted ways in which humans think and talk about animals as though they are inferior to humans and how this belief then becomes entrenched culturally. That this thinking and talking about animals is often the basis of academic theorizing about them is also acknowledged throughout. Animals have become the increasing focus of academic interest, an interest which spans multiple disciplines and begins to question hitherto taken for granted assumptions about the place of animals and their relationship vis á vis humans. Recent evidence regarding environmental problems and changes has led to an increased awareness of the inter-connectedness of all life which in turn has led (is leading?) to a rejection of the human-centered—anthropocentric— assumptions which are considered to be indicative of current ways of seeing animals. If humans are no longer ‘the centre of the universe’ and if our relations with animals are much more complex than previously thought, then we need to study them in new—and diverse— ways; in ways which continue to challenge us to re-think ‘our’ relationships with ‘them’. This then serves to legitimize much of the current interest in animals from disciplines previously largely concerned only with humans (i.e. the social sciences and the humanities). It also serves as the basis of the current book. Throughout the

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book there is an overwhelming interest in epistemology and linked to this is a general critique of post-Enlightenment ways of thinking. Post-Enlightenment thinking here is taken to refer to traditional schools of thought where rigid binaries or dualisms (such as those between human and animal, or between nature and culture) are taken uncritically as self-evident. This is also known as modernist thought as it is reflective of the period known as modernity. Whilst some have tried to attach concrete dates to the period known as ‘modernist’ (e.g. Giddens, 1991), in the current volume we are more concerned with the manifestation of modernism (and postmodernism) in intellectual culture as opposed to in concrete societal structures. As such, hard and fast dates are difficult to pin down. Suffice to say that modernism is associated with the post-enlightenment period of scientific and rationalistic dominance and discourse. Postmodernism, on the other hand, refers to ways of thinking which seek to deconstruct the taken for granted assumptions which underpin the rigid binaries which dominate modernist thought. Throughout the book there is concern to delineate modernist from postmodernist arguments. Modernism is taken to be the period from the EnlightenÂ� ment onwards wherein such binaries, or dualisms, were left largely uncontested. Post-modernism refers to the period of thought beyond that which deconstructs such dualisms and, in particular, points to the operation of power through their use, power that is achieved by the exclusion, or ‘othering’ of a particular group. Finally, many of the scholars in the current book take a post-humanist approach. This is an approach which points out that modernist thinking is humanist thinking, i.e. there is an assumption that humans are the ‘centre of the universe.’ In other words, most of the scholars in the current volume seek to critique standard ways of ‘thinking about’ animals and they do so from an epistemological starting point. The general assumption is that knowledge is socially—contextually—produced and it is done so with the assumption that the “subject is always already human” (Wolfe 2003, 1). Moreover, this humanism, i.e. the belief in the importance of the human subject to the exclusion of all else, is seen as the intellectual framework which leads to a deeply embedded anthropocentrism in modern ways of thinking. One of the consequences of this starting point for the scholars in the current volume is the point that knowledge is not produced in a vacuum; socio-Â� political forces are seen as playing a large part in the production of

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knowledge about animals, about their assumed place and about the ways in which they should be treated. In other words, for many of the contributors to this work epistemology and ontology overlap. Epistemology is concerned with knowledge (what counts as legitimate knowledge and how do we know what we know) whereas ontology is concerned with the state of being in the world. The link between the two in the current volume is that ideas about animals (i.e. epistemology) are seen to have a direct affect on their reality (i.e. ontology). As such this collection offers a selection of essays which are generally critical of current thinking about how we conceive of animals with the assumption that ideas and conceptions of them is inextricably linked to the treatment of them. These new approaches towards animals have necessitated, in turn, a re- think of traditional approaches towards animals and their ‘place’ in the human world. Increasingly scholars of human-animal relationships are arguing that traditional social theories, based upon postEnlightenment (i.e. modernist) pretensions are an inadequate starting point for the study of human-animal relationships. For example, the belief that there is a ‘Truth out there’ which is amenable to identification, study and control is seen as linked to, and predicated upon, the belief that ‘the social’ is an entirely different realm to ‘the natural’ and thus that animals and humans are worlds apart. This is an untenable base for a meaningful approach towards human-animal relationships (e.g. Irvine 2004; Taylor 2007) because it places animals strictly outside of assumed human interests. In essence, then, it writes animals out of consideration before the fact—meaning that we start with the assumption that their importance, if it does exist, is simply that of importance to humans and to society, not in their own right. This is largely seen as the anthropocentric legacy of modernist, post-Enlightenment, thinking. This mirrors current arguments in environmental and geographical studies where it is becoming clear that anthropocentrically based theories are no longer an adequate tool with which to theorize about increasingly complex human relationships with the natural environment (e.g. Whatmore 2006). Given that the theoretical and conceptual tools which we currently have available to us may well be archaic and unable to account for human-animal relationships, new directions are called for. Throughout this book authors interchange the terms modernity and post-enlightenment to invoke general paradigms of thought wherein rational and scientific approaches which separate nature

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from culture are the paramount ways of knowing the world. Traditional theories of human-animal relations operate within this firmly modernist framework, i.e. a framework which one which conceives of nature as something outside of, and separate to, humanity. Even those seeking to challenge traditional conceptions of animality and its place vis á vis humanity tend to operate within such paradigms. This has led to an unending stalemate when it comes to seeking appropriate ways to treat animals. For example, the various theorists which argue that rights should be given to animals find themselves arguing ceaselessly with their opponents regarding the attribution—or lack of—the given criterion of the day. Thus we see endless arguments regarding the possession (or attribution) of language, culture, moral frameworks, sentience (see, for e.g. Regan 1984; Singer 1990) and so on in animals. The debate rages on both sides with advances in ethology and the biological sciences often re-igniting such arguments. However, as soon as one attribute is ‘proven’ to exist in animals the bar is raised and we find ourselves faced with a new set of arguments regarding the lack of something in animals that humans are purported to possess. And the merry-go-round continues. Whilst not detracting from the findings of studies which demonstrate the rich and detailed lives of nonhuman animals there is a need to move beyond this argument. One particularly obvious starting point might be the fact that humans are animals. However, our modernist (western) intellectual heritage is one which has sought to establish that humans are somehow different to animals. Following classical Cartesian arguments the prevailing point of view is that close relationships can only be formed and sustained by humans (e.g. Arluke & Sanders 1996; Cazaux, 1999; Sanders 2003), and this has been further embedded in western epistemologies by the the utilitarian and/or anthropocentric ideology that animals are a means to human ends (Taylor 2007a & b). This has resulted in the vast body of social thought which starts from a point wherein the social is seen as polar opposite to the natural, with the social being perceived as superior to the natural. Furthermore this persistent belief pervades our very epistemological foundation. For example, despite Darwin’s insistence on both the physical and mental continuity between humans and nonhumans, as evidenced by the ‘anthropomorphism’ which pervades his writings (Crist 1999), modern (western) ideologies of humans and animals only (tentatively) accept the physical continuity he proposed.

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If we truly wish to begin to study human relations with animals then we need to find ways to move past current entrenched beliefs regarding human superiority and ontological centrality and instead turn to thinking about animals in entirely new ways. This entails an examination of the various epistemological practices used on a daily basis designed to obfuscate the fact that humans are indeed animals and that the divisions between human and animal and social and natural, are socially constructed and maintained. In essence, what is needed is an examination of the inherent anthropocentrism of western thinking which is inevitably linked to the modernist project which itself is predicated upon the superiority of humans over nature and their animal counterparts. Recognition of the embedded anthropocentrism and humanism of modernist theory has led to numerous post-humanist attempts to re-conceive the ways in which we think about animals. Eschewing traditional structure versus agency arguments which lead inevitably to the intractable polar opposites that Latour (2004) names monoÂ� naturalism or multi-culturalism, has led post-humanist thinkers to develop entirely new ways of conceiving human-animal relaÂ� tionships. Seeking to start from an entirely new place, scholars of human-animal relations are at the forefront of groundbreaking new paradigmatic attempts to conceive human-animal relations and, in turn, nature-culture debates. Collections such as Simmons and Armstrong’s Knowing Animals (2007) and Tyler and Rossini’s Animal Encounters (2009) indicate that there is both an interest in, and need for, new and innovative ways to approach our relationships with animals. In turn, the theoretical frameworks which we utilize to analyze these ‘humanimal’ (Beatson, this volume) relations also need revising. One of the key points that most of the scholars in this field are at pains to make is that the divisions we take for granted (social v natural; animal v human) are no longer viable ways of seeing the world. And, in fact, they over-simplify what is, in reality, a much messier terrain of interconnected ‘things’ (humans, animals, inanimate objects, technology and so on). There is then a trend within this area to coin new—yoked—phrases to represent this. Examples include Haraway’s ‘naturecultures’ (1991) and the notion of ‘humanimal’ put forth in this volume by Beatson. Following on from these different ways to think about interlinked human-animal lives, the current collection aims to present a variety of innovative ways to

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Â� re-think humanimal relations informed by a variety of academic disciplines. Whilst not every author presented here would necessarily identify as post-humanist, the volume itself, as a whole, is necessarily so in that its aim is to re-articulate the way humans ‘know animals.’ And despite differences brought about by intellectual background, all the authors presented here have one thing in common—they aim to problematise the notion of ‘animal’ and the human-animal relationship in order to unpack traditional assumptions about human relations with animals and about the place of animals within the world. As with any new area of knowledge, no one way forward will suffice. It is crucial, therefore that we find both new ways, and new places, to think about animals. As such the current volume presents a deliberately eclectic collection of potential—alternate—ways to ‘know animals.’ It is not intended to be exhaustive in scope but rather to present new ideas and new ways forward. The range of work presented here is testament to both the burgeoning interest in humananimal relations and to their importance, whether this importance be seen as primarily to humans (e.g. what do animals tell us about ourselves) or primarily to animals (e.g. how do epistemological positionings of animals dictate human treatments of them). The book is divided into four sections: (1) Knotty Problems: To Theorise or Not? (2) Animals and Modernity, (3) Animal Performers, and (4) Forward Thinking Section One: Knotty Problems: To Theorise or Not? The first section is comprised of two very different approaches to the idea of theorizing animals. Both chapters in this section put forth the argument that humans can (and should) help other animals, but precisely how we go about this is the topic of debate here. Beatson (chapter 1) argues that this can be achieved by re-conceiving our approaches to human animal studies whilst Kemmerer (chapter 2) argues that we need to abandon theory entirely and instead concentrate on effecting change by other means. The first chapter sets out an alternative heuristic map of humanimal relations and, as such, opens this volume with one particular classificatory system which offers a different way of ordering our thought about animals and their relations with humans. In this

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Â�chapter, Beatson uses the concept of ‘mutual determination’ to argue that “through the very process of being acted upon by humans, animals unwittingly shape human society in their own image.” Beatson argues that culture mediates five key areas—population, economy, politics, community, and welfare—which themselves encompass “any and every conceivable form of human-animal relationship” which, in turn are subsumed under the rubric of ‘nature.’ Taking as its starting point the separation of human and animal via the invention of culture, this chapter explores the various forms that human “cultural dictatorship” over nature has taken. For example, Beatson argues that whilst the main impact of humans on animal populations has been to shrink and/or eradicate them, there has been a corresponding impact by animals on human culture. This is evidenced by such things as the geographical distribution of human populations being historically influenced by the migration and distribution of nonhuman populations. This idea of ‘mutual determination’ is used throughout the chapter to demonstrate that human and animal lives are inextricably linked—be it via issues of population, economics, politics, community or welfare. The chapter concludes with a direct discussion of the role of culture in human-animal relations: direct because Beatson is clear that culture has been a constant—if oblique— companion throughout the preceding five key spheres of interest. Beatson argues that it is through the pernicious operation of discourse that culture becomes something taken for granted and through this serves to legitimate human subjugation of other animals. His final point, however, is unfailingly optimistic: that through a re-theorization of the cultural constructions of human-animal relations “the yoke of human dominion, of which culture is an integral component, is starting to weigh slightly less oppressively on our fellow creatures.” The next chapter offers a direct counter-argument to that of the first. After offering an overview of how certain (human) groups have theorized about other (human) groups, Kemmerer explores the other end of the analytical spectrum by arguing that we might wish to consider not theorizing at all. She opens with a cautionary tale regarding the very idea of theorizing. Pointing out that theories are often put forth by those with vested interests in the ideas behind them, or the behavior they encourage, she reminds us that if we survey all of the theories ever proposed throughout human history “the vast majority” of them have been proven wrong. She points out that “vested Â�interests

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and the theories that support vested interests …require that ‘Others’ be subjugated”. After offering examples of the theoretical justification of the subjugation of human ‘Others’ such as slaves and women, Kemmerer moves to discuss theories about animal ‘Others’. She argues that human theorizing about animals begins from an exclusivist perspective. For Kemmerer, this is an ever present failing/necessity of current theories about animals because the human sense of self requires a clear dichotomy between ‘us’ and ‘them’, human and animal, which justifies current hierarchical thinking which in turn establishes humans above all other species. She goes on to highlight examples, such as language, intelligence and morality, wherein human theorizing about animals is used to maintain a separate, and inferior, status for animals. Following this abstract outline of the harm that theories can do, Kemmerer moves to examine specific practices, e.g. factory farming and the veal industry, which continue to proliferate due to the inherent justification current theories about animals offer. Her conclusions are stark and challenging—that humans have “proven embarrassingly partial in theorizing about ‘Others’”; that self interested theories allow the continuance of exploitative behaviors towards animals; that human failure to adopt a compassionate morality towards animals is a direct result of our theories about them; that it is time to stop theorizing and instead “to bring change through choices”. Section Two: Animals and Modernity The second section addresses human animal relations and species boundaries under modernity. In the first chapter of this section (chapter 3), Murray addresses the road to modernity and its effects on animals. Murray blurs species boundaries by pointing to the speciesism inherent in classical Marxist statements regarding the transition to modernity and by demonstrating how Marxist concepts regarding human slavery and oppression are applicable to animals. In the second chapter of this section (chapter 4), Molloy offers an analysis of human-animal relations within reflexive modernity which are characterized by the need for a preservation of species boundaries through her analysis of the ‘dangerous dogs’ moral panic which occurred in the UK in the late nineties. Finally, in this section Kendall (chapter 5) points out that even though modernity is often thought

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characterized by reason and rationality at the expense of the charismatic and the magical, human-animal relations often have ritualistic overtones which offer transcendent experiences. The chapters in this section have in common not only attempts to theorize about the impact of modernity on animals and on human-animal relations, but the fact that they seek to extend traditional social theories to nonhuman animals. In chapter three, Murray argues that in debates about the transition to modern capitalism the role of non-human animals has hitherto been ignored. To Murray, existing debates, which focus exclusively on human social relations, are speciesist and ignore the fact that this transition to capitalism from feudalism was constructed in and through particular forms of speciesist social relationships. Murray draws analogies between the enslavement of humans and of animals in early societies and points out that whilst freeing of human slaves occurred it did not find a corollary in the status of animals who remained then, as now, property of human masters. Utilizing a traditional Marxist framework and drawing on standardized Marxist debates, Murray demonstrates how capitalism was founded on the “back of hooves, paws and claws” whilst both necessitating and extending the slavery of nonhuman animals. She points out how Taylorist and Fordist methods, developed to increase worker efficiency, are relentlessly applied to intensive, industrial animal production wherein animals have even less freedoms than their human predecessors did under such systems. Moreover, for Murray, such systems do not benefit from the products of the animal-slaves alone but from the very animals themselves who become commodified in the process. Following a brief review of the intellectual foundations which generated Marx’ species blind philosophy—humanism— Murray goes on to point out the numerous concepts within Marxism which can readily apply to animals in capitalist societies. These include not only the increasing commodification of animals, but the reification of this process whereby the social relationships which cause and maintain this commodification remain obfuscated. Throughout the chapter Murray makes it clear that there is nothing intrinsic to animals that necessitate this outcome, rather it is the outcome of “an unholy alliance between science, technology and the pursuit of profit” which leads to animals being transformed into commodities for human use; into “miraculous machines” which are “sacrificed for the multitudes.”

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introduction

Taking the introduction of the Dangerous Dogs Act [DDA] (1991) in the UK as a starting point, Molloy is concerned with analyzing the “specific social and cultural conditions and frameworks of understanding that gave rise to the emergence of dogs as risks in the UK”. Utilizing theories of risk she demonstrates how the moral panic surrounding ‘dangerous’ dogs in the nineties in the UK was used to negotiate and to affirm both “social hierarchies and cultural norms”. Molloy points out that Beck’s original thesis on risk was based on an analysis of the consequences of the loss of a clear demarcation between nature and culture. She then argues that certain companion animal keeping practices can be understood, within this framework, as part of the myriad social control practices which developed in response to a sense of the loss of clear nature-culture boundaries. Given that “nowhere is the line between nature and culture more blurred than within pet-keeping practices where nonhuman animals are brought into the domestic sphere” it is a perfect place to analyze the function of various regulatory practices—of which the DDA is the most overt. Molloy then uses the idea of moral panics to culturally and historically trace the development of the construction of certain dogs as risky. A construction which ultimately led to a moral divide between those perceived as ‘good’ dog owners and those perceived to be ‘bad’ dog owners. Central to this was the pervasive and dominant construction of a relationship between some marginalized males and the ownership of certain types of ‘dangerous’ dogs, in particular pit bulls. A relationship which was characterized by perceived similarities in aggressive behavior. Taking examples from the media at the time, Molloy demonstrates how pit bull owners were slowly denied the opportunities to be credible sources of knowledge and how, instead, a complex interplay between the media and various state agencies came into being which ensured that the discourse surrounding dangerous dogs was extended to become a discourse about social deviance. Furthermore, in a response to the ontological insecurities characteristic of reflexive modernity the discourse also came to be about nature-culture boundary maintenance. Molloy thus argues that ‘risk’ was central to the construction of the abject status of certain animals and that ‘abject animality’ combined with Beck’s model of risk society offers a meaningful way to think about human relations with ‘dangerous dogs.’ The next chapter maintains this theme of animals and modernity by considering ritual and tradition as a way of thinking about human

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relations with animals. Kendall examines two humanimal intersections—ancient Greek sacrifice and Balinese cockfights—in order to develop his argument that rationalistic attempts to characterize society—and animals’ place within it—may be misplaced. He points out that modern societies render animals invisible by removing any wonder or magic that might have once been bestowed upon them and replacing it instead with a rational discourse. For Kendall, the theory that ‘hot’ interactions between humans and animals which gave rise to wonder and mysticism such as those found in the ‘wild’, have increasingly been replaced by ‘cold’ interactions which are characterized by inspection, surveillance and reason, is a compelling one but only a partial one. He argues that there are several exceptions to this idea that the ‘heat’ has slowly been drained from human encounters with animals. For example, he points towards the rituals involved in whale watching—where the ritual is primarily that of the whales rather than the humans. Nonetheless he argues that human whale watching practices with their stress on the naturalness of the encounter (the whales may or may not show; nature is uncontrollable) and the fact that here humans are able to play a part in the primordial ritual of whale migrations offer a ‘transcendent experience’. This experience, he argues, holds all the hallmarks of a ritual. He expands on this argument by turning to look at dog and cat shows where again he sees evidence of both tradition and ritual. He concludes that “modernity was never really completely drained of tradition and ritual, and critical reason was never really alone on the battlefield, with tradition dead at its feet”. Instead, ritual and tradition have been— and still are—ever present and offer an alternative way to understand both “ourselves and how we make sense of non-human animals”. Section Three: Animal Performers The third section concentrates on the ideas of performance and performativity as a way to think about human-animal relations. In the first chapter of this section (chapter 6) Szarycz argues that all life is dramaturgical and that the intertwined ideas of performance and performativity can be used to meaningfully explore human-animal relations. Related to this is the next chapter (chapter 7) where Armstrong uses a visit to London Zoo whereupon he ‘gazes’ at a captive tiger whilst she gazes elsewhere, to discuss the meaning of

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animal ‘gazes’ and the role that this concept might play in fostering new ways to think about animals. In chapter 6 Szarycz argues that all social life is dramaturgical and he seeks to extend this analysis to non-human animals by analyzing how humans construct perceptions of the natural world through representations of animal actors. The chapter begins with a discussion of performance and performativity and an examination of the possibility, and appropriateness, of applying these terms/theories to nonhuman animals. By arguing that performance is a process which depends on the skill of the actor, its context and its interpretation, Szarycz points out that it is a concept which can readily be applied to nonhuman animals. He points out that animal performances are narratives about nature wherein audiences seek—through their interpretations of the performance and associated animal behaviors—to discover something about the physical and mental capacities of the actor. Using examples drawn from traditional sites of animal performance, e.g. circuses, Szarycz demonstrates how the implication that trained animal behavior is an extension of their natural behavior is one which is directed by human assumptions about animal behavior mediated through ‘staged performances’. Szarycz points to the differences between the presentation and the re-presentation of nonhuman animals, the main difference being that presentation is direct whilst re-presentation is mediated. Despite these differences, and the differences they in turn lead to in terms of both animal behavior and human participation in animal performances, Szarycz concludes that they are subsumed within ideological frameworks which dominate the way various discourses (e.g. ‘animal’, ‘wild’, ‘nature’) are constructed within human cultures. Despite this, Szarycz concludes that there is something inherently inexplicable, magical, in animal performance and that through it “animals reveal something we did not know of them”. Armstrong begins his chapter by considering the gaze of a captive tiger and asks what does it mean if that which we are theorizing about can return our gaze; can look back at us? Armstrong uses two main ideas here. The first is Berger’s argument that industrial capitalism has led to the disappearance of ‘real’ animals, to be substituted by virtual animality (e.g. as spectacles in zoos). The second is Derrida’s now famous account of the encounter he had with his cat one morning and the questions it led him to. Drawing from both of these ideas, Armstrong uses the idea of ‘gaze’ (both from human to

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animal and from animal to human) as the organizing principle of this chapter. Following a historical review of the mythical qualities bestowed upon animals’ eyes and their gaze, this chapter then turns to a discussion of the various events which contributed to the paradigm shift which ultimately removed visual agency from nonhuman species and in turn served to reify human superiority. Despite the ascendency of rationalistic and logical paradigms which often account for perceived animal inferiority, Armstrong demonstrates how many key pieces of post-enlightenment literature maintain earlier mythical ideas regarding the gaze of animals. However, this has been accomplished at the price of subsuming these ideas within a deeply analytically rational paradigm which again serves to both create and justify human superiority over animals. This chapter then moves onto more contemporary accounts of animals and argues that just as industrial modernity involved the disappearance of animals, one of the hallmarks of postmodernity is an attempt to reverse this. Armstrong points out that much postmodern literature concerning animals represents the ontological insecurity characteristic of modernity and uses animals to point to an “atavistic fear”. However, Armstrong argues that one response to this fear, rather than simply harking back to the strict hierarchical relations between humans and animals constitutive of modernity, could be to instead take the opportunity to develop new theories and material relations between humans and animals. For the remainder of the chapter, Armstrong does just this: he weaves in ideas from various scholars and disciplines to conclude that we need to bring together philosophy, theory, the sciences and new theories about animals to allow us to learn from, as well as about, our nonhuman counterparts. Section Four: Forward Thinking The final section of the book is concerned with the application of a relatively new social theory—Actor Network Theory (ANT)—to human animal relations. In the first chapter of this section (Chapter 8), Taylor asks whether social theory as it currently stands is adequate to the task of theorizing about, and emancipating, animals. She argues that it is not—that its modernist base is inherently anthropocentric and based upon the very dualisms that maintain humananimal boundaries which in turn legitimate animal oppression. She

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then turns to a discussion of ANT as one alternate way of thinking about animals. Similarly, Thompson (chapter 9) argues that traditional ways of seeing horse riders gives primacy to the human in the relationship at the expense of the horse who is often overlooked entirely. She argues that a fusion of ANT and the centaur metaphor are alternative ways of conceptualizing the hybridity of horse-rider relations. Finally, the book concludes with a chapter which addresses the ways in which technology, humans and animals come together to form a working display of jellies at the Monterey Bay Aquarium. The author, Hayward, is keen to draw attention away from traditional ways of thinking about animals on display (as passive objects subject to human gaze) and instead outlines ways of thinking which again stress the interplay of humans, animals and objects. In the first chapter of this final section, Taylor points out that as social theorists increasingly attempt to come to grips with ‘the animal question’ they are finding that a direct corollary of this is the need to revisit ‘the social question’ as current conceptions of animals are based on a belief in the social-natural divide. This chapter questions whether Sociology, in its current forms, can indeed, ever resolve ‘the animal question’ without recourse to established epistemological frameworks which ultimately underpin animal oppression in modern society. Concluding that social theories are inadequate in this respect the author then explores various facets of post-humanist thought, and in particular, Actor Network Theory, as one potential starting point for a resolution of these issues. Pointing out that ANT starts from an epistemological point wherein humans, animals, technology and objects are considered as equal, Taylor argues that this is one particularly fruitful way forwards for human-animal scholars who seek to move beyond agency-structure debates and envision a different future for animals. She concludes the chapter with considerations of the problems inherent to adopting ANT wholesale as a way forward in human-animal studies and points towards issues which need further consideration within such a framework, such as the moral status of animals. In chapter 8 Thompson explores new ways to address humanhorse relations. Stressing the necessity for inter-corporeal communication between human and horse, she points out that the hybrid generated from the riding relationship questions taken for granted human-animal boundaries. Using data drawn from fieldwork in Andalusia, research into the corrida de rejones (bullfight from

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Â�horseback) and personal equestrienne experiences, Thompson uses this chapter to investigate the utility of the centaur metaphor to better explore human-horse relationships. In particular she argues that the centaur metaphor may meaningfully be used to draw attention to the usually taken for granted role of the horse by allowing a description of the multiple levels of hybridity which are the ultimate aim for most riders. For Thompson, human-horse relationships are unique. This uniqueness can be found, for example, in the fact that the horse is one of the largest animals that humans form close ties with and in the fact that the horse remains perceived as both wild and domesticated at the same time. Ultimately, however, it is the rider-horse relationship which leads to a hybrid relationship, a relationship “generated through the interaction of rider and horse” which is only possible “though a harmonization of human and animal”. This then leads to the “ontological thrill” of being more than just human and more than just horse, but being a true hybrid—a centaur. It is this uniqueness that for Thompson, demands unique (or at least new) ways of addressing human-horse relations. For her, ANT offers this. With its stress on the ‘relatings’ rather than the ‘relators’, ANT allows the idea of the horse playing a central role. Furthermore, with its insistence that humans exist and operate within broader networks of nonhumans (in ANT this term covers animals as well as non sentient artifacts, although does not confer the same moral status to them as detractors tend to argue) it allows for an analysis of rider-horse relations in such a way as to take account of the horse and various other contextual and spatial phenomenon such as technology (e.g. tack). Thompson finishes the chapter by applying these ideas to a comparison of the picador and rejoneador rider-technology-horse networks in the Spanish corrida. In the final chapter of the volume Hayward opens by claiming that “species don’t just have relationships, they are relationships”. She then explores this further using Haraway’s idea of ‘metaplasm’. For Hayward, metaplasm is a way of getting at the co-mingling of “sign, matter and action” which is constitutive of social life and has particular relevance for human-animal studies as it allows analyses which do not privilege the human. Instead it leads to an analysis which focuses on the material relationality between beings/things rather than on (human) actors alone. Hayward then uses her own visits to a jellyfish exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium (MBA) to explore this idea further. The exhibit was one which worked

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Â�specifically by “building nature” to immerse both observers and observed in a ‘natural’ environment. Her guiding questions throughout the piece are: “how does the display form and re-form ontologies and epistemologies?”, “what metaplasm of TechnoHumanAnimal emerge?” She points to the immersive nature of the exhibit as one which deliberately pulls at the “foundations of familiar order”. This intensity of involvement and immersion in the virtual marine world of the jellies is one where familiar order is “transposed, altered, reconfigured” so that observers, if only for a short period of time, cohabit rather than merely observe. Given that technology enables this kind of immersive, cohabiting experience, what role then is left for the jellies? Or, as Hayward puts it “how do we account for their presence in the apparatuses of immersion, refraction and transparency?” She acknowledges that analyses which stress the marketability of certain animal features (here, the ‘difference’ of the jellies) and/or their role as an embodiment of nature (as opposed to culture) may be relevant to understanding parts of the MBA display. However, she points to the inherent anthropocentrism of such theories and instead, insists that we need to recognize the jellies own participation in the exhibit and the life of the aquarium. Ultimately she argues “‘they’ and ‘we’ are metaplastic—we are of each other through processes of being and knowing not as discrete units, but as material ensembles made possible by the Drifters display”. The title of this final section of the book is a deliberately misleading in that it suggests there is a definitive future to get to, where our thinking about animals might be significantly different. However, one of the central arguments of this collection is that there is no such thing as a finite point we are/should be reaching. We decided to leave the title in, however, as it suggests a journey, movement, and it is precisely this optimism we wish to leave you with: that things are forever moving, knowledge is always changing; attitudes—and with them epistemologies and methodologies, are always malleable, mutable and unfixed. Thus a future which (re) conceives of nonhuman animals in entirely different ways is not beyond reach. In closing we would like to briefly reflect on the link between theory and practice. Whilst detractors often question the need to theorize about anything at all, pointing out that it is action which counts, we defend our choice to publish a book which theorizes about animals. It is our contention that theory and practice are inextricably linked: that the ways in which we think about, and know, animals

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directs how we treat them. If we think that animals are inferior ‘Others’ to humans then we neatly justify much (if not all) of the horrible practices they are subject to throughout the world. Accordingly, if we change the underlying assumptions we have about animals it must lead to a change in the way we treat them. One cannot occur without the other. This book is therefore much more than an academic exercise; it is the beginning of a prescription for change. We hope that you find this book as enjoyable to read as we did to put together. References Arluke, A. and C. Sanders. 1996. Regarding Animals. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Bekoff, M. and J. Pierce. 2009. Wild Justice: The Moral Lives of Animals. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Cazaux, G. 1999. “Beauty and the Beast: Animal Abuse form a Non-speciesist Criminological Perspective.” Crime, Law & Social Change 31( 2): 105-126. Crist, E. 1999. Images of Animals: Anthropomorphism and Animal Mind. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Giddens, A. 1991. Modernity and Self-Identity: Self and Society in the Late Modern Age. Cambridge: Polity. Haraway, D. 1991. Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature. New York: Routledge. Irvine, L. 2004. If you Tame Me: Understanding Our Connection With Animals. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Latour, B. 2004. The Politics of Nature: How to Bring the Sciences into Democracy. Cambridge and London: Harvard University Press. Regan, T. 1984. The Case for Animal Rights. Berkeley: University of California Press. Sanders, C. 2003. “Actions Speak Louder than Words: Close Relationships between Humans and Nonhuman Animals.” Symbolic Interaction 26(3): 405-426. Simmons, L., and P. Armstrong. 2007. Knowing Animals. Boston and Lieden: Brill Academic Publishers. Singer, P. 1990. Animal Liberation. London: Harper Collins. Taylor, N. 2007a. “Never an it: Intersubjectivity and the Creation of Personhood in an Animal Shelter.” Qualitative Sociology Review 3(1) http://www.qualitative sociologyreview.org /ENG/archive_eng.php. Accessed March 2010. Taylor, N. 2007b. “Human-Animal Studies: A Challenge to Social Boundaries?” Proteus: A Journal of Ideas 24(1): 1-5. Tyler, T., and M. Rossini. 2009. Animal Encounters. Boston and Lieden: Brill Academic Publishers. Whatmore, S. 2006. Hybrid Geographies: Natures, Cultures, Spaces. London: Sage. Wolfe, C. 2003. Animal Rites: American Culture, the Discourse of Species and Posthumanist Theory Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press.

PART ONE

KNOTTY PROBLEMS: TO THEORISE OR NOT?

CHAPTER ONE

Mapping Human Animal Relations Peter Beatson This chapter is an exercise in conceptual cartography. Its purpose is to help contribute clarity and order to the myriad forms that humananimal interactions can take, to the wide diversity of academic disciplines involved in the study of those interactions, and to the many sites where active intervention on behalf of abused animals occurs. The discussion is not ‘theoretical’ as such, but undertakes the more modest, pretheoretical task of constructing what might alternatively be termed a unified heuristic field, a classificatory system, an analytical framework, or a sociological map. The map comprises seven regions. Any and every conceivable form of human-animal relationship can be classified into at least one of those regions. They are:

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chapter one Conjunctures, disjunctures and issues

At their most elementary level, the seven zones of the map provide a heuristic check list for theorists in the field of Human-Animal Studies of all the key factors that must be fed into their descriptive or explanatory equations. Every relationship between humans and particular kinds of animals can only be fully and adequately theorised when regarded as the conjuncture (i.e. the simultaneous interplay) of all seven spheres. Bearing these conjunctures in mind helps guard theorists against the reductionism inherent in ‘one factor’ causal explanations. The seven spheres mutually determine one another, and no one zone, be it economic, political, cultural or whatever, has ontological priority. In the present chapter, they have been teased apart for analytical clarity, but in messy reality they are inextricably interwoven. Over and above the basic heuristic function just mentioned, the analytical model is particularly fecund from a theoretical perspective when used to identify the ‘disjunctures’—i.e. the points of tension, contradiction or conflict—which exist both between different zones of the map and within each zone itself. The identification of such disjunctures enables us to explore and clarify the many issues surrounding the human-animal nexus—the practical and ethical problems it generates, and the conflicts to which it gives rise as the interests of humans and of animals collide both within and between the seven spheres. Because of space limitations, it has not been possible to do more than hint at the nature and complexity of such issues, nor to flesh out and give colour to the descriptive generalisations contained in this chapter through the use of illustrative examples. The present discussion contains only the bare skeleton: it would require a full book in its own right to flesh out its staccato abstractions and bring them fully to life. All the present author is able to do to compensate for the high level of generality at which the chapter is written, and the brevity with which its constitutive points are presented, is to refer readers to the suggested Further Readings listed in-text at the end of each section.

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Mutual Determination Despite the frustrating inability to adequately unpack issues and provide concrete examples, the scheme’s potential theoretical usefulness can at least be suggested through developing one key sociological theme, which will be employed as a core organising principle throughout the discussion—a theme to be termed ‘mutual determination’. By this term is meant the two-way processes through which human society and the non-human animal kingdom condition each other. On the one hand, humans forge a large part of the destiny of many other species. Animals’ life experiences and their very identities are to a very large extent determined by how humans think and feel about them, and how they act towards them. In the power struggles that take place endlessly amongst all life forms, the human species has gained the upper hand in many respects. In each of the seven spheres, humans play God to other animals. That is only half the story, though. In the process of shaping animals to human ends, human society simultaneously shapes itself. If the fate of animals is to a large extent in human hands, our own destinies are determined by the animals with which we interact. Animals depend on us, but we in turn depend on them. In each sphere, then, it will first be shown how humans have acted upon other animal species, shaping them in line with our own needs and desires, but then the other side of the coin will be revealed—how in the process of subjugating animals to human dominion, we have simultaneously forged our own social identities. It is prudent, however, to add a note of qualification about describing this two-way process as ‘mutual’. While it is true that predatory, disease-bearing or destructive animals have exercised their own autonomous agency by damaging or killing humans and their livestock, or by destroying property, they have never consciously and deliberately targeted human society as they themselves have been targeted. Thus, the term ‘mutuality’ does not necessarily imply that nonhuman animals are independent agents of social determination. Even where such agency does exist, it is accidental. For the most part, it is only through becoming the objects of human conscious activity that animals have been empowered as the unconscious subjects of social construction. That point accepted, however, our core sociological theme holds good: through the very process of being acted upon by

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humans, animals unwittingly shape human society in their own image. NATURE Strictly speaking, ‘nature’—by which is meant both the external natural environment or wilderness, and also the internal biological organisms of individual life forms—lies outside the domain of human society altogether. It existed billions of years before humans appeared on the planet, and it lays down the conditions on which human life exists. Thus, the natural world really occupies a separate sphere of its own, different in kind from the main body of our sociological map. The latter comprises the six remaining zones, and it is those six we will mainly be discussing. However, nature will be our constant companion, even if not explicitly mentioned by name, since it is the natural world that ultimately sets the rules by which the social game is played. Once upon a time, no divide between the natural and the human existed. There was only ‘the wild’. For over three million years, our ancient forebears the hominids, such as Australopithecus africanus, Homo habilis and Homo erectus, lived in the wilderness alongside all other species. Only one relationship existed between the ancient proto-humans and their neighbours—the relationship of predator and prey. Non-human carnivores killed and ate humans, while humans in turn ate whatever animals they could catch and kill with their hands or rudimentary weapons. Then something quite extraordinary occurred to alter the balance of power out there in the wild. Between 50,000 and 150,000 years ago (nobody knows for sure) a new species called Homo sapiens came on the scene, a species that developed two unique qualities which progressively allowed it to transcend the dominion of nature. On the one hand, its biological infrastructure evolved new features, notably an upright, bipedal posture, opposable thumbs, a larynx able to emit a wide range of sounds, and an enlarged, neurologically complex neocortex, which in conjunction gave it the competitive edge on other species. On the other hand, and in intimate conjunction with these biological developments, it invented for itself something we now call ‘culture’. This will be explored more fully at the end of the chapter, but it has played such a major determining role in humanity’s relationship with nature, it is unavoidable that culture should be introduced right at the outset of the story.

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Putting it at its most general, culture is everything our species possesses that we created for ourselves, rather than being endowed with by biology, and everything which is transmitted via the media of imitation, learning and language rather than being genetically acquired through sexual reproduction. The new breed of naked apes that began walking the planet on their hind legs around 100,000 years ago were physically pathetic specimens, lacking in all but the most rudimentary natural forms of self-protection and of aggression, yet their evolving material culture (everything made and manipulated manually) gave it increasing protection from predators, while making it a far more effective killing machine. It defended itself, and it caught and killed other animals, with a new array of technology, such as spears, bows and arrows, poisons, nets, running nooses and concealed pits with sharp stakes at the bottom. It compensated for its own exposed skin by wearing the hides it flayed from the animals it killed, and it kept itself warm, frightened off carnivores and made flesh more edible for its under-developed teeth by the use of fire. Thus, through the use of material culture the balance of power shifted radically and irreversibly in favour of the new species. At the same time, something even more remarkable began to happen. Through its newly acquired symbolic culture (i.e. thought and its representation in signs) people began to stock their inner worlds with ideas and images of other species. Humans attributed supernatural qualities to animals, they told stories about them, they created ritual ceremonies around them, they adopted them as totems, they drew pictures of them, and they built up a cumulative storehouse of knowledge about their attributes and activities. They thus not only interacted with animals on a physical basis, but created whole inner worlds of the mind populated by those animals. In short, the human species stepped out of nature and into culture. Of course, humans still retained the basic biological infrastructure they shared with other natural organisms, and which still determines many of their experiences and actions. Granted that point, culture played an ever more dominant role in social evolution, and nature, along with the wilderness that embodied it, was increasingly pushed to the periphery of human life. A ‘Great Divide’ was created: humanity drew a circle around itself, and retreated behind the defensive walls that marked the point where the wilderness ended and their society began.

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Having created this citadel, the human species then spread out from its original homeland in Africa, pushing the walls of the human sphere out further and further, colonising an ever greater amount of the former wilderness. Down the millennia, they replaced its forests with farms, built cities over it, drove roads through it, quarried it for metals and fossil fuels, and they polluted it with the waste products of human industry. As the circle of the human expanded to eventually encompass the entire planet, the wild creatures retreated before the human invaders, were exterminated, or were dragged across the great divide to exist henceforward on terms determined not by nature alone, but by nature as moulded by an evolutionary newcomer that had learned how to dictate to evolution itself. The rest of this chapter will explore the various forms this cultural dictatorship over nature has taken, beginning with its impact on the very biology of other species. Further Reading: Nature

Bulliet 2005, Chapters 3 & 4; Diamond 1998, Chapter 1; Patterson 2002, Chapter 1.

DEMOGRAPHY Physical bodies are the basic building blocks out of which all societies, both human and animal, are constructed. It is logical, therefore, to begin our exploration of the social map with the demographic infrastructure in which those bodies are situated. Defined broadly, demography involves the description and explanation of the general characteristics of a given population, notably its changing size, composition and distribution, and the ways its members make their entrances and exits via birth, death and migration. Fatal Contact The first and most traumatic impact of human on non-human populaÂ�tions can be summed up in the term ‘fatal contact’. As Homo sapiens spread out across the planet, other species were wiped out. The archaeological records show that when humanity colonised new continents or islands many of the native animal inhabitants soon became extinct. It is believed this fatal contact originally may have occurred because the animals in question had not evolved alongÂ�side humans, and therefore had no in-built biological fear of them. The wholesale destruction of biodiversity began with prehistoric

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Â�hunter-gatherers, but resumed with new intensity in the modernist era—the last 250 years or so—which has seen species in all parts of the world driven to the verge of extinction or beyond at an everincreasing rate. Some have been deliberately targeted, either as resources to harvest, game to hunt, or pests to eradicate. Other species have been the incidental victims of economic development, perishing en masse when forests were destroyed, wetlands drained, or their habitat was polluted with industrial waste. Others again were exterminated by predators such as rats and mustelids introduced by human colonists. The sheer size of the human population has also played a major role in the destruction of biodiversity. Prior to the modern period, there seemed to be enough room on the planet for all species, but over the last few centuries it has become chronically over-crowded. At the start of the nineteenth century, our numbers are estimated to have hit the one billion mark for the first time in human history. Just two centuries later, we are well on the way to seven billion, and still rising. The more the human population expanded, the more room it occupied, and there was correspondingly less for wildlife. Some conservationists hold that the human population explosion is the single most dangerous threat to the on-going survival of endangered species, especially in places like South America, Africa, India, China and Indonesia, where—unlike in the West—populations continue to grow apace. Further reading: Fatal Contact

Ackerman 1995; Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Part VII; Carson 1994; Dolins 1999, Part V; Eldredge 1998; Garner 2004, Chapter 6; Quammen 1996; Regenstein 1975; Stallwood 2002, Part Two; Wilson E. 2003; Wilson K. 2004; Young 2004.

Domestication Despite the on-going human assault on biodiversity sketched above, a limited number of species have been spared genocidal massacre as a result of their domestication during the ‘agrarian’ (or ‘agricultural’) revolution that began around 10,000 years ago. As it changed its life style from hunting to farming, human society encouraged or forced a limited number of other species to cross the great divide between the wilderness and the human enclave. From that time onwards, these species lived in captivity, where their destiny was to serve social ends on terms laid down by their human owners. Although countless

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domesticated animals may have individually experienced wretched existences and distressing deaths under the human yoke, their species as a whole typically benefited from human patronage, as unlike their wild cousins they were fed, watered and sheltered, protected from predators, encouraged to multiply, and accompanied their European owners as the latter spread out and colonised the globe. There was more to domestication, however, than just the original act of animals being taken into the human fold. Once they were there, their owners began modifying their basic biological constitution in the light of human wants, be those for food, for artefacts, for labour, for entertainment or for appearance. A limited amount of ad hoc selective breeding was carried out for thousands of years, but it really only became a systematic aspect of the biological manipulation of animals with the second, science-based agricultural revolution of the eighteenth century. Since then, the evolutionary destiny of domesticated animals was no longer determined by natural but by human selection, which in effect have brought new sub-species into existence. These were stripped of the all-round aptitudes of their wild cousins, but became experts in one chosen capacity, be this growing thick wool, producing large amounts of meat, milk or eggs, hauling or carrying heavy loads, conforming to a fashionable template or whatever. Further Reading: Domestication

Bulliet 2005, Chapters 2 4 5 6 & 7; Clutton-Brock 1994; Clutton-Brock 1999; Diamond 1998, Chapters 4 & 9; Hyams 1972; Ritvo 1987, Part I; Serpell 1995, Part I.

The Impact of Animals on Human Populations Human populations have waxed and waned in size depending on the waxing and waning of the animal populations on which they have depended for survival. The more abundant the animals, the more protein humans are able to consume. This in turn has a major impact on the birth rate. Protein rich diets promote fertility, protein starved diets generate sterility. At the same time, of course, lack of adequate food undermines human health and thereby increases the death rate. Thus, when an animal population declines or disappears altogether, the human population dwindles accordingly, while animal abundance triggers a local human population explosion. A second determining factor in human-animal demography involves migration. When animals move around, humans move

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around too. In hunter societies, this meant that human predators were forced to migrate seasonally along with the caribou, reindeer, bison and the like upon which they preyed. When hunting gave way to herding, this pattern of seasonal migration still continued amongst nomadic pastoralists. Instead of occupying houses, nomads lived all their lives in tents, following their foraging herds or flocks around the Tibetan plateau, the Sahara desert or wherever. This same phenomenon—animal and human populations migrating together—also occurred in colonial settler societies like the Americas and Australasia. Human pioneers introduced sheep or cattle to their new colonial homelands, thereby founding pastoral industries which acted as economic magnets to ever more human settlers. Thus, whether we are talking about hunters following the herds of migrating bison, of nomads wandering around after their foraging yaks, or European migrants settling down to make their livelihood out of newly established pastoral industries, the migratory patterns and the consequent geographical distribution of human populations has in the past been vitally influenced by the migration and distribution of non-human ones. A final feature of animal demography deserving a mention concerns the impact made by farm animals on the natural environment, and therefore on the human population with which they share that environment. As flocks and herds grow in numbers, and industrial techniques of animal husbandry become ever more intensive, the emissions of cattle, pigs, sheep and poultry contribute significantly to the pollution and degradation of waterways and the atmosphere from which all life forms, human and non-human alike, increasingly suffer. While wild animals have been the victims of industrial pollution, their domesticated cousins have themselves been the inadvertent agents of such pollution. ECONOMY The economy is the sphere of the social map where raw materials are extracted from nature and processed to meet human wants, where services are provided, and where wealth is generated and circulated. Regarded as the personal property of those who have killed, captured or farmed them, animals have featured in all three roles. For a start, they have served as walking larders to provide humans with food derived either from their flesh or from their products, like

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milk, eggs and honey. Although cultural attitudes towards the consumption of meat have varied enormously, some forms being interdicted by religion, custom, humanitarian values, cultural tastes or personal affection, in postmodern society as in that of prehistoric hunter-gatherers, one of the three primary use values of animals has been the provision of nourishment for humans. The second of those primary functions was to serve, like other parts of nature, as the raw material for the construction of artefacts. Human ingenuity has found a myriad uses for every part of dead animals. A short list would include converting their skins, feathers or wool into clothing and adornment, making tools, weapons and decorations out of their teeth and bones, using their feathers as pens and their hides as parchment, boiling their carcasses down for glue or lubricating oil, burning their fat or their dung for heat and light, building huts out of that same dung, fashioning a whole range of useful or ornamental household objects from ashtrays to rugs, and turning them into medicines. Only over the last 100 years or so have animal products been partially replaced as functional or decorative objects by industrially produced ones, such as plastics, synthetic fibres and fossil fuels. The third basic use function served by animals has been as a reservoir of slave labour. Down the millennia, humans have forced animals, along with enslaved fellow humans, to perform all the heavy, dangerous, dirty or mindlessly repetitive tasks they themselves did not want to perform. Only with the advent of modernity and its accompanying industrial revolution a few centuries ago, when humans figured out how to harness alternative forms of energy, like steam, fossil fuels and electricity, were animals—above all the horse family—liberated from the yoke of bondage to humans. With the invention of money, a second tier was added to the economic functions of animals: they took on exchange as well as use value. They make money for those who capture or hunt them, who breed and farm them, who slaughter them, who process them, who transport them, who wholesale and retail them, who cook and serve them up, who display them as entertainment, who attend to their medical needs, who sell pet foods, who conduct research on them in laboratories. In short, like motorcars, Coca-Cola, oil or furniture, they are on the market.

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The Economic Impact of Animals on Human Society Our species has always lived parasitically off other animals. If for some reason that economic parasitism had not been possible, human society would have been immeasurably impoverished. In terms of use value, there would have been no nutriment except what we could get from plants, none of those countless useful or decorative artefacts we made from animal parts, no labour-saving devices to carry us and our goods around and to perform all the other menial work we have imposed. In terms of exchange value, if humans were no longer able to traffic commercially in animals, whole sectors of the economy would collapse, and indeed would never have come into existence in the first place. There are entire cities, like fishing towns, entire regions, like farming districts, entire occupational categories, like veterinary medicine, and indeed entire national economies which rely totally or mainly upon animal-based industries. Billions of people around the world are dependent on animals for their livelihood. The economy is the basic infrastructure of human society, on which the rest of that society is built. Undermine that infrastructure and the rest of society would either totally collapse, or at least be massively transformed. Animals are an integral element of the infrastructure. In pre-modern times, in fact, they were its major component, and even today they are essential to many national or local economies. Human society has forced animals to serve its economic ends, but in doing so humans became so economically reliant on animals, human history as we know it would be different almost beyond recognition if we had never become parasites on other animals in the first place, or if that parasitism suddenly came to an end. Further reading: Economy

(The following relate mainly to agribusiness, which today accounts for the greatest proportion of animal-based economic activity. However, material relevant to other forms of animal commerce can be found in the readings for Fatal Contact, Domestication, Live Entertainment, and Research.) Animal Studies Group 2006; Beatson P 2009a, Part Three; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 3; Eisnitz 1997; Franklin 1999, Chapters 7 & 8; Garner 2004, Chapter 4; Harrison 1964; Harrod 2000, Chapter 1; Hills 2005, Chapter 11; Mason & Singer 1990; Mason & Finelli 2006; Masson 2005; Patterson 2002, Chapter 3; Penman 1996; Rollin 2003; Rollin & Benson 2004; Rowlands 2002, Chapters 4 &5; Singer 1990, Chapter 3; Stallwood 2002, Part Five; Urquhart 1983; Wolfson 1996.

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POLITICS We are now entering the house of power, as embodied in political societies. By ‘political society’ is meant a human collectivity whose leaders lay claim to sovereignty over a particular geographical territory. Warfare Throughout all recorded history, political societies have existed in a state of endemic warfare, tribe against tribe, kingdom against kingdom, empire against empire, religion against religion, nation state against nation state. When in-groups were not fighting outsiders, they waged civil wars amongst themselves. Ever since animals were domesticated some 10,000 years ago, they have been dragged into those wars. The endless slaughter and suffering inflicted by humans on other humans has been universally accompanied by a similar, sometimes greater slaughter and suffering amongst animals. The only difference has been that at least some humans have known what the fighting was about—animals never have. Animals have been caught up in human military mayhem in three major ways. For a start, a limited number of species, notably the horse family, camels and elephants (but sometimes dogs, pigeons and even marine mammals as well) have been deployed as front line troops. This practice only really stopped after the mechanisation of warfare in World War II. Before that, they were coerced into the very thick of battle. Inevitably, therefore, as human soldiers were speared, slashed, shot, choked with poison gas, consumed by fire or blown apart, so two were their animal fellow combatants. The sound track of every war contained not just the battle cries of soldiers, but the whinnying and screams of their horses. At the end of the battle, the field was strewn alike with mutilated, dying or dead men and animals. An even greater number of animals, particularly members of the horse family, were deployed behind the front lines to provide armies with logistic backup. They carried supplies on their backs, pulled wagons loaded with food, tents, ammunition, equipment and the wounded. They also hauled the heavy iron cannons that became an essential part of warfare from the sixteenth century on. As well as being under constant danger from enemy attack, they were exposed to the same privations, like forced marches, thirst, hunger, disease

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and foul weather, as the foot soldiers they accompanied. Furthermore, when the human troops were starving, their animals suffered the ultimate ignominy of being slaughtered for food. Those who survived the war were almost always abandoned by their owners when the human troops returned home. Animals have had suffering and death inflicted on them in an even greater way by becoming ‘collateral damage’ of human conflicts. Whenever there is a barrage of shells, a release of poison gas, a deluge of burning oil, a bombing raid, or a scorched earth military policy, all animal life in the target zone is injured or wiped out, not just human victims. Further Reading: Warfare

CluttonBrock 1992; Cooper 1983; Diamond 1998, Chapter 4; Haran 2007; Kean 1998, Chapter 7; Kinloch 2007; Williams 1950; Xenophon 1999.

Animal Welfare Legislation Aggression is not the only feature of political society, though. Government can have a benevolent as well as a brutal face. It can use its sovereign power peacefully to regulate society for the wellbeing of all its members by imposing legal rights and obligations on them. Until recently, societies have seldom used this power for the benefit of animals. They have mainly limited their legal regulation of animals to laying down the rights and responsibilities of their human owners. It would have seemed laughable to suggest that government should concern itself actively with the wellbeing of animals, since they were regarded as mere ‘things’, self-evidently devoid of the rights and privileges of human subjects or citizens. The only time the law addressed animals directly was during the medieval period, when they could be formally tried and punished for criminal offences, but they rarely benefited from this (to our minds bizarre) accordance of juridical personhood, since it frequently ended in gruesome executions. However, the legal status of animals began to change slowly to their advantage from the beginning of the nineteenth century, first in England then in other parts of the world. Philanthropists developed a new moral conscience towards animals, appalled by the wholesale cruelty or neglect from which they suffered. This new breed of humanitarians began to pressure governments to extend the legal

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protection already enjoyed by human citizens to the animals in their charge. It was a long, slow process, as giving legal protection to animals seemed almost as wrong-headed to many people as giving the vote to workers or to women. By the start of the 21st century, however, most nations, at least in the West, had animal welfare legislation in place, which gave certain animals a limited number of legal protections and entitlements. While still deemed human property, domesticated animals were acknowledged under the new animal welfare legislation to possess the same or similar sentience (the capacity to experience physical pain and emotional distress) as humans. They should therefore be protected by law from the gratuitous infliction of suffering, and should be legally entitled to the provision of nourishment, shelter and medical attention. Even wild animals acquired some basic legal protection from gratuitous cruelty and the extinction of their species, both through national legislation and also through international conventions protecting endangered species. In the wake of such legislative and political measures, a new legal discipline was pioneered in certain Western countries at the start of the twenty-first century, embodied in Animal Law academic courses, books, journals, networks and legal funds. They were dedicated to the further extension of legislative protections for animals, and to the better enforcement of existing laws. More radically, from around the mid-1970s a para-political social movement began campaigning for the political and/or moral rights already accorded humans to be extended to animals—a subject to which we shall return shortly. Further Reading: Animal Welfare Legislation

(See Animal Rights below.)

The Political Impact of Animals on Human Society Up until the first third of the twentieth century, animals—particularly horses—played a major role in shaping human history. The reason for this lies in what was said earlier about the role of animals in warfare. The geopolitical shape of the globe has always been largely determined by the outcome of wars in which victory usually went to those with the best animal technology at their disposal. The Hyksos were able to conquer ancient Egypt through their possession of horse-drawn war chariots: when the Egyptians themselves assimilated the new equine technology, it enabled them in turn to dominate their African and Middle Eastern neighbours. In the Middle Ages,

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Mongol horsemen under Genghis Khan swept across and conquered just about the whole Eurasian continent because they had faster horses, and were more adept at fighting from horseback, than the peoples they conquered. The Spanish conquest of the Incas in the 16th century was in part due to the fact that the former fought from horseback, the latter only on foot. Until the mechanisation of warfare in the mid-20th century, the rise and fall of empires, and therefore the course of political history, has thus to a large extent depended on the human capacity to assemble and deploy animal allies. As well as animals being the agents of military violence abroad, the horse and the dog have also been employed as accomplices of the armed forces or police in the imposition of law, order or social repression at home. Sniffer dogs like beagles are employed by customs officers to detect smuggled contraband, while larger, more powerful ones are used by their police handlers to intimidate and pin down criminals. On another front, horses and sometimes dogs have been employed for purposes of crowd control. Depending on the occasion, and on one’s ideological view of social conflicts, this deployment of animal coercion may involve the legitimate imposition of law and order, or may be regarded as an adjunct of naked oppression unleashed by the ruling class of the age—monarchs, aristocrats, slave owners or whoever—on the rebellious masses. At the end of the day, politics is about the ability to mobilise brute force whether at home or abroad, and animals, particularly in traditional, pre-industrial societies, have regularly been pressed into political service as the agents of such force. Animal rights The employment of animals as instruments of brute coercion, however, is only part of the political story. The other part picks up on a point made earlier about the growing body of protective animal legislation in the West over the last two centuries or so, through which animal welfare has been placed on the political agenda in a number of Western countries. This so-called ‘welfarist’ approach to animal legislation has outlawed certain flagrant forms of animal abuse and neglect, but in the view of many pro-animal advocates has not gone nearly far enough. As a result of political lobbying by powerful vested interest groups, such as agribusiness, the biomedical establishment and the animal entertainment industry, many forms of blatant cruelty were left

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totally untouched by legislation, and even where laws did apply they tended to be ignored or trivialised by enforcement agencies. In response to the alleged ‘tokenism’ of the welfarist approach to animal legislation, a more radical campaign on behalf of animals was launched in the 1970s, given philosophical expression in influential books like Peter Singer’s 1975 Animal Liberation and Tom Regan’s 1983 The Case for Animal Rights, and put into action by mainstream organisations such as People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals (PETA) and the more shadowy, cell-based Animal Liberation Front (ALF). Taking its lead from other new social movements of the time, which demanded rights and/or liberation for ethnic minorities, women, gays, indigenous people and the disabled, the animal rights movement added ‘speciesism’ to the list of other denounced ‘isms’, such as racism, sexism, heterosexism and ablism. Animals were to have their rights politically entrenched, ads had an increasing number of hitherto alienated, exploited or oppressed human categories since the 18th century. Going even further, radicals at the extreme, liberationist end of the animal rights spectrum demanded the total abolition of human ownership of animals and dominion over them, as human slaves had been emancipated in the 19th century. From being the fringe concern of a small number of humanitarians, the animal rights campaign has become a mass social movement, aimed not just at legal reforms but the total transformation of the collective mind-set of the age. As such, it generates the same philosophical, moral, legal and practical issues as the various human rights movements on which it is modelled. Above all, it encounters the ageold dilemma of whether worthy ends justify the means employed to achieve them. Along with other rights and liberation crusaders, animal rights activists have felt obliged on occasions to step outside the law, usually through minor infractions such as trespass or peaceful civil disobedience, but in a small minority of cases employing intimidatory guerrilla tactics involving violence to property and/or people. Such attacks have been used by groups with vested interests in the on-going exploitation of animals to stigmatise and discredit the entire animal rights movement with the ‘terrorist’ label. As so often happens with political or para-political struggles, In its drive for reform, the pro-animal movement has catalysed a reactionary counter-movement. Whether direct pro-animal activism has on balance helped or hindered the cause of animals themselves is a moot point, as is the larger philosophical issue of whether a moral ideal justifies

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the adoption of illegal or immoral means of achieving it. The point for our present purpose, however, is that the animal cause—moral dilemmas and all—has introduced a major new feature onto the contemporary political landscape, one which would have been virtually unthinkable even fifty years ago. Further Reading: Animal Rights and Animal Welfare Legislation

Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Parts I & X; Atterton & Calarco 2004; Beatson 2008; Beatson 2009a, Part Seven; Bekoff & Meaney 1998; Benton 1993; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 6; Carruthers 1992; Clark 1999; Cohen & Regan 2001; Finsen & Finsen 1994; Francione 1995; Francione 1996; Franklin 1999, Chapter 9; Frey 1980; Garner 2004; Garner 2005a, Chapters 6 & 10; Garner 2005b; Hills 2005; Kean 1998; Mann 2007; Mathews 2007; Newkirk 2000; Nibert 2002; Oldridge 2005, Chapter 3; Perkins 2003; Regan 1983; Regan 2001; Regan 2004; Rowlands 2002, Chapter 10; Ryder 1989; Ryder 1998; Salt 1980; Sankoff & White 2009; Scruton 1998; Singer 1990; Singer 2006; Stallwood 2002; Tester 1991; Wise 2000; Wise 2002; Wolfe 2003; WynneTyson 1989.

COMMUNITY In the fifth region of the social map, we move from the public world of politics to the private world of personal relationships, encapsulated in the term ‘community’. A community is an informal, emotionally charged group or network. Its most important defining characteristic is that members of a community feel that they belong together: literally or metaphorically they are ‘family’. They have a special relationship with group insiders, whom they treat with consideration which they do not extent to those living outside the charmed circle of the community. Communities also constitute ‘status groups’, both externally and internally. On the one hand, they are jealously conscious of their comparative standing amongst other communities with regard to what can variously be termed status, honour, prestige, distinction or mana. On the other hand, they construct and police their own internal hierarchies, their members constantly competing against one another for standing within the group. Honorary Humans There have been three main ways in which the human community has related to non-human animals. First, a distinction is made between animals who are outsiders to that community and those who live on the inside. The former are definitely not members of the human community, whether they live ‘out there’ in the wild (hyenas, tigers, sharks, buzzards, etc.) or in our midst, as do cockroaches,

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pigeons, rats and fleas. Until quite recently, such outsiders tended to be hunted, feared or shunned if defined as ‘pests’ or ‘vermin’, or else ruthlessly over-harvested if regarded as socially useful or commercially exploitable raw material, such as fish, whales, big game or brightly plumaged birds. Like human outsiders, they were killed when possible, avoided when not. However, over the last century or so humans have undergone a change of heart towards certain outsider communities, triggered by our newly-acquired conservationist conscience about the way we were driving many of them into the gulf of extinction. Particular concern has been felt for charismatic fauna that have seized the public imagination or sympathy for one reason or another. Efforts have been made to slap on protection orders, conduct breeding programmes in captivity, and set aside reserves where the remainders of such species could hopefully continue to lead their own communal lives outside the human orbit. For the most part, however, animal outsiders are regarded either as game to be trophy hunted, resources to be harvested, or as vermin and pests to be annihilated. A second category comprises domesticated species who live alongside humans within the charmed circle of the community, but are not embraced as members of it. They have no particular claim on human affection or respect in and for themselves. Farm and work animals are emotionally neutral raw material for the production of food and artefacts, or they are forced into slave labour. They are ‘in’ the human community but not ‘of’ it. Finally, there are certain privileged individuals, or indeed whole species, who are both ‘in’ and ‘of’ the community. They are accepted as cherished members of the family, as respected working partners, or perhaps as celebrities of the entertainment industry. They are given their own individualised names, if small and tame enough are allowed inside the house, and to eat them would be regarded as cannibalism. In short, they are accorded honorary human status, rather than being regarded as mere things. Even when animals are accorded such privileged status, this does not automatically protect them from abuse or neglect. Communities can be as destructive as they are supportive of both their human and their animal members, who may be the victims of everything from sadistic cruelty to appalling neglect. The children for whom pets are often acquired can be the worst culprits, especially in dysfunctional

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families where a chain of abuse may flow from parents to children and from them again to household animals. Even when blatant cruelty is not the issue, pets may be summarily abandoned by their owners when no longer wanted. On another front, animal celebrities like racehorses, greyhounds, circus elephants and big cats in zoos may be overtly pampered and feted, but behind the scenes be subjected to abuse or neglect, or to being ignominiously discarded or killed when no longer of value as popular drawcards. It is wise, therefore, not to romanticise the warm, fuzzy side of community life. Their status as communal insiders can often turn out to be less a privilege than a tragedy for the animals involved. Further Reading: Honorary Humans

(Other material on wild, farm and companion animals can be found in the further readings under the headings Fatal Contact, Economy, and Constitutive Elements of Culture.) Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Part IX; Franklin 1999, Chapter 5; Garner 200, Chapter 3; Podberscek, Paul & Serpell 2000; Rowlands 2002, Chapter 9; Sabloff 2001; Serpell 1988; Stallwood 2002, Part One; Thomas 1983, Parts III and VI; Tuan 1984.

The Communal Functions of Animals The animals who are chosen for the dubious privilege of being honorary insiders may serve this function in a variety of ways. The first was dealt with above, in the discussion of companion animals, so only requires a word of reminder here. Human beings have a profound hunger for companionship. They need to relate to others, and for others to relate to them. In a word, they need to belong. Friendship with an animal fulfils this need, especially for socially isolated people, who may have few meaningful human relationships. Live Entertainment and Cultural Representations Over and above their need for companionship, humans have an insatiable appetite for spectacles and entertainment to divert their minds from the harsh realities of everyday life. It is frequently to animals that they turn for such diversion. It has often involved humans killing the animals in question, as with hunting, fishing and bull-fighting. Alternatively, groups of humans have set animals to fight one another as with bear- and bull-baiting, and with cock and dog fights. In other instances, competition is still involved but not blood-letting, as with sports like horse and greyhound racing, or human-animal tussles in the rodeo. In yet other cases, animals are put on public

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display simply to be gaped at, as with dancing bears and performing dogs, animal performers in circuses and marinelands, or the inmates of zoos. Frequently, however, it has not been live animals as such that have entertained humans down the ages, but their representations in the visual arts, oral narratives, literature, movies and the mass media. The virtual animals who appear in such representations sometimes serve ostensibly didactic functions, as with religious allegories, exemplary fables and scientific documentaries. In the first and last instance, however, whatever hermeneutic meaning is derived from them, depictions of animals in literature, the arts, films and the mass media serve most people, most of the time, as entertainment pure and simple. Further Reading: Live Entertainment

(Other material on this subject and on cultural representations can be found in the further readings under the heading Constitutive Elements of Culture.) Amieson 2006; Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Part VIII; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 4; Bostock 1993; Cartmill 1993; Davis 2000; Franklin 1999, Chapters 4 & 6; Garner 2005, Chapter 9; Hanson 2002; Hemingway 1932; Herman 2001; Hills 2005, Chapter 12; Kean 1998, Chapter 2; Lawrence 1926, Chapter 1; McKenna, Travers & Wray 1987; Ritvo 1987, Chapters 5 & 6; Rothfels 2002b; Rowlands 2002, Chapter 7; Stallwood 2002, Parts Three & four.

Further Reading: Cultural Representations

Akhtar& Volkan 2001; Armstrong 2008; Baker 2001; Bouse 2000; Burt 2002; Crist 1999; Daston & Mitman 2005; Fudge 2004; Ham & Senior 1997; Hassig 1999; Kalof 2007b; Kenyon-Jones 2001; Malamud 2003; Mitman 1999; Pollock & Rainwater 2005; Porter & Russell 1978; Rebold Benton 1992; Rothfels 2002a; Sax 2001; Scholtmeijer 1993; Simons 2002; Tate 2007.

Identity and Status In the course of animal-based diversionary activities, human groups often generate collective identities for themselves—a distinctive sense of who they are that marks them off as different from other communities, and perhaps as superior in status to them. Such identity is signalled by the various external trappings with which the group in question surrounds itself, is subjectively experienced as a strong emotional bond with others engaged in the same activities, and is expressed in an in-group vocabulary of specialist terms or jargon fully intelligible only to insiders. The English rural gentry, for instance, for centuries based their distinctive sense of communal selfhood on hunting, accompanied with the traditional paraphernalia of

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pink jackets, hunting horns, hounds, halloos and hunting argot. When fox-hunting was outlawed in England, its devotees felt that more than an enjoyable pastime was being denied them: the ban was experienced as a threat to the whole traditional identity and the superior status of the English country gentry. Fox-hunters provide only one example of the way in which animal-based recreational activities generate a sense of group identity: the same can be said of pigeon fanciers, Kennel Club members, bird-watchers, the horse-racing fraternity and a host of other communities with shared pastimes. In other cases, it is not from sport but animal-based economic activity from which a sense of communal identity is derived. The whole cowboy ethos, for instance, from its ritual rodeo displays to the characteristically laconic personality of its movie heroes, rests in the last instance on the relationship between humans, horses and cattle. Similarly, seaside fishing communities, whaling crews, farmers, zoo staff, naturalists and many other occupational groups have based their shared culture on the animals upon which their livelihood has depended. Flowing on from this, human collectivities have frequently adopted specific animals as the core symbols of their identities. In early hunter societies, this involved a total fusion of the human and the animal. A clan group would name itself after a certain animal—kangaroo, white cockatoo, shark, buffalo or whatever. They would claim kinship with it, would perform ceremonies in its honour, and would consummate their union with it by ritually devouring its flesh. Though less religiously charged, this same self-identification of communities with animal icons continued down the ages, and traces of primordial totemism are still widespread today as rival rugby fans cheer on the Springboks or the Wallabies, and entire nations identify with an animal emblem, like the bear, bulldog, eagle, rooster or kiwi. In these and many other ways, human communities seek and are accorded recognition through the animals with which they identify themselves. The recognition in question is frequently linked with the striving for social standing mentioned earlier. Throughout history, animals have been deployed as status symbols, whose display conferred prestige on their owners. Ancient potentates enhanced their magnificence through the collection of exotic wild beasts, often presented by foreign dignitaries whose own mana was augmented by the lavishness of their gift. Monarchs down the ages have identified themselves emblematically with the most regal of creatures, notably the bull, the

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lion and the eagle. Nobles used to affirm their distinction from commoners through the possession of similarly noble hunting mounts, hounds and falcons. In another domain, the kudos of the owners of fighting or racing animals waxes and wanes according to the competitive success of their champions, while dog and cat fanciers vie amongst themselves at shows for awards based on the breeding, appearance and comportment of their pedigree pets. Human communities are endemically hierarchical, and their members’ position on the status ladder is frequently signalled and reinforced through their construction of similar hierarchies in the animal kingdom. Further Reading: Identity and Status

(Material on these topics can be found in the further readings on Live Entertainment and Cultural Representations above, and Constitutive Elements of Culture below.)

WELFARE The sixth zone of the social map is the sharing, caring domain, where we treat the ill, protect the vulnerable, provide for those in need, and generally foster the physical, psychological and social wellbeing of our fellows. Ever since the dawn of farming, all domestic animals have been vitally dependent upon humans for their wellbeing. By laying claim to the ownership of animals, humans have taken on the responsibility for caring for them—meeting their basic needs, protecting them when vulnerable, and providing health services for them. How well has the self-appointed master species fulfilled its responsibilities in this respect? For stylistic variety, I will address that issue in the form of a courtroom drama, wearing first the wig of the counsel for the prosecution, then for the defence. The Animal Welfare Debate Counsel for the Prosecution: “Ladies and gentleman of the jury, the defendant—the human species—stands accused of the most appalling crimes against animal kind. Like children amongst adults, animals have been totally reliant for their wellbeing on the goodwill of humanity. That parental goodwill is tragically lacking. Animals have been systematically subjected to every form of abuse from wholesale neglect to deliberate cruelty. Animals have been tortured and mutilated for our entertainment, whether by the wanton savagery of young boys or the adult brutality of blood sports. In the course of their work, they have been routinely

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beaten, raked with spurs or jabbed with goads. They have equally routinely been overworked to exhaustion and beyond. They have suffered the agonies of thirst and hunger from human neglect. They have been subjected to all the horrors of war. They have passed their entire miserable lives chained up, or imprisoned in crates, pens or cages. They have experienced nightmare conditions when being transported from the wilderness or the farm to captivity or the slaughterhouse. They have been cold-bloodedly tortured in laboratories in the name of science. Their lives have usually ended in terror and acute, sometimes prolonged, physical agony. There is only one possible verdict: guilty as charged.” Council for the Defence: “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client, the human species, is not nearly as black as painted by the prosecution. Indeed, the charges are palpably absurd. I concede there have occasionally been some regrettable lapses on the part of individuals, but I would argue that far from undermining the welfare of the animals in their care, by and large humans have actively promoted such welfare.” “In the first place, regardless of moral issues, humans have a vested self-interest in the wellbeing of the animals they own. They are vitally dependent economically on their animal property for their livelihoods. Healthy, happy animals are more productive and profitable than sick, starved, abused or neglected ones. The farmer, the zoo keeper, the circus master, the racehorse owner or whoever show active concern for the wellbeing of their stock. To serve this selfinterest, the animals themselves are protected from predators, given shelter from the elements, are fed and watered and receive regular medical attention—none of which luxuries are enjoyed by their cousins out in the wild. To accuse the owners of animals of maltreating them makes no more sense than to accuse shopkeepers of spoiling their own merchandise. Good animal husbandry is good business.” “However, I would not make the case for the defence of humanity on instrumental, economic grounds alone. Concern for animal wellbeing, particularly over the last 200 years or so, has not been motivated solely by human self-interest. Another factor has entered the equation, which may be called by names such as philanthropy, humanitarianism or compassion. Humans today are concerned about animal welfare not because it promotes human interests, but out of empathy for the animals themselves.”

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“Admittedly, this was not always the case, but since the dawn of modernity, animals have slowly been incorporated into the moral community of those for whom we feel compassion. It began with the Romantic movement in philosophy and literature in the 18th Â�century, was augmented by a current of humanitarianism that entered English public life in the 19th, and has been given scientific weight over the last few decades by the new disciplines of cognitive ethology and Â�animal welfare science. Humanity today has finally become aware that animals are sentient beings, capable of suffering and of happiness, of leading lives of misery or fulfilment, and should be treated accordingly. People of good will have begun applying the Golden Rule to animals as well as to their fellow humans: ‘Do unto others as ye would be done by’. Though guilty in the past, the defendant has turned over a new leaf, is now actively campaigning for improved animal welfare, and should therefore be given a second chance.” Further Reading: The Animal Welfare Debate

Arluke & Sanders 1996; Armstrong & Botzler 2003, General introduction; Atterton & Calarco 2004; Balcombe 2006; Beatson 2009a, Parts Five & Six; Beatson 2009b; Bekoff & Meaney 1998; Bekoff, Allen & Burghardt 2002; Bekoff 2006; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 1; Brown 1974; Caras 1996; Coetzee 1999; Darwin 1872; Dawkins 1980; DeGrazia 1996; Dixon 2008; Dolins 1999; Franklin 1999, Chapters 2 & 3; Garner 2005a; Godlovitch, Godlovitch & Harris 1971; Grandin & Johnson 2009; Gregory 2007; Griffin 1992; Gutmann 1999; Haraway 2008; Hursthouse 2000; Kean 1998; Manning & Serpell 1994; Masson & McCarthy 1995; Midgley 1984; Preece 2005; Rowlands 2002; Sapontzis 1987; Serpell 1996; Shepherd 1996; Steiner 2005; Taylor 2003; Thomas 1983, Part IV; Webster 2005.

The Impact of Animals on Human Wellbeing While the jury is out, let’s examine the other side of the coin: what significance do animals have for human health and welfare? Starting on the negative front, when animals get sick en masse, particularly with communicable diseases, human society suffers accordingly. A few years back, foot-and-mouth and ‘mad cow’ disease threatened to decimate the British farming economy. Worse, toxic micro-organisms may jump the species divide and spark off devastating human pandemics, as happened with plagues in Europe a few centuries back, the global influenza outbreak at the end of World War I, the spread of HIV/AIDS from the 1970s, ‘bird flu’ in the early 21st century and ‘swine flu’ at the time of writing. On the positive side, however, if animal diseases can make human economies and humans themselves sick, animals have also been used

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in the war against human illness. Throughout history, folk healers have concocted potions and remedies from animal parts, or have performed religious rituals aimed at transferring illnesses from humans to animals. More recently, millions of human diabetics have controlled their condition through insulin extracted from pigs pancreases, and today experiments are being conducted into xenoplanting organs from animal ‘donors’ into human patients. On a more humane note, dogs are trained to assist disabled people with practical tasks, while medical science has begun to recognise the therapeutic benefits of companion animals generally. Animal Research The human benefits derived from animals, however, have frequently been paid for at a tragic cost to the animals involved. In particular, the disjuncture between human and animal welfare is nowhere more extreme than in the animal research and testing laboratory. For the last 300 years or so, scientific advances in the fields of biology and medicine have been made largely at the expense of countless research animals upon whom laboratory experiments and tests have been conducted. All have involved various degrees of physical pain and emotional distress, but this has been legitimised by the alleged benefits of such suffering to humanity. This painful subject is explored more extensively in the further readings, but for the moment the key point being emphasised is that on many fronts, from the economic impact of communicable animal diseases to the pain and despair inflicted on lab animals, in sickness and in health the fate of human and animal partners are inextricably united till death (typically that of the animal) do them part Further Reading: Animal Research

Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Parts V & VI; Beatson 2009a, Part Two; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 5; Bourke & Eden 2003; Coleman 1991; Garner 2004, Chapter 5; Garner 2005a, Chapter 8; Greek & Greek 2000; Hills 2005, Chapter 13; House of Lords 2002; Lafollette & Shanks 1996; Lansbury 1985; Nuffield Council on Bioethics 2004; Rollin 1998; Rowlands 2002, Chapter 6; Ruesch 2003; Russell & Burch 1959; Sharpe 1988; Ryder 2006; Singer 1990, Chapter 2; Stallwood 2002, Part Six; Swabe 1999; Verhoog 1999.

CULTURE Culture is the most uniquely human region of the sociological landscape—the one we have largely to ourselves. It is also the most

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important, as we perceive and interact with all the other spheres, including nature itself, only through the medium of culture. We very seldom act upon our environment directly with our physical organisms alone. We control it, rather, through our material culture—the vast array of technology our species has accumulated down the millennia. Even more importantly, human interactions with their environment are mediated by symbolic culture—our thoughts and their expression in language, through which we make sense of ourselves, the world around us, and the supernatural domain. For the human species, culture has become second nature, to the point where most people, most of the time, are unconscious of its mediations. Constitutive Elements of Culture Given its centrality in human affairs, it is inevitable that culture has been our constant companion from the very outset of our voyage of discovery through the analytical map laid out in this chapter. It was first introduced in the opening discussion of Nature, where it provided the material and symbolic means by which the evolutionary newcomer Homo sapiens prised open a divide between itself and other wild animals, and eventually gained ascendancy over them. Although not always mentioned explicitly by name, culture continued to play a central role in the various spheres of the map as they were unfolded. To summarise and conceptualise what has already been said, symbolic culture can be analysed into the four major Â�features of which it is constituted: knowledge, norms, life styles and rituals. In the first place, culture is the repository of society’s accumulated cognitive knowledge—empirical facts, theories to explain those facts, and techniques for manipulating the environment. Everything that humanity knows (or thinks it knows) about animals, along with the unwitting contribution that research animals have made to the advance of science, belongs in this domain. Moving from the realm of ‘is’ to ‘ought’, culture contains a second, ethical dimension. This comprises norms of conduct, from minor points of etiquette to binding taboos and laws, underpinned by an infrastructure of emotionally-charged beliefs and values. Everything said earlier about the human treatment of animals belongs in this normative domain. In the third place, culture contains what might variously be termed life style, fashion, taste or aesthetics. This includes bodily and

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�household adornments, the sports people play, the literature and art they enjoy, the food, drink and drugs they consume, their manner of speech and comportment, and all the other ways in which communities construct and signal their collective identities and lay claim to social esteem. As suggested by the earlier discussion of animal-based entertainments and representations, without animals as resources, the life styles of innumerable communities would have been vastly impoverished. Finally, culture contains a ritual dimension, expressed in the performance of special ceremonies of one sort or another. Rituals are focused upon core symbols of particular significance to the participants, such as a totemic animal, a religious icon or a national flag. Through its rituals, a community revitalises its group solidarity, reaffirms its roots in the past, and expresses its aspirations for the future. However, the core function of ritual is to divide the world into two distinct zones, one sacred, the other secular. The latter contains the banal flow of everyday social life. Sacred occasions and places, on the other hand, are set apart from this secular flow, and are charged with intense passions like awe, reverence, fear, grief or exhilaration. It is to the significance of animals for this sacred domain of culture, as manifested in religious beliefs and practices that we will now turn. Further Reading: Constitutive Elements of Culture

Boehrer 2007; Kalof 2007a; Kete 2007; Malamud 2007; Resl 2007; Senior 2007.

Animals and the Supernatural At least until the scientific revolution of the last few centuries, there has been a near-universal human belief in the existence of a supernatural domain of magic and religion peopled by spirits or gods. It was first and foremost such supernatural beliefs that dictated how animals were to be regarded and treated. In prehistoric hunter-gatherer society, so far as this can be reconstructed through scholarship, animals were an integral component of a totemic, animistic and anthropomorphic world view. Though they differed in appearance from humans, behind their masks animals were constituted of the same spiritual essence. Human genealogies were sometimes traced back to a primordial animal ancestor. In the present, animal and human societies mirrored each other in everything from their hierarchical structure to their religious beliefs.

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Furthermore, the boundaries between the human and the nonhuman were extremely porous. Humans and animals could take on one another’s forms, intermarry, and human-animal hybrids were not unsurprising. At another level, certain creatures—notably birds— were intermediaries between the supernatural and human worlds, delivering auguries, omens and prophecies for those skilled in reading the signs. Interacting with animals, therefore, first and foremost required humans to observe correct ritual protocol. If the appropriate ceremonies were not carried out, or animals not treated with due respect, they would become angry and punish their human counterparts. The basic metaphysical premise in all this was that animals were ontologically identical to humans, and therefore regarded as their spiritual equals. This animistic and anthropomorphic world view remained widespread long after hunter-gatherer societies were supplanted by farmbased ones from around 10,000 years ago. Indeed, it is still active in many parts of the modern world, whether as a literal belief in the supernatural qualities of certain animals, as emotionally charged folklore about werewolves, hell-hounds, witches’ familiars and the like, or as standard items in the mass entertainment industry. Despite such living vestiges, however, the belief in animal souls, and therefore in spiritual equality between humans and animals, began to wane with the advent of animal domestication. Indeed, both ancient Greek philosophy and the monotheistic Abrahamic religions militated against such beliefs. From being our spiritual equals, animals were demoted to the subjects of human dominion, existing only as means to serve their owners’ ends. Even so, they continued to play an important if secondary role in religious ceremonies. With the exception of a dwindling number of zoomorphic gods, animals were no longer regarded as powerful beings in their own right, but instead were offered up as sacrifices on the altars of newly-invented anthropomorphic deities like Zeus or Jehovah. As can be seen in the two founding texts of Western literature, Homer and the Bible, Whenever a god required placation, a divine favour was asked or thanks for good fortune were in order, heifers, lambs, goats, doves and other sacrificial creatures had their throats cut. Until the Christian era, no event in human society could proceed without an animal sacrifice being offered up. The temple at Jerusalem was first and foremost a blood-drenched slaughterhouse, dedicated to appeasing the insatiable appetite of Jehovah for animal offerings.

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Aversion to animal sacrifice, and to the unsavoury image of Jehovah it projected, began to appear in the later books of the Old Testament, but it was really only when Christ was proclaimed by his followers to have offered himself up as a metaphorical sacrificial lamb, whose blood cleansed away the sins of believers, that literal animal sacrifice was slowly phased out in the West, although today it continues to play an integral role in many traditional societies, including the Islamic world. For most contemporary Westerners, the supernatural associations of non-human animals tend to be only relics of distant past beliefs, but even so, to gain an adequate understanding of that past it is still important to appreciate the crucial role that cultural constructions of religion and magic used to play in the human treatment of animals, first as our spiritual equals, then as sacrificial objects. Throughout all history, and still today in many parts of the world, the ways that animals were to be regarded and treated by humans were laid down by allegedly supernatural authority— authority which, in the Abrahamic religions at least, legitimised the exercise of human power over all other life forms. It is the implications of the key words ‘power’ and ‘legitimation’ that will be explored in the concluding pages of this chapter. Further Reading: Animals and the Supernatural

Armstrong & Botzler 2003, Chapters 35-39; Bernstein 2004, Chapter 2; Bulliet 2005, Chapters 2 & 7; Gray 2002; Harrod 2000; Kemmerer 2006; Linzey 1987; Nelson 1993; Regan 1986; Scully 2002; Thomas 1983; Waldau & Patton 2006.

Culture and Power Power is the ability of individuals or groups to impose their will upon and therefore to control their social and natural environments. It allows its possessors to get things done (‘power to…’), it enables them to dominate others (‘power over…’), and it acts as a defence against external coercion (‘power from…’). Power is the single most significant defining characteristic of human-animal relations. The balance of power had already begun to shift in favour of humans against other species in the hunter-gatherer period, a shift which accelerated dramatically with the domestication revolution, and was consolidated into near-total hegemony with the advent of modernity. As is abundantly clear from everything that has been said in our discussion of culture, it is only through cultural agency that our species has been able to achieve this power

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Â�ascendancy. It is culture, not biology, that empowers humans to protect themselves from animal predation, and to force them to serve human ends as raw material for food and artefacts, as slave labour, as sources of entertainment and companionship, and as objects of biomedical research. Thus, to reiterate the key point, culture is an active agent in the power dynamics that typify human-animal relations. Culture’s role as an agent of power, however, is only part of the story. The rest involves not agency as such but the legitimation of the coercive power it unleashes. Culture not only empowers humans to exercise dominion over the animal kingdom, but rationalises and justifies their use and abuse of that power. Cultural legitimations of humanity’s subjugation of its fellow creatures have taken the forms of both overt ideology and covert discourse. A word of definitional explanation is needed at this point. The terms ideology and discourse can both be broadly defined as ‘the manipulation of culture in the service of power’, but are nevertheless analytically distinct. Furthermore, they are both conceptually unstable terms, varying in their significance from one intellectual context to another, and even within the same academic discipline. For our present purposes, ideology will refer to explicitly formulated and enunciated doctrines, while discourse denotes more implicit, deeply-embedded epistemological assumptions and practices. In the former case, cultural ideologues and gatekeepers have promulgated explicit justifications of human hegemony. The three most influential of such ideologies have been based on: (a) The alleged edicts of a supernatural power; (b) The assumed possession by humanity of higher faculties such as Reason; (c) The secular modernist faith in material progress, to be Â�delivÂ�ered by economic development and scientific experimentation. The functions of such legitimising ideologies is to shift the epistemological source of human exploitation and oppression of animals from the domain of naked coercion to loftier metanarratives, the challenging of which would be to query the formally enunciated doctrines of an entire cultural epoch. The shifting of ground from brute force to taken-for-granted assumptions brings us to the covert operations of discourse mentioned above, which are more insidious, and therefore even more influential, than explicit ideological legitimations. Culture’s most

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potent agency derives from its capacity to conceal the secret of its own social origins. In sociological reality, culture is a human artefact, and being socially constructed can therefore be deconstructed and changed. It is precisely its own constructed nature that discourse serves to conceal. It is acquired so young by most people, is reinforced throughout their lives with such persistent unanimity, and is charged with such emotional intensity, that discursive culture becomes impervious to challenge. Indeed, it would not occur to most people to issue such a challenge in the first place, since quite simply they perceive nothing to query. Unlike the explicit pronouncements of ideologues, discourse slyly erases its own tracks, leaving in its wake only the bald, unquestionable fact which ‘everybody knows’, that animals exist to serve human ends. Human domination of animals is the most deeply entrenched and widespread form of oppression and exploitation, even more fundamental than slavery and patriarchy. It has been justified by appeal to supernatural and natural principles, but ultimately has required no such metaphysical rationalisations: its rightness and normality have seemed so ‘natural’, it has scarcely required overt justifications. It is only when the discursive legerdemain of culture is uncovered and the true nature of its agency exposed, that its exercise of power is able to be challenged. The upshot of these remarks is that culture is profoundly conservative in nature, owing to its capacity to camouflage its secret alliance with power dynamics, and this conservatism is nowhere more evident than in human attitudes towards other species. That said, the sociological fact remains that despite its seemingly immutable mask, culture is a human creation, and as such is open to change, as challenges to the age-old institutions of slavery and patriarchy have already demonstrated. It is only within the last 250 years or so, and more particularly since the animal rights/liberation movement of the 1970s, that cultural constructions of human-animal relations have begun to be seriously re-theorised. Through that re-theorisation, the yoke of human dominion, of which culture is an integral component, is starting to weigh slightly less oppressively on our fellow creatures, although it will be many years yet, if ever, before the burden of millennia is totally removed.

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Further Reading: Culture and Power

(Since power is a ubiquitous feature of the human-animal relationship, it features prominently in all the further readings listed in this chapter.)

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Patterson, C. 2002. Eternal Treblinka: Our Treatment of Animals and the Holocaust. New York: Lantern Books. Penman, D. 1996. The Price of Meat. London: Victor Gollancz. Perkins, D. 2003. Romanticism and Animal Rights. Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press. Philo, C., and C. Wilbert. 2000. Animal Spaces, Beastly Places. London: Routledge. Podberscek, A., Paul, E. and J. Serpell. 2000. Companion Animals and us: Exploring the Relationships between People and Pets. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Pollock, M., and C. Rainwater. 2005. Figuring Animals: Essays on Animal Images in Art, Literature, Philosophy, and Popular Culture. Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan. Porter, J., and W. Russell. 1978. Animals in Folklore. Cambridge: D.S. Brewer. Preece, R. 2005. Brute Souls, Happy Beasts, and Evolution: The Historical Status of Animals. Toronto: UBC Press. Quammen, D. 1996. The Song of the Dodo: Island Biogeography in an Age of Extinctions. New York: Scribner. Rebold Benton, J. 1992. The Medieval Menagerie: Animals in the Art of the Middle Ages. New York: Abbeville Press. Regan, T. 1983. The Case for Animal Rights, Berkeley: University of California Press. Regan, T. 1986. Animal Sacrifices: Religious Perspectives on the Use of Animals in Science. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Regan, T. 2001. Defending Animal Rights. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Regan, T. 2004. Empty Cages: Facing the Challenge of Animal Rights. Oxford: Tewman & Littlefield. Regenstein, L. 1975. The Politics of Extinction. New York: Macmillan. Resl, B. 2007. Cultural History of Animals in the Middle Ages. Oxford and New York: Berg. Ritvo, H. 1987. The Animal Estate: The English and other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press. Rollin, B. 1998. The Unheeded Cry: Animal Consciousness, Animal Pain, and Science. Ames: Iowa State University Press. Rollin, B. 2003. Farm Animal Welfare: Social, Bioethical and Research Issues. Ames: Iowa State University Press. Rollin, B., and J. Benson. 2004. The Well-Being of Farm Animals: Challenges and Solutions. Oxford: Blackwell. Rothfels, N. 2002a. Representing Animals. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Rothfels, N. 2002b. Savages and Beasts: The Birth of the Modern Zoo. Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press. Rowlands, M. 2002. Animals like Us. London: Verso. Ruesch, H. 2003. Slaughter of the Innocent. London: Slingshot Publications. Russell, W., and R. Burch. 1959. The Principles of Humane Experimental Technique. London: Methuen. Ryder, R. 1989. Animal Revolution: Changing Attitudes towards Speciesism. Oxford: Basil Blackwell. Ryder, R. 1998. The Political Animal: The Conquest of Speciesism. Jefferson: McFarland. Ryder, R. 2006. “Speciesism in the Laboratory.” In In Defense of Animals: The Second Wave edited by P. Singer, 87-103. Malden: Blackwell. Sabloff, A. 2001. Reordering the Natural World: Humans and Animals in the City. Toronto: University of Toronto Press.

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Salt, H. 1980. Animals’ Rights: Considered in Relation to Social Progress. London: Centaur Press. Sankoff, P., and S. White. 2009. Animal Law in Australasia: A New Dialogue. Annandale, NSW: Federation Press. Sapontzis, S. 1987. Morals, Reason and Animals. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Sax, B. 2001. The Mythical Zoo: An Encyclopedia of Animals in World Myth, Legend and Literature. Santa Barbara: Abc-Clio. Scholtmeijer, M. 1993. Animal Victims in Modern Fiction: From Sanctity to Sacrifice. Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Scruton, R. 1998. Animal Rights and Wrongs. London: Metro Books. Scully, M. 2002. Dominion: The Power of Man, the Suffering of Animals, and the Call to Mercy. New York: St Martin’s Press. Senior, M. 2007. Cultural History of Animals in the Age of Enlightenment. Oxford and New York: Berg. Serpell, J. 1988. “Pet-Keeping and Animal Domestication: A Reappraisal.” In The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation, edited by J. Clutton-Brock, 10-21. London and Boston: Unwin Hyman. Serpell, J. 1995. The Domestic Dog: Its Evolution, Behaviour, and Interactions with People. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Serpell, J. 1996. In the Company of Animals: A Study of Human-Animal Relationships. Cambridge and New York: Cambridge University Press. Sharpe, R. 1988. The Cruel Deception: The Use of Animals in Medical Research. Wellingborough: Thorsons. Shepherd, P. 1996. The Others: How Animals made us Human. Washington: Island Press/Shearwater Books. Simons, J. 2002. Animal Rights and the Politics of Literary Representation. HoundÂ� mills: Palgrave. Singer, P. 1990. Animal Liberation. New York: New York Review of Books. Singer, P. 2006. In Defense of Animals: The Second Wave. Malden: Blackwell. Stallwood, K. 2002. A Primer on Animal Rights, New York, Lantern Books. Steiner, G. 2005. Anthropocentrism and its Discontents: The Moral Status of Animals in the History of Western Philosophy. Pittsburg: University of Pittsburg Press. Swabe, J. 1999. Animals, Disease and Human Society: Human-Animal Relations and the Rise of Veterinary Medicine. London: Routledge. Tate, P. 2007. Flights of Fancy: Birds in Myth, Legend and Superstition. London: Random House. Taylor, A. 2003. Animals and Ethics: An Overview of the Philosophical Debate. Peterborough Ontario: Broadview. Tester, K. 1991. Animals and Society: The Humanity of Animal Rights. London: Routledge. Thomas, K. 1983. Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England 1500– 1800. London: Allen Lane. Tuan, Y. 1984. Dominance and Affection: The Making of Pets. New Haven: Yale University Press. Urquhart, J. 1983. Animals on the Farm from the Earliest Times to the Present Day. London: Macdonald and Co. Verhoog, H. 1999. “Animals in Scientific Education and a Reverence for Life.” In Attitudes to Animals: Views in Animal Welfare, edited by F. Dolins, 218-230. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Waldau, P., and K. Patton. 2006. A Communion of Subjects: Animals in Religion, Science, and Ethics. New York: Columbia University Press.

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Webster, J. 2005. Animal Welfare: Limping towards Eden. Oxford: Blackwell. Williams, J. 1950. Elephant Bill. Garden City: Doubleday. Wilson, E. 2003. The Future of Life. New York: Vintage Books. Wilson, K. 2004. The Flight of the Huia: Ecology and Conservation of New Zealand’s Frogs, Reptiles, Birds and Mammals. Christchurch: Canterbury University Press. Wise, S. 2000. Rattling the Cage: Toward Legal Rights for Animals. Cambridge, Mass: Perseus Books. Wise, S. 2002. Drawing the Line: Science and the Case for Animal Rights. Cambridge, Mass: Perseus Books. Wolfe, C. 2003. Animal Rights: American Culture, the Discourse of Species, and Posthumanist Theory. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wolfson, D. 1996. Beyond the Law: Agribusiness and the Systemic Abuse of Animals raised for Food or Food Production. New York: Archimedian Press. Wynne-Tyson, J. 1989. The Extended Circle: A Commonplace Book of Animal Rights. New York: Paragon House. Xenophon. 1999. On Horsemanship. Champaign: Project Gutenberg. Young, D. 2004. Our Islands, Our Selves: A History of Conservation in New Zealand. Dunedin: University of Otago Press.

Chapter Two

Theorizing ‘Others’ Lisa Kemmerer Theories The word “theory,” stemming from the Greek “contemplation,” or “speculation,” has been part of the English language since at least the late 16th century (“Theory”). Theories are tools that help us explain or understand the world around us, and ourselves. There are many types of theories, “from purely syntactic or “formal” extrapolations of mathematics or logic, to evidence-driven constructs typical of the physical sciences, to rational/moral analyses found in the social sciences and certain branches of philosophy, and to the interpretive principles found in many areas of the arts and humanities” (“Theory”). But certain elements are true of all theories. For example, all theories are: –â•fi abstract, –â•fi expected to be based on reason or logic –â•fi understood—at least by most theorists—to be distinct from established “truths” (“Theory”). There are two ways to form theories: with empirical evidence, and with philosophical ideas. Philosophical theories contain “statements whose truth cannot necessarily be scientifically tested through empirical observation,” but which are based on the use of reason with regard to ideas (“Theory”). Furthermore, the truth of any given statement stemming from a theory is relative to that particular theory. “Therefore the same statement may be true with respect to one theory and not true with respect to another” (“Theory”). For example, if I were to say “The dog is fierce,” it would be impossible to assess whether or not this statement is true or false without knowing which dog I am talking about, or what I mean in using the term, “fierce.”

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In contrast with philosophical theories, a scientific theory is an analytic structure designed to explain a set of empirical observations. A scientific theory does two things: 1. it identifies this set of distinct observations as a class of phenomena, and 2. makes assertions about the underlying reality that brings about or affects this class. (“Theory”) Humans theorize so that we might feel as if we better understand ourselves, the world around us, and our place in the universe. We theorize about how the mind works in relation to the body, about the origins of the universe, and about the development of childparent bonds. We theorize because we do not know, and sometimes we theorize because we cannot know, as with theories revolving around the origins of the universe. Some theories, after a time, enjoy considerable acceptance, in which case many people cease to see these ideas as theories, and begin to see them as reality. Most people view gravity as a reality, as a scientific “truth.” Similarly, most people view biological evolution as “truth.” We take these theories for granted because we do not have any better competing theory, because we learn about these theories when young and uncritical, and because these theories tend to be consistent both with reason and experience. For example, with regard to evolution, we have seen pictures, or been told about the Galapagos finches, or perhaps about skeletal findings like those of “Lucy,” a primate recently found and named, though she lived many centuries ago. Sometimes people take the truth of a theory for granted simply for the sake of expedience. Sometimes we do so because we prefer to have some answers, something to accept as a truth, even if we have no way to substantiate that particular theory. We do so even though theories sometimes change more often than the phases of the moon. Humans often desire to have some theory on which to hang our hat. For example, we accept ever-changing medical theories concerning nutrition and diet because we—individual members of the community—have few dependable ways of knowing what is best nutritionally. Furthermore, we have learned to trust scientists—though they have been known to lead us astray. Nonetheless, we tend to believed men in white coats if they report that mixed proteins are required for sound health; that the egg is the perfect meal, or that meat and dairy

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are fundamental to sound nutrition. Many of us now know that not even one of these statements is true, but some cling to these outdated nutritional ideas long after these theories regarding optimal human diet and nutrition have been proven wrong. Even though it is somewhat common knowledge that nutritional information regarding dairy and flesh products were frequently funded by powerful people inside the animal industries, and that these powerful individuals lobbied the government in order to have their products listed as basic and essential on the food pyramid (Adams 2003, 37). Though many of us grew up with this pyramid as our model, some have come to learn that an egg a day only increases one’s chance of premature death, that the consumption of milk is linked with diabetes and obesity, and that animal protein is linked with heart disease, cancers, obesity, and infertility (Dejousse 2008). Consequently, most of us are now more cautious about theories posed by those with a vested interest. But how often do we know who stands behind a theory? Vested Interests, partiality, and theorizing ‘Others’ Vested interests always put justice and truth at risk. If three people have a vested interest in a given inheritance, and one of the three is the judge determining who ought to receive the inheritance, justice is at risk because the judge has a vested interest, and is likely to be partial. Similarly, if the judge in a particular case is engaged to be married to a man who is on trial, justice is at risk because the judge has both a vested interest and is likely to be partial. Vested interests also put theories at risk, yet those who pose theories almost always have vested interests. This is not to say that all theorists are so hopelessly caught up in vested interests that they cannot be impartial, only that vested interests must always be considered a factor when assessing theories, and in fact bias among those who theorize tends to be fairly common—most of us focus on a particular study for a particular reason. History is replete with embarrassing examples of theories rooted in partiality. Heterosexuals developed theories about “others” when they decided that homosexuals were “mentally ill and in need of professional medical help” (Regan 124). They sought to eliminate “all sexual desires or replac[e] unnatural abnormal, homosexual desires with natural, normal heterosexual ones” through such methods as “abstinence, hypnosis, Â�psychoanalysis,

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vasectomy, shock treatment, the administration of hormones and drugs, castration (in the case of men), hysterectomy (in the case of women), lobotomy, and aversion therapies” (Regan 2001, 124). Similarly, European Christians, working from Greek models and from the notion that they were the most important part of creation, proposed theories asserting that the earth—because of humanity – was the center of the created universe. Christian thinkers like Thomas Aquinas simply gave older, Greek ideas a Christian twist: By the Middle Ages, [geocentrism] took on a new power as the philosophy of Aristotle (newly rediscovered in Europe) was wedded to Medieval theology in the great synthesis of Christianity and Reason undertaken by philosopher-theologians such as Thomas Aquinas. The Prime Mover of Aristotle’s universe became the God of Christian theology, the outermost sphere of the Prime Mover became identified with the Christian Heaven, and the position of the Earth at the center of it all was understood in terms of the concern that the Christian God had for the affairs of mankind. (“The Universe”)

It is interesting how adherents insist that Christianity is Godcentered, while Christian theories such as those of Aquinas prove to be overwhelmingly arrogant in their tendencies to be human-centered. These biased (but once well established) theories have largely gone the way of vinyl records and polyester. Ongoing inquiry, with the help of advancing technology, has proven such theories wrongheaded. In fact, if we consider every theory ever established by a human being, the vast majority have been discredited and abandoned. With hindsight, our theories often seem sadly inadequate, or blatantly wrong. Oftentimes our wrongheaded theorize have been motivated and shaped by vested interests. Other times, our theories are wrong simply because we are limited in what we are able to understand. Too often we theorize about “others,” as in the case of heterosexuals theorizing about homosexuals, or men theorizing about women. Most people who have put forward theories about homosexuality have been heterosexuals, and most of these theorists have been markedly influenced by Christianity. It such cases we must be leery—even suspicious. When humans theorize about “others” our theories are most likely to go astray, both because we fail to understand “others,” and because there is something that theorizers might gain by theorizing about “others.”

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History provides plentiful examples of theories clouded by personal affiliation and assumed personal interests. Slavery During a time when slaves had no right to life, no right to property, and no right to freedom, a time when slaves could be beaten, sold, raped, or murdered, the Caucasian physician, J. H. Van Evrie, wrote White Supremacy and Negro Subordination; or, Negroes a Subordinate Race and (so-called) Slavery its Normal Condition. In this widely read and influential work, Evrie presented documentation from a study in which he compares brain mass to size of body in Caucasians (self) and Africans (“other”). He noted that Caucasian brains are comparatively more massive, and theorized that, due to smaller brain size, African Americans are innately inferior. He concluded that Africans in the U.S. were not equal to Caucasians biologically, and deduced that Africans were incapable of learning to read, write, or speak as Caucasians read, write, and speak. “They” were assumed incapable of grasping abstract ideas, such as morality. Evrie, a strong Christian, theorized that God created Caucasians to be superior, to take charge of Africans (Regan 2001, 113). (Interestingly, his conclusion did not require Caucasians to travel to Africa to place all Africans under the superior supervision of Caucasians on behalf of the divine, but only to the maintenance of slaves in the U.S.) Around the same time period as Evrie, Samuel Cartwright, a wellregarded Caucasian physician in Louisiana, “discovered” two ailments peculiar to those with dark skin who were native to Africa (“other”), Drapetomania and dysthesia ethiopica. The former is manifest in just one symptom, the tendency to run away from one’s owners. The latter, also called “rascality,” was evidenced by “talking back, fighting with masters, refusing to work, destroying property, and insensibility to pain” (Regan 2001, 115). Cartwright’s demented theory of supposed ailments failed to identify the most likely cause of these behaviors: a healthy response to oppression, exploitation, and cruel injustice. Yet other prominent pre Civil War Caucasian physicians presented theories to explain why Africans (“other”) were not as evolved—were not suited to become physicians or even free citizens.

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Like Evrie, they rooted their scientific theories in empirical evidence—brain mass and observable behavior. Men who developed these theories of “other” gained a solid following among those who were in their own racial category, and both the theories and those who supported these theories helped to legitimize and maintain slavery. Most contemporary readers recognize these theories of “other” as self-serving, as evidence of the corruption of power and privilege, as spurious and self-interested. We are much less likely than our great grandparents would have been to accept these theories. Women Caucasian males gained much by enslaving Africans and women. Carl Vogt, one of the leading European professors in the area of natural history wrote that “the grown-up Negro partakes, as regards his intellectual faculties, of the nature of the child, the female, and the senile White” (Ehrenreich 2005, 129). In both Europe and the U.S., women were deprived of the vote, and men passed legislation to keep women dependent and powerless: [U]pon marriage a woman lost any right to control property that was hers prior to the marriage, nor did she have rights to acquire any property during marriage. A married woman could not make contracts, keep or control her own wages or any rents, transfer property, sell property or bring any lawsuit. (“Married”)

As with Africans, if men were going to continue to maintain their elite position of power, they needed theories to justify why individual freedoms and democracy could not effectively make women (“other”) their political and social equals. Dr. R.R. Coleman, Dr. Edward H. Clark, and Dr. G. Stanley Hall, were among the physicians who presented theories about the proper place of women based on feminine biology (Regan 2001, 120). Current theories of the day suggested that the human body was a closed system in which energies spent to develop one portion of our physique deprived other areas (Regan 2001, 120). Developing oneself was, therefore, a delicate balancing act. Furthermore, the world was understood to be divided into two distinct spheres: public life and home life; public life was largely reserved for males, while women were relegated to a home life shared with males (Regan 2001, 117).

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Coleman, Clark, and Hall proposed theories suggesting that women were biologically better suited, and therefore most appropriately kept, to home life. They further indicated that, if women wasted their energies developing the wrong organs, they would be unable to fulfil their primary role: childbearing (Regan 2001, 120-121). They put forth theories to explain why women who receive higher education, or who engaged in strenuous physical activities, would not be able to fulfil their womanly roles—they would be barren because such misplaced endeavours would reduce a woman’s reproductive energies. R.R. Coleman of Alabama wrote: Women beware. You are on the brink of destruction: You have hitherto been engaged in crushing your waists; now you are attempting to cultivate your mind: You have been merely dancing all night in the foul air of the ball-room; now you are beginning to spend your mornings in the study. You have been incessantly stimulating your emotion with concerts and operas, with French plays, and French novels; now you are exerting your understanding to learn Greek, and solve propositions in Euclid. Beware! Science pronounces that the woman who studies is lost! (Ehrenreich 2005, 141).

Men, who were deemed biologically suited to work outside the home, were told by the latest theorists that it was prudent for them foster both their intellect and their physique. The same theorists told women (“other”) that they were biologically suited for childbirth, and that they ought, therefore, to remain inside the home. Males, theorizing about women (“others”) determined that women ought to stay in the home and avoid education and sports—leaving public spheres exclusively to men—and focus on bearing and raising children, and tending the home. Women were encouraged to forgo higher learning and rigorous activities based on theories, developed by men, who had come to believed that women would destroy their reproductive abilities, and be left barren and bereft of children, should they stray from their rightful roles (Regan 2001, 120-121). These handy male theorizers documented the fact that women who received higher education married later, if at all, and had less children (Regan 2001, 118). Empirical, scientific studies conclusively demonstrated that only 28% of college educated women married, compared with 80% among women who did not attend college (Ehrenreich 2005, 141). For men theorizing “other,” this was not an indication that educated women preferred not to tie themselves to a man, but rather that education

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had destroyed their chances of marriage. For many women, this was a terrifying possibility, and the fear and dread that was intended to keep women in their place was extremely effective (Ehrenreich 2005, 143). (New studies demonstrate that every “year of a mother’s education corresponds to 5-10% lower mortality rates for children under 5. Every three years of additional education correlates with up to one child fewer per woman” (Population 2007, 2). New theories, many of which women were involved in, suggest that educated women are better able to make their own choices about reproduction—which is good, not bad—and that they therefore often choose to have fewer children, if any.) To support earlier, patriarchal theories about women’s biology as centered on her ovaries, requiring her to stay home, male physicians “discovered” that women’s brains were smaller—that their brains were not “intended” to be a primary feature in a woman’s body or the center of her life (Regan 2001, 120). In contrast, the Caucasian male brain proved that Caucasian males were the most intelligent, and therefore best equipped to hold power and make decisions. A woman’s intelligence need not be great to tend homes, raise children, and keep obedience to one’s husband, and this was clearly the rightful role of such small-brained humans. While the theories of people like Coleman, Clark, and Hall now seem downright bizarre, these theories were deemed legitimate in their day (Regan 2001). These doctors in white coats conducted studies, observed and documented empirical evidence, assessed data, and only then developed theories. They felt that they had reached sound conclusions based on solid evidence. To patriarchal physicians examining female “others,” for men who had something to gain by keeping women under their power and control, their gathered evidence was convincing, their conclusions logical. At a time when women could not vote, divorce, or retain legal custody of children, when women bequeathed all property to husbands through the act of marriage and were barred from most professions, physicians collected and presented hard evidence to support patriarchy, the status quo, and to defend their own power and privilege. Contemporary Examples of Theorizing ‘Others’ In each of the above cases, those in power (those making the rules, those with a vested interest in maintaining personal privilege and

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power) developed theories about “others.” These “others” were under their patriarchal power, and their theories worked to defend and justify Caucasian male privilege and power. Have human beings changed radically since the days of Evrie and Coleman, when a woman’s education was implicated in the shrinking of her uterus, when African slaves who sought freedom were diagnosed with “rascality”? Unfortunately, people in power are still spitting out theories designed to defend and justify their domination. In 2005, Lawrence Summers, president of Harvard University, “questioned how much of a role discrimination plays in the dearth of female professors in science and engineering at elite universities” (Bombardieri 2005). Summers focused on “unproven research into genetics and ‘aptitude’,” “research showing that girls are less likely to score top marks than boys in standardized math and science tests” (Dobbs 2005). In light of this “evidence,” he theorized about possible reasons for this dearth of women in top academic positions in science and engineering. His theory was rooted in the science of biology: genetics and child rearing. Like the physicians of earlier generations, Summers justified the status quo, which favors his gender, by pointing to female biology. He did not acknowledge that his privilege and power as a white male in a patriarchal culture—rather than his biology—had disposed him to higher education and a privileged occupation. And he made sure that his theory was put into action: The number of women offered tenured positions dropped significantly under his leadership. “Of the 32 offers of tenure made by Harvard’s Faculty of Arts and Sciences [under his watch], four went to women” (Dobbs 2005). During the 2003-04 academic year, just 13% of available faculty positions in the Arts and Sciences were offered to women at Harvard (“Senior”). In 1994, Charles Murray and Professor Richard J. Herrnstein (yet another Harvard affiliate likely enjoying a life of privilege) published The Bell Curve. This controversial book looked to genetic differences in intelligence and aptitude to better understand social problems, and to propose possible solutions. These two Caucasian men began their work with several key assumptions: –â•fi IQ tests measure intelligence, –â•fi intelligence is substantially heritable (no less than 40 percent and no more than 80 percent), and

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–â•fi IQ tests are not demonstrably biased against social, economic, ethnic, or racial groups. This latter assumption is particularly interesting, as it ignores formidable research that has indicated strong cultural bias in administered tests (Beatty 2008). Given this problem, the first assumption is also called into question. While Murray and Herrnstein acknowledge the ongoing debate over the importance of environment influences on the IQ gap between races, The Bell Curve is based on the assumption that IQ is genetic, posing an argument for biological determinism in which those who are poor, undereducated, or unemployed are in such unfortunate circumstances due to their biological nature—their innate inferiority. In their study, Murray and Herrnstein note that “AfricanAmericans typically earn IQ scores one full standard deviation below those of white Americans” (Beatty 2008). Though this gap has narrowed by about 3 IQ points, Murray and Herrnstein do not attributed this change to increased opportunities and less oppression, but to an increase in the lowest scores among Caucasian Americans (Beatty 2008). Murray and Herrnstein admit that Asians tend to have a higher IQ than Caucasians, but are quick to point out that the IQ of the average immigrant is now only 95, which is lower than the national average. They also note that these low IQ immigrants are “less brave, less hard working, less imaginative, and less self-starting than many of the immigrant groups of the past” (Beatty 2008). According to Murray and Herrnstein’s theorizing, this influx of lower IQ immigrants (“other”) is directly linked with a host of contemporary social problems, including poverty, lack of education, unemployment, divorce, “illegitimate” children, welfare dependency, crime, and political apathy (Beatty). While Caucasians continue to hold a solid majority, apparently they are not to blame. Not surprisingly, this theory leads these highly privileged authors to a conclusion that will favor those who are in their category—the highly privileged. They argue for biological determinism, and advocate for putting more money into “gifted” programs, while dropping affirmative action. Affirmative action, they argue, puts those with a lower IQ (“others”) into positions where more intelligent students and employees (self) might otherwise—and ought—to be placed. Murray and Herrnstein maintain that those who are already on top

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of the social hierarchy (Caucasians) belong at the top, and offer these individuals ample opportunities to foster and further advance their own potential, further enhancing their personal power and privilege. Theories about ‘other’ animals Theories posed by Caucasian men regarding Africans and women have at least sometimes been flagrantly biased in favor of Caucasian males, yet many of these theories have been taken seriously not only by scientists and scholars, but also by the masses. Theorizing “others” is inherently dangerous, especially when those in power—those with the education and positions that lead them to theorize—develop theories about “others” from whom they have much to gain. If a man develops a theory about women while his wife is at home tending his children and their home for free while he earns degrees and prestige, there is a strong indication that his theories will support this highly advantageous arrangement. Similarly, if a Caucasian who enslaves Africans develops a theory about Africans, her views are likely to be partial, and her conclusions suspect. Caucasian males in power have had much to gain by presenting theories about “other” individuals suggesting that they are not biologically suited to rule, not suited to share their privileges, whether in reference to “other” races or “other”-than-males. Not surprisingly, we have developed scores of theories about dogs, pigs, and brook trout that defend our right to use these “others” as we please. Our theories of language, sentience, intelligence, thought, reason, communication, community, learning ability, and ethics focus on our superiority, suggesting that we rightly exploit these “others.” For example, researchers failed in their first attempts to teach chimpanzees to speak, then concluded that chimps did not have linguistic ability, that they lacked the cognitive mechanisms necessary for all but the most basic forms of communication (“Language”). Theorists leaped from these initial forays into communication with chimpanzees to theorize that language is the exclusive realm of human beings, and that language is a critical defining human characteristic. No other primate (or any other species) was tested, yet the conclusion encompassed all nonhuman species. It has since been discovered that chimps lack the physiology for human verbal speech, but can communicate very effectively with sign

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language (not to mention communicating very well with one another). We are now finding—and admitting—that whales, apes, dolphins, and vervet monkeys, have complex forms of communication (Dawkins 1993, 23–24, Warren 1997, 53). [Vervet] monkeys are able to pick up subtleties in their grunts that completely escape the human ear. To a human, a grunt is a grunt is a grunt. It takes technological aids in the form of tape recorders and sound spectrographs to show that, as far as the monkeys are concerned, there is far more to it than that. . . . We still do not fully understand what it is that the monkeys are responding to or exactly how they manage to detect the differences between the grunts. But do it they clearly do, and they leave their human observers slightly baffled. (Dawkins 1993, 23–24)

Not only did we fail to test other species, but we smugly assumed that our elite linguistic status somehow justified our tyrannical exploitation of other creatures. This despite the fact that precious few (if any) contemporary ethicists considered language a necessary condition for moral standing—this initial assessment is now broadly recognized as blatant humanocentrism (Orlans 1998, 150). But the lingering effects of such theories are not so easily eradicated. In discussions exploring our exploitation of nonhumans, people still commonly defend human exploitation of cattle and pigs based on our “unique” use of language, sometimes focusing on syntax. Precisely what language, or syntax, has to do with the morality of exploitation remains unclear (even to those who pose this argument)—but nonetheless, it remains somewhat common to pose this now archaic argument. While language theories defending human supremacy have largely been discredited, a host of new theories have taken up where language theorists left off, working to define human beings as distinct from all other animals with the hidden agenda of justifying human supremacy, dominion, and exploitation. Mental abilities remain a particularly popular focus. Rene Descartes (1596–1650) is perhaps the most notorious example of a prominent thinker who presented a theory designed to bolster human privilege and power at the expense of dogs, rats, and any other nonhuman. By using reason and his Christian faith, he theorized that other species could neither think nor feel (Rachels 2007, 158). Vivisectionists and other exploiters were quick to accepted Descartes’ theory (Descartes 1955, 115).

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Needless to say, this vision of reality has had fateful consequences for our world. There is an apocryphal story told about some of the followers of Rene Descartes, who, on the banks of the Seine River in Paris, would nail dogs to wooden boards, cut them open, and watch them bark and writhe. They would exclaim: “Isn’t this wonderful? What marvellous machines! You do something to them, and predictably they start barking and writhing, almost on cue!” If the human mind is the sole reality, and the so-called physical world unreal, an inert, lifeless machine, it is easy to see how the barking and writhing would not be seen as manifestations and responses to pain (Muray 2010).

Many scientists and students of anatomy and physiology, content with Descartes’ theory, came to believe that the physique which they clearly believed to be analogous to their own, this crying and wounded dog, felt no pain, and therefore could be exploited to human ends without the slightest twinge of guilt. While these blinded theorists were unable to detect the monumental flaws in their thought processes, contemporary thinkers have managed to chuck this theory onto the pile with linguistic theories of human supremacy over nonhumans. Most people now agree that intelligence, like language, cannot be used to justify exploitation— and this is our main interest. Inasmuch as a lack of intelligence is not generally considered a legitimate reason to exploit another human being, how can it be a legitimate reason to exploit a dog or goat? Human intelligence clearly provides us with all that is necessary to exploit “others,” but intelligence (or a lack thereof) cannot justify exploitation. [I]intelligence allows us to control, vanquish, dominate, and destroy all other creatures. If this is the case, it is power that puts us on top of the pyramid. But if power provides grounds for including or excluding creatures from the scope of moral concern, we have essentially accepted the legitimacy of the thesis that “might makes right” and have, in a real sense, done away with all morality altogether. If we do accept this thesis, we cannot avoid extending it to people as well, and it thus becomes perfectly moral for Nazis to exterminate the Jews, muggers to prey on old people, the majority to oppress the minority, and the government to do as it sees fit to any of us. Furthermore, as has often been pointed out, it follows from this claim that if an extraterrestrial alien civilization were intellectually, technologically, and militarily superior to us, it would be perfectly justified in enslaving or eating or exterminating human beings (Rollin 1981, 8).

Sadly, while Descartes is a particularly flagrant example, he has not been the exception to the rule. Our vested interest in exploiting

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nonhumans persists, and so we continually ask: In what ways are we unique, and how does our unique status justify our ongoing and extensive exploitation of pigeons and pigs, carp and capuchins? Perhaps, knowing that neither lack of language skills nor lesser intelligence can rightly justify exploitation, theorists turned to morality itself. Their thinking: If deer and chickens have no morality, how can we be obliged to treat them morally? If they cannot return the favor, why should we be held accountable to them? Theorists assumed that ethics, like language, was an exclusively human phenomenon though the preponderance of research now indicates that differences between species are a matter of degree, not kind—morality (like language) might be different, but it is likely to exist in other species if it exists in human beings. Evolutionary theory supports this conclusion, as does empirical evidence. A minimal definition of ethics entails a system of behavioural norms that generates expectations of behavior and punishes deviance (“Community”). Many different species comply with social expectations, and suffer social punishments for infringements. For instance, the vampire bat displays “decision-making . . . what looks like a system of morality based on the principle of reciprocation. . . , coupled with sanctions against those [who] do not live up to their obligations” (Dawkins 1993, 57). Many households have more than one dog, and all but the most unobservant human will have noticed that dogs have pack morality. Some behaviors are unacceptable, and punishment follows swiftly for infringements. Marc Bekoff, who has studied and written on animal morality extensively, notes that “[d]ogs, coyotes, and wolves are fast learners when it comes to fair play …. There are serious sanctions when they breach the trust of their friends and these penalties might indeed become public information if others see an individual cheating his companions” (Bekoff 2006, 142). Those who grow up around horses also observe this sense of right and wrong, and the swift punishment that is meted out as part of herd behavior. Based on recorded observations, the same seems to be true of other primates, felines, insects, and perhaps a host of lesser-observed species (“Inside”). Many creatures are genetically wired with a propensity for establishing and maintaining morality, especially animals like humans and sheep, who tend to live in communities. Likely, all creatures that live in community have morals that foster community, yet not even one of our accepted moral theories reflects this (rather obvious) likelihood.

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Instead, our moral theories explicitly exclude nonhumans. Social Contract theory proposes that those who are not within the moral community are not protected by the moral community. Those who cannot participate in a social contract—a moral agreement—are excluded (Rachels 2007, 158). Of course the authors of this theory were well aware that only human beings can participate in a human moral agreement—yet another example of a thinly veiled attempt to justify our power and control over the bodies and lives of cattle, cats, zebras, rattle snakes, and turkeys. Our theories about “other” animals have almost always proven to be an embarrassment. Recently Dawkins wrote that “we now know that these three attributes—complexity, thinking and minding about the world—are also present in other species. The conclusion that they, too, are consciously aware is therefore compelling” (Dawkins 1993, 177). Are theorists really still wondering if dogs and dolphins are consciously aware? Apparently so. Even the most well known philosopher of animal liberation, Peter Singer, failed to present a moral theory devoid of human bias. In his theory, mind figures prominently, and he therefore presents a moral theory that continues to favor human beings. Such assessments, and the theories they foster, say more about the nature of science—and about human nature—than they do about hippopotami, donkeys, or ducks. We are inherently partial; we have a huge vested interest in exploiting sheep and turkeys, mice and rats, and every other living being. We want to eat them, experiment on them, wear their skins, and use them for entertainment. With so much at stake, human theories regarding “other” animals must are highly likely to be partial. Any theory that cannot meet the requirement of impartiality, is inherently suspect (Rachels 2007, 13-14). When assessing and comparing animals (including humans) across species, theorists have tended to focus on prized and highly developed human attributes, then compare these prized and highly developed human attributes with the same attribute in “other” creatures, inevitably affirming our general sense that we are superior. Not only do we choose attributes at which we excel, but we have an unspoken motive: “For a variety of economic, religious, or other ideological reasons, it has been important to many people to insist on an unbridgeable gulf between humans and animals” (Dupre 1996, 331). Many humans are interested in establishing and maintaining an “unbridgeable gap” between humans and “other” animals, some way

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of self-defining that justifies our sense of hierarchy in which we stand on top of all other species, excluding these “others” from the moral community, allowing us to exploit “them.” What Theorizing about “Other” Justifies Humans in power, those with a vested interest in maintaining positions of power, have a tendency to be partial and unjust when theorizing about “others” whom they exploit. Recognizing this theorist’s tendency is critical to any assessment of the value and viability of theorizing about “other” animals. Based on our own track record, we have every reason to be suspicious of our ability to theorize justly about “other” animals. If we are to theorize about nonhuman animals, we must understand what is at stake—both for humans and for nonhumans. Theories are likely to justify the status quo—our sense of human superiority that justifies our domination and exploitation of “other” creatures. The suffering that humans now legally cause to nonhumans in contemporary Western nations is horrific, and it has long been justified via human theories about “others”—about nonhuman minds, sentience, culture, language, and/or the divine will. In any case, we feel that our exploitation of these “others” is justified. And to understand the depth of concerns that revolve around any question of theorizing about “others,” we must understand what our theories have brought to the table. This section explores our exploitation of just a two species in just one industry—animal agriculture. Factory Farming1 Many people are of the opinion that animals are generally well cared for in animal industries, that laws protect animals, and that it is in the industry’s best interest to treat other creatures well. Nothing 1 ╇ The information included in this section can be found on many websites, including VIVA! USA (http://www.vivausa.org/visualmedia/index.html), PETA (http://www.petatv.com/), HSUS (http://video.hsus.org/), PCRM (http://www.pcrm. org/resources/), Farm Sanctuary (http://www.farmsanctuary.org/mediacenter/vid eos. html), and Vegan Outreach (http://www.veganoutreach.org/whyvegan/Â�animals. html), to name just a few. Information on dairy cattle and laying hens was taken from the following sites: HSUS Factory Farming Campaign (http://www.hsus.org/ farm/resources/research/welfare/welfare_overview.html#76), farmsanctuary’s Facto ryFarming.com (http://www.farmsanctuary.org/issues/factoryfarming/), and VIVA!

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could be farther from the truth. No federal laws regulate the treatment of animals raised for meat, eggs, or milk, and almost all customary agricultural practices, no matter how painful, are exempt from animal cruelty statutes. In the animal industries, welfare takes a back seat to economic interests. Animals are not viewed as individuals when they are exploited by factory farmers, they are viewed as units of production—“live-stock.” The cost of veterinary care, the cost of housing, and the cost of feed are all weighed against profits: Profits are the purpose and the guiding principle in animal agriculture, not individuals. In this section I explore “dairy” cattle to help readers understand why our self—serving theories, which have horrendous affects on “other” animals must be subject to rigorous scrutiny. “Dairy” Cattle and the Veal Industry Cows, like humans and other mammals, only lactate after giving birth. In order to produce milk, cows are artificially impregnated every year. They carry their young for ten months, then their calves are taken shortly after birth. Cows—like most mothers—try desperately to protect and keep their offspring. They bawl for days after their calves are stolen. What happens to these calves? The veal industry exists because of the dairy industry, and was created to take advantage of an abundant supply of unwanted male calves. If you support the dairy industry by purchasing dairy, you help to create and support the veal industry. Male “dairy” calves are either killed shortly after birth and sold as ‘bob’ veal for low-quality meals (such as frozen TV dinners), or they are chained by the neck in a two-by-five foot wooden crate, where they are unable to turn, and where they can neither stretch or lie down comfortably. The veal industry confines one million calves in these small crates annually, feeding them a liquid milk substitute that is deficient in iron and fiber, designed to create an anemic, lightcolored flesh that is prized as veal. Veal calves are usually slaughtered when they are just four months old. Life is no better for the mother cows. With their calves gone, milking machines are attached to the cow’s teats morning and evening. Dairy cows endure mechanized milking for ten out of twelve months USA Guides (http://www.vivausa.org/activistresources/guides/murdershewrote1. htm#).

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per year (including seven months of their nine-month pregnancies). Genetic manipulation and dietary controls cause extraordinary and unnatural milk output. Cows naturally produce just over two tons of milk per year, but Bovine Growth Hormone (BGH/BST) has increased milk flow so that cows now provide as much as thirty tons of milk annually, enough for ten calves. One-in-five factory farmed “dairy” cows secrete pus from her udders, which invariably mixes with her milk. Cows are so exhausted by the dairy process that they are often “spent,” and sent to slaughter, after four or five years of repeated impregnation, birth, and constant milking. (Those few cows who escape the animal industries and find their way to sanctuaries can live upwards of twenty years.) Most cows are pregnant when they are slaughtered. “Dairy” cattle are not considered to have high quality flesh (largely because most “beef” cattle are slaughtered at a much younger age, when their flesh is tender). The flesh of “dairy” cattle is used for soup, burgers, or processed foods. Those who believe that they do not support slaughter by consuming dairy products are mistaken: Both “dairy” calves and their mothers are slaughtered for human consumption at a young age. Cows exploited by the dairy industry suffer for many years at the hands of capitalists who impregnate them, steal their young and then their milk, and ultimately send them off to slaughter—capitalizing on their reproductive abilities, their nursing milk, and finally their bodies. In the dairy industry, cows suffer for years, while their calves are among the most mistreated and neglected of all factory farmed animals. When making changes in diet, please do not become a vegetarian who consumes more dairy products, it is better to cut back on all animal products to avoid adding economic support to the dairy industry, to avoid contributing to and encouraging the suffering of cows and their calves. Slaughter Legislation offers only minimal protection for animals sent to slaughter. Mammals are supposed to be “stunned” (rendered unconscious) before they are killed (federal Humane Slaughter Act, 1958), but slaughter, like most businesses, is shaped and driven by economic regulators. In the slaughterhouse, the quicker each animal is killed, the higher the profit margin. Time is money. Workers must be paid

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for their time, and while one animal’s body is on the dismemberment line, no other body can be processed. Consequently, economics encourage speed, which often makes effective stunning impossible. A USDA survey concluded that stunning was either “unacceptable” or a “serious problem” in 36 percent of sheep and pig slaughterhouses, and 64 percent of cattle slaughterhouses. (Even more remarkable, chickens, turkeys, ducks—every species of poultry—is exempt from the federal Humane Slaughter Act. In the U.S. slaughterhouse industry, 90 percent of those killed for food are birds.) Downers Transporting animals to slaughter is a rough business. Like all aspects of our animal industries, methods are dictated by a cost-analysis, and what is cheapest is seldom what is best for the animal being transported. As a result, animals arrive at slaughter exhausted, thirsty, hungry, and terrified, and many also arrived injured. Some are unable to stand or walk. The meat industry calls animals who arrive at the slaughterhouse too sick or injured to rise or move, “downers.” 100,000 factory farmed cattle arrive at slaughter injured, or too dispirited to walk, and these individuals are kicked, beaten, or forcibly dragged from transport trucks (Kirchheimer). Undercover investigators have repeatedly documented downed animals being kicked, beaten, pushed with bulldozers, and dragged from transport trucks with ropes or a chain. These animals are often fully conscious, in pain, and bellowing pitifully. (Please view undercover footage.) While the plight of “dairy” cattle and their calves may seem particularly brutal and unjust, the situation for fish, chickens, pigs, and cattle is no better. I encourage readers to explore undercover footage taken of these industries, which can be accessed online.2 ╇To understand the moral and spiritual importance of this topic, it is important to view undercover footage that reveals exactly what is happening behind the scenes, when those who deal with animals think that no one else is watching. Undercover footage can be found on many websites. For US footage visit Mercy for Animals at http://www.mercyforanimals.org/ and Compassion Over Killing at http://www.cok. net/. For Canadian footage, visit www.cetfa.com and www.defendhorses.org. For Australian footage, visit Animals Australia http://www.animalsaustralia.org/. For European footage, visit Vief Pfoten (Four Paws) for Western European footage at http://www.vier-pfoten.org/website/output.php, L214 for footage from France at http://www.l214.com/, Eyes on Animals http://eyesonanimals.com/€and Varkens in Nood€ http://www.varkensinnood.nl/ for footage from The Netherlands, and for an 2

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Theorizing Self White men once theorized that Africans were innately incapable of equality, of being granted freedom, of morality. For centuries, Caucasian male theories have defended their own thinly veiled selfinterests, and have helped to maintain the status quo, a society where Caucasian men held power and privilege while African Americans worked hard for pitifully little, and enjoyed few privileges. Men around the world have relentlessly theorized about the nature of women, about the feminine mind and body, about childbirth and menstruation, and about women’s rightful role in society; male theorizers have generally concluded that women rightly tend homes and raise children, rather than selling cars or building bridges. Theories developed by those in power about “others,” those who are not in power, have tended to be partial and biased, selfish and self-serving, and they have greatly harmed “others.” With regard to animals, humans have theorized that language, reason, ethics—even sentience and consciousness—were the exclusive gifts of human beings. Such theories were popular because they stroked our egos, and granted us privileges, excluding “others” from equal moral consideration—often from any moral consideration. When evidence eventually demonstrated that theories about “others” were based on faulty assumptions or incorrect data, those in power nonetheless generally maintained their exploitative behavior toward the “other,” and often continued to quote the same discredited data and theories. For example, theories indicating that cattle and chickens are insentient and lack consciousness have been soundly and roundly discredited, yet we still brand and castrate cattle without anesthesia, and slaughter chickens with no requirement that they first be rendered unconscious. When theorizer’s theories about “others” (theories that support their own superiority) are discredited, those who theorize, those who are in power, most often simply shift ground. For example, someone might argue that, even if dolphins can overall view, Compassion in World Farming at http://www.ciwf.org.uk/. I highly recommend these two short online videos: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vCX7f_ s1CA4 and http://www.petatv.com/tvpopup/Prefs.asp?video=mym2002. More broadly, visit PETA (http://www.petatv.com/), HSUS (http://video.hsus. org/), VIVA! USA (http://www.vivausa.org/visualmedia/index.html) (or VIVA! UK), PCRM (http://www.pcrm.org/resources/), Farm Sanctuary (http://www.farmsanc tuary.org/mediacenter/videos.html), and Vegan Outreach (http://www.veganout reach.org/whyvegan/animals.html).

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Â� communicate, they do not use syntax, and we can therefore use them for entertainment. Or they might say, even if chimpanzees have consciousness, they do not have self-consciousness, so we can use them for vivisection. Or an exploiter hoping to maintain their privilege might argue that, even if hogs do have morality, they cannot sign onto a social contract with human beings, and we can therefore consume them. (I have personally heard each of these arguments posed— many times). Whether or not theories about the natures of “others” stand the test of time, whether or not these theories are rooted in reason, they have proven both appealing and tenacious. Theories can be a worthy indulgence—even valuable. Theorizing is an practice that I have often enjoyed, and am enjoying even as I write. But we must learn from our mistakes: We must accept that there are situations in which theories are inappropriate—namely, theorizing “others.” Those who theorize too often theorized about “others,” representing them for our purposes. Theorizers, like all human beings, have vested interests. We are partial. Therefore we should not theorize about those whom we consider to be “other,” or about those who are under our power. To do so is to ignore history, and to greatly risk both the viability of theorizing, and justice itself. If powerful aliens were to descend, and identify humans as exploitable “others,” if they confined, deprived, and killed us for their purpose, would we want them to theorize about our nature, our minds, or our moral status? Would we trust their philosophizing about who we are? Would we want them to determine our abilities and propensities, and ultimately our fate? We ought not to theorize about “others.” Does this mean that we can never theorize about pigs and ducks? Does it mean that we can never theorize about African Americans unless we are African American? Or about women, unless we are women? The answer to this question rests in our ability to look in the mirror. Can a Caucasian male find a black woman when he looks in the mirror? Can we find a duck when we look in the mirror? If we cannot, then we must not theorize about those who remain “other.” If we can, then our theories must reflect an understanding that we and they are one. Ultimately, pigs and turkeys are not “other” any more than African Americans and women are “other” for Caucasian male theorizers. People and pigs become “other” when we wish to treat them Â�difÂ�-

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ferently from how we would wish to be treated. If we can look into the bright eyes of a calf and see into a mirror—if we can see in this individual a person—complete with interests, hopes, and fears—not unlike ourselves, then our theorizing is likely to have a greater degree of validity. If we theorize about self whenever we theorize about fish or a dice snake, crab-eating mongoose, or killifish, our theories are more likely to be grounded in reality—the reality that there is no “other,” the reality that we are all animals, and therefore are fundamentally alike, particularly in morally relevant ways, such as our ability to suffer and our innate desire to live without suffering. If Caucasians had seen themselves in the slaves they exploited—if they had recognized that Africans and Caucasians are humans, and therefore both are fundamentally alike, particularly in morally relevant ways, such as our ability to suffer and our innate desire to live without suffering, it would have been unlikely that theorists would have tried to justify slavery. Had men seen themselves in the women they trapped at home with a litter of children, they would not have supposed that women were naturally suited to homelife, or that they should be denied a life outside the home or equal say in matters of importance to them. Had Descartes seen himself in a dog, he would never have supposed that the dog’s cries were mechanical, and had no connection to sensations. If we could see ourselves in hens, cattle, and pigs currently trapped on our factory farms, we would not suppose that eating eggs, drinking milk, or eating flesh could be justified. Those who look at another human being, or another animal, and see “other” must not theorize about those “others.” Conclusion [Theories] are abstract and conceptual, and to this end they are never considered right or wrong. Instead, they are supported or challenged by observations in the world. They are “rigorously tentative”, meaning that they are proposed as true but expected to satisfy careful examination to account for the possibility of faulty inference or incorrect observation. Sometimes theories are falsified, meaning that an explicit set of observations contradicts some fundamental assumption of the theory, but more often theories are revised to conform to new observations, by restricting the class of phenomena the theory applies to or changing the assertions made. Sometimes a theory is set aside by scholars because there is no way to examine its assertions analytically; these may Â�continue on in the popular imagination until some means of

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examination is found which either refutes or lends credence to the theory (“Theory).

Theories are “rigorously tentative” and yet—even when a theory has been found to be flawed, it “may continue on in the popular imagination.” When people theorize about “other,” there is often “no way to examine [our] assertions analytically.” Some people still believe and assert that African Americans are intellectually inferior. Some people still believe that a woman’s biology rightly places her in the home, raising children. Many people continue to believe that only humans have language, only humans have the ability to reason, and only humans are guided by moral codes. How might we conclusively prove what transpires in the minds of “other” individuals—whether “other” primates or “other” species? Theorizing, our search for answers in a world filled with unknowns, sometimes yields wonderful and important information—information that is critical to how we understand our world and how we live in our world, and which aids us in a host of ways. Other times, theories are the product of vested interests and partiality, especially when humans theorize about “others.” In these instances, we often do great damage with our theorizing. If we are to theorize about oxen and sheep, then we must theorize about self. But theorizing self is perhaps not the most appropriate response. Today, what we need—and what cattle and mice, turkeys and pigs, Gobi jerboas and water opossums need from us—is not theorizing “others,” but a change of heart and a change of lifestyle. If we are to save ourselves, our planet, and these many individuals, we must see and accept our commonality with all creatures and stop posing Â�theories that begin with an assumption of critical difference. Because we have been unable to theorize justly about “others,” it is time to Â�dispense with theories and rediscover empathy, compassion, and common sense—of course pigs and cats think and suffer, have personalities and volition. Those who would suggest otherwise hold the burden of proof. At this critical moment on our threatened planet, it is time to bring change through personal choices rather than ponder possibilities. After all, just in the time that I have taken to write this paper about theories, billions of farmed animals have been killed at the hands of a greedy and exploitative humanity. This paper did not save them, nor will it save the ones who will be killed tomorrow.

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Thus far, human theories have been unable to stop the suffering and premature death for Latvian brown cows and white-tailed deer, and many of our theories have encouraged our exploitation and killing of these individuals. It is time to move from hopeful deliberation to dependable action. It is therefore time to quit talking and writing, and stop factory farms, laboratories, zoos, circuses, trappers, hunters, ranchers, dog breeders, fur farms and fur stores—it is time to protect all who are suffering and endangered in our neighbourhoods, communities, and on our planet. Theorizing is a luxury of the elite, whether theorizing about human-animal relations (as if the two were different) or about women’s ovaries. For one who recognizes that an individual who happens to be a gentle manatee or an endangered desert tortoise, a brakel chicken or a Gloucestershire old spots hog, is not “other” but part of our extended community, this is not a time for theories—this is a time for action. For those who wish to persist in their ponderings, based on our track-record across time, it is critical that we never theorize about “others.” If we cannot see ourselves in the reflective eyes of another animal, in their wiggles and vocalizations, then we have little to no hope of creating a theory of any worth or value; resultant theories are likely to justify yet more misery and death. Please, do not theorize about “others.” I must close now: Animals are suffering grievously—are slaughtered every second—justified by our theorizing about “others” regarding their supposed lack of reason, lack of souls, lack of language, and so I must get back to the critical task of animal liberation. Please, do not theorize about “other” animals. References Adams, C. 2003. The Pornography of Meat. New York: Continuum. Beatty, B. 2008. “The Bell Curve.” Human Intelligence. Accessed Jan 7 2008. http:// www.indiana.edu/~intell/bellcurve.shtml Bekoff, M. 2006. Animal Passions and Beastly Virtues. Philadelphia: Temple University press. Bombardieri, M. 2005. “Summers’ Remarks on Women Draw Fire.” The Boston Globe.€ Accessed January 17 2008. http://boston.com/news/education/higher/Â� articles/2005/01/17/summers_remarks_on_women_draw_fire/ Brown, M. 2007. Ralph Maughan’s Wildlife News. Accessed January 7 2008. http:// wolves.wordpress.com/2007/10/25/wildlife-services-the-misnamed-federalagency-killed-16-million-animals-in-2006.

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Carlisle, E. 2007. “The Gulf of Mexico Dead Zone and Red Tides.” The Louisiana Environment. Accessed 31 Oct 2008. http://www.tulane.edu/~bfleury/envirobio/ enviroweb/DeadZone.htm “Community Ethics and Punishment.” On Philosophy. Accessed July 4 2009. http:// onphilosophy.wordpress.com/2006/07/23/community-ethics-and-punishment/ “Senior Positions.” Boston.com: Local News. Accessed July 4 2009. http://www. boston.com/news/local/articles/2005/08/01/harvard_improves_on_tenure_ offers_to_women/ Dawkins, M. S. 1993. Through Our Eyes Only? The Search for Animal Consciousness. Oxford: W. H. Freeman. Dejousse L., and J.M. Gaziano. 2008. “Egg Consumption in Relation to Cardiovascular Disease and Mortality: The Physician’s Health Study.” American Journal of Clinical Nutrition 87: 964-969. In Physician’s Committee for Responsible Medicine 17:3. Descartes, R. 1955. “The Discourse on Method.” Trans. Elizabeth S. Haldane and G. R. T. Ross. In The Philosophical Works of Descartes. (Dover, New York: Dionys de Leeuw, A, 1996). “Contemplating the Interests of Fish: The Angler’s ChalÂ�lenge.” Environmental Ethics 18: 373–90. Dobbs, M. 2008. “Harvard Chief’s Comments on Women Assailed: Academics Critical of Remarks About Lack of Gender Equality.” The Washington Post. Jan. 19, 2005. A02. Accessed Jan 7 2008. http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/ articles/A19181-2005Jan18.html Online. Dupre, J. 1996. “The Mental Lives of Nonhuman Animals.” In Readings in Animal Cognition, edited by M. Bekoff and D. Jamieson, 323-336. Cambridge: MIT Press. Ehrenreich, B. 2005. For Her Own Good: Two Centuries of the Expert’s Advice to Women. New York: Anchor. “Fish Species on Brink of ‘Global Collapse’.” The Reporter 39.1 (2007): 4. “Inside the Animal Mind.” Nature. PBS National. WPSX, Pennsylvania. 11 Jan. 2000. “Giant Tuna are being Slaughtered in Gulf.” In Brief, Spring (2007) 18-19. “History of Democracy.” Historyworld. Online. Internet. July 4, 2009. 1-4. . “Language Language Research with Chimpanzees: Linguistic Research on Great Apes in the Twentieth Century.” Accessed July 4, 2009. http://scientificinquiry. suite101.com/article.cfm/language_research_with_chimpanzees “Lethal Predator Control Courtesy of Wildlife Services.” The Humane Society of the United States. Accessed 31 Oct. 2007. http://www.hsus.org/wildlife/issues_fac ing_wildlife/lethal_predator_control_courtesy_of_wildlife_services/ “Married Women’s Property Act: 1848, New York€State.” About.com: Women’s HisÂ� tory. Accessed July 4, 2009. http://womenshistory.about.com/od/marriedwomen sproperty/a/property_1848ny.htm McQuillan, J. 2007. “The Exterminators” Missoula Independent. 18(1): 23. Muray, L. “An Introduction to the Process Understanding of Science, Society and the Self.” Religion-online.org. Accessed Feb. 14 2010. http://www.religion-online. org/showchapter.asp?title=2305&C=2294 Orlans, F.B., Beauchamp, T., Dresser, R., Morton, D. and J.Gluck. 1998. The Human Use of Animals: Case Studies in Ethical Choice. New York: Oxford. Population Institute. The Reporter: A Publication of Population Connection 39:3. Dec. 2007. 2. Phelps, N. 2002. The Dominion of Love. New York: Lantern. Rachels, J. 2007. The Elements of Moral Philosophy. New York: McGraw-Hill.

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Regan, T. 2001. Defending Animal Rights. Urbana: University of Illinois. Rice, P. 2002. “Subsidies to the Meat Industry; Separation of Meat and State!” American Vegan 2:2, 8-9. Roach, J. 2007. “Gulf of Mexico ‘Dead Zone’ Is Size of New Jersey.” National Geographic News. Accessed Oct. 31 2007 http://news.nationalgeographic.com/ news/2005/05/0525_050525_deadzone.html. Rollin, B. E. 1981. Animal Rights and Human Morality. Amherst: Prometheus. “Sea Turtle Catch Closes Hawai’i Longline Fisheries.” In Brief. Summer (2006): 10-11. Singer, P. & Mason, J. 2006. Eating: What we Eat and Why it Matters. London: Arrow . “Theory.” Wikipedia: The Free Encyclopedia. Accessed July 4 2009. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Theory “The Universe of Aristotle and Ptolemy.” Accessed Feb. 14 2010. http://csep10.phys. utk.edu/astr161/lect/retrograde/aristotle.html “What About Fish?” 1994. Editorial. Animal People: News for People Who Care About Animals 3.7: 2. “What Is Manifest Destiny?” Wisegeek. Accessed July 4 2009 http://www.wisegeek. com/what-is-manifest-destiny.htm “Wildlife Damage.” USDA-APHIS-Animal Damage Control. Accessed 31 Oct 2007. http://www.aphis.usda.gov/wildlife_damage/ “Will the US Ban Destructive Fishing?” AWI Quarterly 56.1 (2007): 17. Wilson, E. O. 1998. “The Biological Basis of Morality” Atlantic Monthly Apr. 53–70. Warren, M. 1997. Moral Status: Obligations to Persons and Other Living Things. Oxford: Clarendon.

PART two

animals and modernity

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Chapter Three

The Underdog in History: Serfdom, Slavery and Species in the Creation and Development of Capitalism Mary Murray Alongside the modern evils, we are oppressed by a whole series of inherited evils, arising from the passive survival of archaic and outmoded modes of production, with their accompanying train of anachronistic social and political relations. We suffer not only from the living, but the dead... Perseus wore a magic cap so that the monsters he hunted down might not see him. We draw the magic cap down over our own eyes and ears so as to deny that there are any monsters... (Marx 1976, 91)

Contemporary scholars (Speigel 1996) and animal rights activists (e.g., Peta, 2004) contend that non human animals incarcerated in modern factory farms, vivisection laboratories, the sport and entertainment industries and pet producing puppy mills are slaves. In this essay I will demonstrate that this claim can be solidly substantiated through the application of Marx’s social theory. To develop my argument that Marx’s social theory provides a solid theoretical basis for the claim that the situation of many, if not most, animals in modern society is one of slavery I will begin by looking at theoretical debates about the transition from feudalism to capitalism and what Marx had to say about the development of capitalism. I will outline what Marx had to say about slavery and serfdom in pre-capitalist society, and consider his view that slavery would be replaced by free wage labor in capitalist society. I will point to the fact that the scholarly debate about the transition from feudalism has, to date, failed to perceive the significance of non human animals as slaves for the development of capitalism. I will use aspects of Marx’s analysis of capitalist society to explain this analytic lacunae with respect to the situation of non human animals as slaves in the creation and development of capitalist society. Theoretical debates about the transition from feudalism to capitalism have been significant in the development of sociological and

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Â�historical understandings of the origins and nature of modern society. The theoretical debates have included Marxist (Brenner 1976, 1977, 1982; Dobb 1963; Hilton 1969, 1977, 1978; Sweezey 1950; Wallerstein 1974, 1976, 1980), Weberian (Weber 1930), Durkheimian (Durkheim 1960) and Malthusian (Postan 1950, 1966, 1973, 1975) perspectives. Feminists have also considered the role of gender and patriarchy in the development of capitalism (Hamilton 1978; Murray 1995). However, nowhere within the debate about the transition to capitalism have theoretical questions about the role of non-human species been posed. To date, debates about the transition have focused on changing social relations between humans as being constitutive of modern capitalist society. This chapter identifies ways in which the transition from feudalism and the subsequent development of capitalism in England was founded on the back of hooves, paws and claws. My argument will be that the development of capitalism was constructed in and through particular forms of speciesist social relationships. I will argue that such speciesist (Singer 1995; Dunayer 2004) social relationships have actually been constitutive of modern capitalism, rather than simply an effect of capitalism, or a relic from earlier societies. In developing this argument I will concentrate on Marxist accounts of the transition from feudalism to capitalism. My decision to do so is partly a pragmatic one, dictated by the limitations of space in an essay of this length. Moreover, my view is that much of the Marxist account of the creation and development of capitalism is compelling and convincing, and Marx was of course particularly concerned with the plight and role of the underdog in history. However, the Marxist underdog has never been a canine, or indeed any other species of non-human animal. Indeed I will argue that Marx’s theory suffers from a heavy dose of anthropocentricism, underpinned by speciesism, and that this potent cocktail has prevented Marx and, to date, modern Marxists contributors to the ‘transition debate’ from grasping the significance of non-human species for the development of capitalism. In developing my argument, I will, nonetheless, consider ways in which the Marxist analytical framework and conceptual categories such as serfdom, slavery, alienation, exploitation, commodity fetishism, reification, and class, are applicable to an analysis of the situation of non-human animals and the human-animal relationships in the development of capitalism in England. My approach in this

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respect is intended to be analytical. Analogies drawn by contemporary animal rights activists and organizations (PETA 2004), and scholars (Spiegel 1996) regarding, for example, the enslavement of non-human animals are compelling. They are an important way of highlighting the suffering of non-human species. This chapter considers such analogies through the lens of Marxist theory. Marxism and the Transition from Feudalism to Capitalism Marx and contemporary Marxists have written at length about the transition from feudalism to capitalism. In this chapter I will concentrate on what Marx and Marxist scholars working with an ‘internal relations’ perspective—emphasizing social change within feudal society in England—had to say. I will not go into everything that has been said: I will concentrate on the main points of their accounts that are the most relevant for the themes of this chapter. All of them identify ‘free’ wage labor as the basis of the capitalist mode of production. Marx For Marx, the basis of capitalism is an exploitative social relation between a property-owning capitalist class and a property-less class of ‘free’ wage laborers. By ‘free’ wage labor Marx meant labor which was ‘free’ to sell its labor power—i.e. the energetic and creative capacity that a worker has to work and produce—as a commodity. In contrast to the serf or the slave, the ‘free’ wage laborer can enter into contracts to sell his or her labor power. However the freedom of the wage laborer is a formal freedom only because the laborer is also ‘free’ of—actually separated from—the means of production or subsistence. Basically the worker is property-less, and therefore forced to sell her or his labor power in order to live. In Capital Volume I, Marx (1976 Chaps, 26-32) documented the processes involved in the creation of ‘free’ wage labor and the “primitive accumulation of capital”, i.e. the early stages of capitalist development which appeared in England in ‘classic form’. He identifies two key processes. The first was the emancipation of the serfs. In England this began at the end of the 14th century and was complete by the 16th century. Serfdom, like slavery was a hereditary socioeconomic status. However, unlike human slaves, most who disappeared

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in England after the Norman Conquest, human serfs were not owned by anyone. However, as unfree peasants, serfs were exploited by the landowning classes. Under coercive sanction, serfs were forced to ‘transfer’ any surplus beyond their immediate subsistence needs to the feudal ruling classes. This could take the form of labor, rent in kind such as foodstuffs, or in money. The second key process in the primitive accumulation of capital in England was the separation of the free peasantry and small farmers from the land. Beginning in the late 15th century through to the 18th century enclosure of land, backed by the force of the state, ensured their expulsion from their means of subsistence. A new class of agrarian capitalists began large-scale sheep farming with a keen eye on profits to be made in the wool trade as well as the provision of food for an expanding urban population and industrial work force. The expropriated peasantry, initially turned into vagabonds and beggars, were subjected to further force and violence on the part of the state, intent on disciplining them to work as wage laborers. Marx discusses in some detail the use of ‘bloody legislation against the expropriated’. During the reign of Henry VIII for example, vagabonds who didn’t work could be whipped as well as suffer the loss of bodily parts such as half an ear. For continued refusal to work the punishment could be as extreme as execution. These laws remained in force until the beginning of the 18th century. The new class of landless laborers disciplined in this way supplied labor power for the new industries developing in the cities of England, including steel, coal and cotton. Contemporary Marxist Accounts Contemporary Marxist accounts of the transition to capitalism similarly stress the significance of the emergence of ‘free’ wage labor for the development of capitalism, and class conflict is identified as the motor of change in this respect. Maurice Dobb (1963) emphasizes a dynamic of class conflict through which serfs won their freedom, and agrarian transformation ultimately resulting in a basic division between the owners and non owners of capital. Rodney Hilton (1969, 1977, 1978) sees class struggle over feudal rent as the prime mover in the breakdown of feudalism, and highlights the English Peasant Revolt of 1381 as a defining moment in this process. Over time the gradual development of free tenures and a social structure differen-

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tiated between capitalist and wage-laborers emerged. For Robert Brenner: It is the outcome of class conflicts—the reaffirmation of the old property relations or their destruction and the consequent establishment of a new structure—that is ... the key to ...the transition from feudalism to capitalism (1976, 31).

Abracadabra! Anthropocentricism and Animals in Absentia Marxist accounts of the breakdown of feudalism and the development of capitalism are anthropocentric. The Marxist focus has been on class conflict and social differentiation amongst socioeconomic classes of humans. Nowhere in the Marxist debate about the transition have social relations between humans and other animals been fore-grounded or problematized. Indeed the analysis of the primitive accumulation of capital presented by Marx, together with the contributions by Marxist scholars to the ‘transition debate’ perform something like a vanishing trick on non-human animals. Slavery, Serfdom and Species in Medieval and Feudal England In his historical analysis of class relationships Marx provided an account of slavery in ancient societies such as Greece and Rome. His focus was on slavery as the exploitation of chattels by the ruling classes. Slavery was also a feature of the class structure in AngloSaxon England before the Norman Conquest (Pelteret 1995). Slaves, captured in war and, or, who had inherited the status, were bought and sold at market. As the property of slave owners, slaves in AngloSaxon England were, as in ancient Greece and Rome, forced to work in a variety of capacities for their slave masters. By the 12th century however slaves had disappeared in England, many becoming part of the class of human serfs. The account of slavery in early societies provided by Marx is one that is concerned with slavery as the exploitation of human chattels. However the exploitation of non-human animal chattels as slaves was widespread in the ancient world (Bostock 1993; Kalof 2007a; Kalof 2007b) and medieval Europe including Anglo-Saxon England (Salisbury 1994; Kalof 2007b; Resl 2007). The labor of animal slaves made a significant contribution to the economic infrastructure of early societies. ‘Domesticated’ animals such as cattle and horses were used as beasts of burden in the agricultural sphere, and horses were

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forced into the front line of military expansionism and war. Many ‘exotic’ species of non-human animals ended up in the menageries of the upper classes (Bostock 1993) and Roman amphitheaters such as the Colosseum, as forms of entertainment, and symbols of military conquest and political power and prestige. Animal slaves were, like human slaves, bought and sold at market, as were commodities extracted from them such as foodstuffs and raw materials for human use. Although the slavery of human chattels eventually disappeared in Greece and Rome, and died out in England after the Norman Conquest, the property status of non-human animals remained. As chattel property of the ruling species they were forced to work, and exploited for commodities and materials that could be extracted from them. As was the case with human slaves the slave master, to whom animal slaves were subject, could buy and sell them. He or she also had the power of life and death over them. Even so, the ‘conditions of enslavement’ for many non-human chattels was similar to that of the human unfree peasant serf in that surplus extraction beyond immediate subsistence took place within the manorial system where serfs lived and worked on land that belonged to the lord of the manor. Whilst their labor was enforced, the human serfs were not shackled and chained in the way that many human slaves had been. A fundamental feature of feudal society was that the direct producer—the peasant—was ... in possession of his (sic) own means of production, the necessary material labor conditions required for the realization of his labor and the production of his (sic) means of subsistence (Marx 1974, 790).

The condition of enslavement for many non-human animals was similar. Whilst ‘in possession’ of their own means of subsistence, they lived and worked, often unchained and unshackled, on land that belonged to the human whose chattel property they were. The representation of the medieval English countryside in literature, art and poetry has often evoked a bucolic idyll that belied the true nature of human and human-animal social relationships of the time. Completing a process that had begun in the late 14th century, the last remaining serfs in England were freed by Elizabeth I in the late 16th century. However, the freeing of bonded serfs in England did not extend to freedom for bonded beasts. The unfree labor of nonhuman animals continued to contribute to the feudal economy long

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after the emancipation of human serfs. Indeed, the reorganization of socioeconomic and political power relationships between different classes of humans brought about by the enclosure of land in England was constructed in and through speciesist relationships that deemed non-human animals the chattel property, slaves and serfs of humans. The enclosure of land was a key moment in the development of capitalism in England. Whilst Marxists have rightly castigated the suffering this caused dispossessed human peasants, neither Marx, nor the Marxist scholars engaged with the transition debate have given any consideration whatsoever to the significance of the enclosures for non-human animals. Enclosure is though a fecund metaphor with which to think about the relationship between human and non-human animals in capitalist society. It is also a description of what has actually occurred in terms of the carving up of social space between species. As Watts (2000, 293) observes “the relation between animals and modernity can be construed as a gigantic act of enclosure”. It was a process whose beginning was perhaps most visible with the enclosure of land from the late 15th century. Marking a reorganization of socioeconomic and political power relationships between different classes of humans, it also marked an extension and reorganization of the power of human beings in relation to nonhuman animals. As Benton observes: Enclosure...is significant not only as an aspect of the process whereby ‘free’ labour is created as a condition of the wage relation, but also as a condition of the reorganisation of the relations between labour, stock animals and ecological conditions…Along with the formal subsumption of labour goes an extension of the powers of the landowner to control and regulate both the activity of farm labour and the organicdevelopment and social aspects of the lives of stock animals...it makes sense…to extend the concept of ‘formal subsumption’ to this whole complex of wage labour, stock animals and ecological conditions, whose interrelations are reorganised and subjected to distinctive forms of regulation under commercial pressures (1993, 155-156).

Indeed I would argue that the formal subsumption of animals and extension of the power of the landowner over them marked the beginnings of both an increase in the numbers of non-human animal slaves in England, and the preconditions for an intensification of methods of production. It was a process that was constructed in and through already existing speciesist social relationships and one that furthered those social relationships.

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Marx, Capitalism and Slavery As we have seen, Marx identified the basis of the capitalist mode of production as formally ‘free’ wage labor and observed that “Wage labor arises out of the dissolution of slavery and serfdom...”’ (1973, 891). However Marx also recognized the role of human slavery for the primitive accumulation of capital and the development of capitalism. In 1847 he wrote: Direct slavery is just as much the pivot of bourgeois industry as machinery,.. as credits, etc. Without slavery you have no cotton; without cotton you have no modern industry. It is slavery that has given the colonies their value; it is the colonies that have created world trade, and it is world trade that is the pre-condition of large-scale industry. Thus slavery is an economic category of the greatest importance. Without slavery North America, the most progressive of countries would be transformed into a patriarchal country. Wipe out North America from the map of the world, and you will have anarchy—the complete decay of modern commerce and civilization. Cause slavery to disappear and you will have wiped America of the map of nations. Thus slavery, because it is an economic category, has always existed among the institutions of the peoples. Modern nations have been able only to disguise slavery in their own countries, but they have imposed it without disguise upon the New World (1997a, 203-204).

Even so, Marx argued that slavery appeared within the capitalist system as an anomaly. It “appears as an anomaly, opposite the bourgeois system itself...” (1973, 464). The fact that we now not only call the plantation owners in America capitalists, but that they are capitalists, is based on their existence as anomalies within a world market based on free labor (1973, 513). In plantation colonies “where commercial speculations figure from the start and production is intended for the world market, the capitalist mode of production exists, only in a formal sense, since the slavery of Negroes precludes free wage-labor, which is the basis of capitalist production. But the business in which slaves are used is conducted by capitalists. The method of production which they introduce has not arisen out of slavery but is grafted on to it. In this case the same person is capitalist and landowner (1971, 302-303).

Marx points out that: The slave-holding states in the United States of North America...are associated with a world market based on capitalist production. No

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� matter how large the surplus product they extract from the surplus labor of their slaves in the form of cotton or corn, they can adhere to this simple, undifferentiated labor because foreign trade enables them to convert these simple products into any kind of use-value (1971, 243).

And: The character of the process of production from which (commodities) emanate is immaterial. They perform the function of commodities on the market, and enter into the cycles of industrial capital as well as into those of the surplus value carried by it (1978,189-90).

Marx thought that eventually slavery would act as a brake on capitalist development. Like all other exploitative social systems, he viewed modern slavery as a system with a dynamic rise as productive forces developed, followed by stagnation, decline and overthrow. Whilst recognizing slavery facilitated primitive accumulation, Marx thought that it eventually became an economically backward institution dependent upon extensive increase of new territories with a naturally fertile soil. Slavery, Serfdom, Species and Capitalism Slavery has not disappeared though in contemporary capitalism. Not only are there an estimated 27 million human slaves across the globe, billions of non-human animals, deemed to be the chattel property of humans, are enslaved in an array of enterprises including food production, vivisection, sport and entertainment, and pet production. Although the conditions of enslavement on, for example, family farms or lifestyle blocks, may be more akin to serfdom for some of the animals concerned, and, despite affection that may exist between human owner and animal, animals remain the chattel property of humans for use and trade. Rather than disappearing, the number of slaves has actually increased in modern capitalist society. Moreover, rather than appearing as an anomaly opposite the capitalist system, the enslavement of non-human animals has become embedded in and an intrinsic component of the capitalist economy. As formally free wage labor has become the dominant form of human labor in the global capitalist economy, the numbers of non-human animal slave laborers has increased exponentially. Indeed, one is tempted to utter the heretical (in Marxist circles at least) claim that the unfree labor of non-human animals may have become as important for the workings of the

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Â�modern capitalist economy as the formally free labor of humans. This is not to say though that speciesism and non-human animal slavery are necessary preconditions for the development of capitalism. Nor is it to say that speciesism and non-human animal slavery is necessary for the workings of the capitalist economy. Neither speciesism nor non-human animal slavery are prerequisites for the emergence and development of capitalism. There is no a-priori reason that dictates the ancient speciesist practice of non-human animal slavery to be a fundamental component of modern capitalism. Theoretically at least, capitalism could have emerged and developed without speciesism and non-human animal slavery. However, the facts of the matter are that it did not. It turns out that the ‘ancient relic’ of non-human animal slavery is a key form of bourgeois power, being central to the makings of modern capitalism. Marx argued that in capitalist society slave owners are capitalist and extensive scholarship has shown that the European and American economies and the Industrial Revolution were to a significant extent built on the backs of human slave laborers (Williams 1964; Genovese 1973; Blackburn 1997). The same can be said of non-human animal slavery: many of the owners of non-human animal slaves in capitalist society are capitalists. Moreover, the capitalist economy in England and global capitalism has to a significant extent been built on the back of hooves, paws and claws. The enslavement of non-human animals was embedded in the primitive accumulation of capital and the development of agrarian capitalism in England. It was also embedded in the colonialism that accompanied the development of capitalism. And, whereas Marx thought that slavery depended upon the extensive increase of new territories with a naturally fertile soil, intensive industrial farming in the confined spaces of factories and feedlots has increased both the number of non-human animals living lives of slavery, and their productivity. National and multinational corporations have increasingly replaced traditional family farm systems. Though animal slaves living with serf like conditions in contemporary capitalist society may be able to express some if not all their normal range of behaviors, intensive industrial farming has subject billions of others to the same rigors of labor discipline imposed on human wage laborers. In the pursuit of labor productivity and profit, the scientific management system developed by Frederick Taylor to make human workers more efficient, and Fordist methods of mass production have been applied to non-human animals caught up in

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systems of industrial production (Harrison 1964; Mason & Singer 1990; Singer 1995; Franklin 1999; Patterson, 2002). Whereas human wage laborers subject to these systems are at least ‘free’ to leave or protest their conditions, non human animal slaves are not whipped to work, they are instead confined and incarcerated for a life sentence. Whilst national and multinational corporations and their shareholders have reaped the financial rewards, the entire economies of some nation states have been and are dependent on the enslavement of non-human animals. Not only are the products of non-human animal slaves commodities, the non-human animals themselves are commodities with both a use value and an exchange value. Breed, branded and tagged on farms that might be compared to slave compounds or concentration camps (Patterson 2002); in laboratories for scientific research; and puppy mills to supply the pet industry, they are bought and sold in the capitalist market place. Along with captured ‘exotic’ species—a practice long predating the development of capitalism and furthered by it—vast numbers of non-human animal slaves have to endure the suffering imposed upon them through short and long distance travel in what are effectively non-human animal slave ships (Spiegel 1996) of various kinds. As walking larders (Clutton-Brock 1988), and indeed walking wardrobes and warehouses, commodities derived from non-human animals provide food, clothing, raw materials and medicines as well as forms of entertainment for humans. As commodity producing commodities, non-human animal slaves are exploited proletarians. In the Poverty of Philosophy Marx observed that “Feudalism also had its proletariat—serfdom... The bourgeoisie begins with a proletariat which is itself a relic of the proletariat of feudal times” (1977, 209). Marx of course was talking about the human proletariat in capitalist society and its antecedent in serfdom. The antecedent of non-human animal slavery in capitalist society is the non-human animal slave/serf in feudal and ancient societies. Like human wage slaves, non-human animal slaves in factory farms and feed lots, research labs, zoos, aquaria, and circuses have been forcibly separated from their means of subsistence. Even where they experience serf like conditions on family farms and lifestyle blocks, they are dependent for their subsistence on their human owner on whose land they subsist. As beasts of burden, herders of sheep and cattle, wartime time cannon fodder, security workers, and commodity producing

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Â�commodities, they are exploited in the same way that “free” wage labor is exploited. Marx identified the commodity labor power as the source of profit in the capitalist economy. The commodity labor power is able to produce more than its own value, or costs of subsistence. The value of labor power (wages) and the commodity value of non-human animals is determined like any other commodity in capitalist society, by the labor time socially necessary for its production—i.e. cost of food and shelter to enable subsistence and reproduction. Only a portion of the working day is taken up producing the value of the commodity labor power. The surplus labor is appropriated by capital as surplus value, (Marx 1977b) and transformed into varying amounts of profit, depending on the organic composition of capital, i.e. how much capital is invested in the constant capital of plant/machinery and the variable capital of wages (Marx 1976). I would argue that the same formula applies to non-human animal slave labor as a source of profit. As commodities animal slave laborers are able to produce more that their value or costs of subsistence. Only a portion of the non-human animal slave’s working day is necessary labor—needed to produce the non-human animals cost of subsistence. Just as the labor expended by the wage laborer beyond necessary labor becomes surplus labor appropriated by the capitalist as surplus value, so too is the remaining surplus labor performed by the non-human animal slave appropriated by the slave owning capitalist as surplus value. Marx’s analysis of the source of profit pierced beneath the apparently mysterious and magical appearances conjured up by capitalist social relations. Even so, Marx provided no account of the animal vanishing trick, indeed he has been one of the tricksters involved in perpetuating that disappearing act. However, both the philosophical underpinnings of Marx’s social theory as well as Marx’s own analysis of the ‘magic’ of modernity can help to account for the invisibility of non-human animals in the Marxist account of the transition to, and subsequent development of, capitalism. The Secrets of the Vanishing Trick Modernity’s Magician—The Humanist Speciesist Humanism, as a philosophy placing human beings center stage in the historical development of culture and civilization, has a long

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Â�history in Western society, and was a formative and abiding influence on Marx’s work. In Marx’s social theory humans were the heroes of history because of their species being. Marx posited a species dualism between humans and other animals, a dualism that has been discussed in some detail by Ted Benton (1988; 1993). In his early works, such as the 1844 Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts, Marx (1975) portrayed non-human animals as being characterized by fixity: their way of existing in the world being relatively unchanging. His view was that where non-human animals act upon nature, they do so to meet their own needs and the needs of their offspring. However Marx argued that humans are able to produce in accordance with the needs of their own species, and, in accordance with the standard of every other species. Marx portrayed humans as freely and self-consciously interacting with nature. Pointing to the socially coordinated interaction with nature adopted by humans, he observed that forms of human social coordination are subject to historical change. Ethological studies however have demonstrated the complexity of the social life of other species and the diverse ways in which they too interact with and adapt to their environments. Many non-human animal species have developmental and learning potentials, collective powers and collective potentials. There is also evidence of the cultural transmission of learned skills amongst non-human animals (Benton 1993). I agree with Benton that Marx was wrong about animals. But I also think that his wrongness, combined with his enormous influence on forms of critical thinking and political engagement, has contributed to animals being ‘hidden from history’ and theory making, much like women were until recent times. Whilst not necessarily in circumstances of their own choosing, for Marx it is human beings who make history. With a view of history as the history of class struggles, The Communist Manifesto (Marx & Engels 1977) gives a history of class society since the Middle Ages, including the movement from feudalism to capitalism. The conflicting classes that include lord and serf, bourgeois and proletarians and free men and slaves are socioeconomic classes made up of humans. The serf, slave and proletarian underdogs are always humans in drag. I would also argue that the humanist philosophical framing of Marx’s concepts of estrangement and alienation contributed to the vanishing trick. Benton (1988; 1993) refers to the way in which the humanist philosophical framing of those concepts in Marx’s work

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involves a fundamental opposition between animal and human nature: … the estrangement of labor reduces human life to the condition appropriate to non-human animals and, within human life, inverts the relation between the human and the animal (Benton 1993, 25).

Marx saw estranged or alienated labor as reducing humans to the level of animals, driving them to seek satisfaction in the instinctive, biological drives and functions such as eating, procreating and sleeping shared by all animal species. Moreover, Benton points out that Marx’s humanism and species dualism prevented him from seeing how alienation was applicable to non-human animals as well as human ones. As Benton observes, the “... philosophical framing of Marx’s concept of estrangement renders the extension of that analysis beyond the human case as literally unthinkable. This form of humanism conceptualizes the needs of animals as instinctual and fixed in a way that simply leaves no room for a morally significant difference to emerge between mere existence and thriving, or living well...” (1993, 59). We should not then be surprised that the role of non-human animals as slaves and exploited proletarians do not figure in the Marxist account of the transition to and development of capitalism. Nor is it a matter that Benton includes in his attempt to excavate the progressive potential of Marx’s social theory for nonhuman animals. One of the significant social evils of modernity—the slavery and alienation of non-human animals, treated as mere meansends objects,—remains opaque. Magic, Miracle Machines and Modernity Marxist social theory does however offer an analysis of the opaque, illusory, magical qualities of social relationships in modernity. The analysis of commodity fetishism and reification provide a penetrating and searing critique of the mystification of the commodity form as a form of modern magic. In capitalist society the value of a commodity is regarded as being intrinsic to the commodity, rather than a reflection of the amount of social labor embedded in it. At the same time, social relations between individuals are experienced as material relationships between things. The human quality of individuals is lost, and social relationships appear as an endless circulation of commodity ‘things’. The overall effect of the endless circulation of commodities and the apparent dominance of exchange in capitalist

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society is that commodities appear to be independent of social relationships. Exchange conceals the social relations involved. Marx’s analysis of the wage form illustrates this well: The exchange of wages is seen as an exchange of things rather than an exploitative social relationship between a class of capitalists and a class of proletarians. In capitalist society non-human animals, bought and sold as commodities, and the commodities that are extracted from them, are subject to the same process of reification that Marx demystified in his analysis of the wage form and the workings of the capitalist economy. Reification conceals the social relationships that construct animals as property. Marx was well aware that property is not a ‘thing’ but a social relationship. In The German Ideology for example Marx discusses ownership in terms of the way in which social relationships are organized in and through the division of labor in society. Marx perceives ownership as “... the relations of individuals to one another with reference to the material, instrument, and product of labor” (my emphasis) (1977, 161). This definition is very broad indeed. Material, instruments and products of labor have varied over time and geographically. Beasts, birds, and reptiles would not have been considered property by Neolithic or forager peoples. Nor would the sky, sea or land. Before the development of agriculture, humans did not perceive non-human animals and the natural world in which they were embedded as ‘things’. Anthropologists and historians have documented and describe how humans in non-agricultural and pre-industrial societies perceive animals and nature as sentient, intelligent, and endowed with soul or spirit (Ingold 2000, chap 7; Mason 2005, chap 2). There is nothing intrinsic or preordained that makes beasts, birds, reptiles, the sky, sea, or land property ‘things’. They only become property ‘things’ within specific social and historical contexts. Contemporary legal scholars such as Francione (1995) have detailed some of the consequences of the property status of non-human animals. However Marx never questioned their property status. He saw non-human animals as part of the forces and means of production, along with land and machinery. As part of the means of production and instruments of labor, Marx’s mules became tools. The view of animals as tools and machines has a long history. Prefiguring the reified ‘thing’ like nature of non-human animals in modern industrial capitalism for example, in the 17th, Descartes proclaimed that as machines or automata or clocks, animals were capable of complex behavior, but incapable of reason, speech or sensation.

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His supporters went even further; asserting that animals didn’t feel pain, and likened the cry of a beaten dog to the sound of an inanimate machine such as an organ when being played (Thomas 1983). Three centuries later, in her book Animal Machines (1964), Ruth Harrison described the way in which industrial factory farming had turned non-human animals into machines for the production of profit. In an unholy alliance between science, technology and the pursuit of profit, beasts and birds have been magically transformed into miraculous machines. As one of the many wicked wonders of modernity, these miraculous machines are sacrificed for the multitudes. For the animals concerned at ‘the gates of hell’ (Schnurer 2004), it is the devil’s miracle. Conclusion In this chapter I have been addressing a longstanding lacuna within historical sociology and the Marxist understanding of the transition to and subsequent development of capitalism: the role of non-human animals in the makings of modern capitalism. I have argued that the labor of billions of non-human animals has been embedded in different phases of capitalist development i.e. the process of ‘primitive accumulation’ and the development of agrarian and industrial capitalism. Speciesist social relations, with an ancient history that long predates capitalism have rendered non-human animals the property of humans. As chattel property, non-human animals have been the slaves of humans. Marx identified an exploited class of formally ‘free’ wage labor as the basis of capitalism. However, the existence of an enormous class of non-human animal slave laborers in capitalist society demonstrates that Marx underestimated the extent and continuing contribution of forms of unfree labor to the workings of the capitalist economy. Marx clearly recognized the contribution of slave labor in the development of capitalism in both England and America. Marx’s focus however was on the contribution of human slavery to the capitalist economy. He gave no consideration whatsoever to the contribution of non-human animal slavery in the creation of capitalism in England or her colonies. Slavery has not declined or disappeared in capitalist society. Indeed the enslavement of billions of non-human animals combined with millions of human slaves across the globe demonstrates that

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slave labor has actually increased. Non-human animal slavery has been, and remains, embedded in the workings of the capitalist economy from family farm and small business, through to large national and giant multinational corporations. In this essay I have been concerned with ways in which speciesist social relations have constructed non-human animals as the property of humans, just as human slaves have been regarded as the property of slave owners. I have argued that capitalism has been constructed in and through speciesist social relations, and it has perpetuated those speciesist social relationships. Many Marxist contributors to the ‘transition debate’ see changing social relationships within the feudal mode of production as bringing about the breakdown of that society and the development of capitalism. In this vein, I would argue speciesist social relationships, in the form of non-human animal slavery and serfdom, embedded within feudal England were constitutive of the transition to and development of capitalism. I would argue that just as feudalism and speciesism were symbiotic parts of a single process, capitalism and speciesism have become symbiotic parts of a single process. The Marxist myopia with respect to the recognition of the contribution of the unfree labor of non-human animals to capitalist society owes much to the foundational role that speciesist humanism has played in Marxist thought. Relatedly, it also derives from the fact that Marxist thought has been hoist by its own petard, failing to extend the analysis of commodity fetishism and reification to non-human animals. Concerned only with the human underdog in history, and, ironically, seduced by the very forms of appearance of modern society that Marx demystified, the Marxist analysis has stopped short of including non-human animals in its piercing and passionate critique of class society. From the Marxist perspective, relationships of ownership and non-ownership of the means of production determine class position. The basic Marxist division is between the owners of property and those who are property-less. In capitalist society this translates into a basic division between the capitalist class and an exploited proletariat. Applying this basic analytical division to nonhuman animals we can see that billions of them—certainly those incarcerated in factory farms, in the vivisection industry, and others used as spectacle, sport and entertainment—are slave laborers. Unless we fall into the trap of regarding them as ‘things’ and ‘instruments of production’, we can see that billions of non-human animals in

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Â�capitalist societies are separated from their means of subsistence and are, as slave laborers, exploited proletarians. An objection may be raised however that non-human animals cannot be included in the class of proletarians because they cannot move from being objectively a class ‘in itself’, to a class ‘for itself’: Of course non-human animals will not become ‘class conscious’ and ready and able to pursue their own interests in the sense of being politically mobilized. However, to argue that this therefore means that non-human animals cannot be included in the class of proletarians is speciesist. Privileging some of the species capacities of humans, it also contributes to the opacity of non-human animal suffering. The animals concerned no doubt want their suffering to stop, and they certainly adopt forms of behavior to that end, including aggression and, sometimes, successful escape attempts. Whilst the abolition of human slavery depended significantly on the moral consciences and political consciousness of those who were not enslaved, it was a coalition of different class forces and interests that ensured its abolition. Even though racism and competing class interests also acted as divisive forces in the move to abolish human slavery, the goal of legislative abolition was eventually achieved. While speciesism, reification and pecuniary advantage currently serve to conceal the common interests of humans and other animals exploited and oppressed in contemporary capitalism, the growing size and strength of the animal welfare, rights and liberation movement is one that cuts across lines of class cleavage. The legislative abolition of non-human animal slavery may yet be a long way off, and the state is, I would argue, as much a committee of the ruling species as it is, as Marx argued, a committee of the ruling classes. Even so, abolition has become part of animal rights and animal liberation discourse. For animals condemned by social evil to a nightmare existence amongst the wretched of the earth, abolition needs to become more than a utopian dream—for all earthlings. References Benton, T. 1993. Natural Relations: Ecology, Animal Rights & Social Justice. London: Verso. Benton, T. 1988. “Humanism = Speciesism.” Radical Philosophy 50: 4-18. Blackburn, R. 1977. The Making of New World Slavery: From the Baroque to the Modern, 1492-180. London Verso.

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Brenner, R. 1982. “The Agrarian Roots of European Capitalism.” Past and Present 97: 20-97. Brenner, R. 1977. “The Origins of Capitalist Development: A Critique of NeoSmithian Marxism.” New Left Review 104. Brenner, R. 1976. “Agrarian Class Structure and Economic Development in Preindustrial Europe’ Past and Present 70: 30-75. Bostock, S.C. 1993. Zoos and Animal Rights. London: Routledge. Clutton-Brock, J. 1988. The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation. London: Unwin Hyman. Dobb, M. 1963. Studies in the Development of Capitalism. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Dunayer, J. 2004. Speciesism. Derwood: Ryce Publishing. Durkheim, E. 1960. The Division of Labor in Society. Glencoe: Free Press. Francione, G. 1995. Animals, Property, and the Law. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Franklin, A. 1999. Animals and Modern Cultures: A Sociology of Human-Animal Relations in Modernity. London: Sage. Genovese, E. 1973. The Slave Economies, Volume I & II. New York: John Wiley & Sons, Inc. Hamilton, R. 1978. The Liberation of Women: A Study of Patriarchy and Capitalism. London: George Allen & Unwin. Harrison, R. 1964. Animal Machines: The New Factory Farming Industry. London: Stuart. Hilton, R. 1969. The Decline of Serfdom in Medieval England. London: Macmillan. Hilton, R. 1977. Bond Men Made Free, Medieval Peasant Movements and the English Rising of 1381. London: Methuen. Hilton, R. 1978. The Transition from Feudalism to Capitalism. London: Verso. Ingold, T. 2000. The Perception of the Environment; Essays in Livelihood, Dwelling and Skill, London: Routledge. Kalof, L. 2007a. A Cultural History of Animals in Antiquity. Oxford: Berg. Kalof, L. 2007b. Looking at Animals in Human History. London: Reaktion. Marx, K. 1978. Capital, Volume Two. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Marx, K. 1977a. “The Poverty of Philosophy.” In Karl Marx: Selected Writings, edited by D. McLellan, 195-215. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marx, K. 1977b. “Wage-Labor and Capital.” In Karl Marx: Selected Writings, edited by D. McLellan, 248-268. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marx, K. 1977c. “The German Ideology.” In Karl Marx: Selected Writings, edited by D. McLellan, 159-191. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Marx, K. 1976. Capital, Volume One. London: Penguin. Marx, K. 1975. “Economic and Philosophical Manuscripts (1844).” In Karl Marx: Early Writings, Introduced by Lucio Colletti, 279-400. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Marx, K. 1974. Capital, Volume Three. London: Lawrence and Wishart. Marx, K. 1973. Grundrisse. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Marx, K. 1971. Theories of Surplus Value. Moscow: Progress Publishers. Marx, K. and F. Engels. 1977. “The Communist Manifesto.” In Karl Marx: Selected Writings, edited by David McLellan, 221-247. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Mason, J. 2005. An Unnatural Order: The Roots of Our Destruction of Nature . New York: Lantern Books. Mason, J. and P. Singer. 1990. Animal Factories. New York:.Harmony Books. Murray, M. 1995. The Law of the Father? Patriarchy in the Transition from Feudalism Capitalism. London and New York: Routledge..

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Patterson, C. 2002. Eternal Treblinka: Our Treatment of Animals and The Holocaust. New York: Lantern Books. Peltret, D. 1995. Slavery in Early Medieval England. New York: Boydell Press. PETA “Are Animals The New Slaves?” Accessed 24 Jan. 2009. http://www.peta.org/ MC/NewsItem.asp?id=6718. Postan, M. 1975. The Medieval Economy and Society. Harmondworth: Pelican. Postan, M. 1973. Essays on Medieval Agriculture. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Postan, M. 1966. “England.” In Cambridge Economic History of Europe, Vol. I, edited by M. Postan, 549-632. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Postan, M. 1950. “Some Economic Evidence of Declining Population in the late Middle Ages.” Economic History Review 3. Resl, B. 2007. A Cultural History of Animals in the Medieval Age. Oxford: Berg. Salisbury, J.E. 1994. The Beast Within: Animals in the Middle Ages. London: Routledge. Schnurer, M. 2004. “At the Gates of Hell: The ALF and the Legacy of Holocaust Resistance.” In Terrorists or Freedom Fighters? Reflections on the Liberation of Animals, edited by S. Best and Anthony Nocella, 107-127. New York: Lantern Books. Singer, P. 1995. Animal Liberation. London: Pimlico. Spiegel, M. 1996. The Dreaded Comparison: Human and Animal Slavery. New York: Mirror Books. Sweezey, P. 1950. “The Transition from Feudalism to Capitalism.” Science and Society 14(2): 134-57. Thomas, K. 1983. Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England 15001800. London: Allen Lane. Wallerstein, I. 1980. The Modern World System. New York: Academic Press. Wallerstein, I. 1976. “From Feudalism to Capitalism.” Social Forces, 55(2): 273-283. Watts, M. 2000. “Afterword: Enclosure.” In Animal Space, Beastly Places: New Geographies of Human-Animal Relations, edited by C. Philo and C. Wilbert, 292304. London: Routledge. Weber, M. 1930. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. London: Allen & Unwin. Williams, E. 1964. Capitalism and Slavery. London: Andre Deutsch.

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Chapter Four

Dangerous Dogs And The Construction Of Risk Claire Molloy Introduction In the last decade of the twentieth century widespread anxieties about the risks associated with ‘dangerous dogs’ were addressed through legislative change in the UK. The introduction of canine breed specific legislation (BSL) in the form of the Dangerous Dogs Act 1991 was designed to completely eradicate certain types of dog, particularly those identified as ‘pit bulls’. The processes that led to legislative intervention raised questions about the role of dogs in urban spaces and the social identities of dog owners, as well as asking who should take responsibility for the regulation and management of human/ companion animal relationships. The situation was complicated by the production of knowledge about dangerous dogs from competing authorities and problems with the identification and classification of canines as ‘breeds’ or ‘types’. Heightened public anxieties about canine-associated risks were reported in the popular press along with calls for immediate government action as debates about dangerous dogs became intrinsically linked to discourses of antisocial behaviour, masculinity, violence, the erosion of national identity, social responsibility and drug culture. Despite ongoing criticisms that the 1991 Act did not address the problem of dangerous dogs in the UK, the legislation has provided a regulatory model that has been adopted across parts of North America and Western Europe, and in Australia and China. The spread of breed specific legislation suggests that the discursive construction of dogs as risks remains meaningful across national and cultural boundaries. Canine ‘risk’ may have a global character but there are important differences in the ways in which the production of knowledge about dangerous dogs and the associated discourses of risk have been handled, mediated and produced at a national level.

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Following other studies which address the global/local nature of risk (Caplan 2000; Tulloch & Lupton 2003), this chapter is concerned with the specific social and cultural conditions and frameworks of understanding that gave rise to the emergence of dogs as risks in the UK. Informed by a social constructionist position which acknowledges the global character of risk, here discourses of dangerous dogs are considered as mediated, contextual and historically situated. Rather than adopting the view that risk is democratically shared, this approach accepts that risks are culturally perceived and socially constructed and that risk is unevenly distributed across a society (Lupton 1999). By taking this position and combining risk theory with the concept of moral panics this chapter examines how the issue of dangerous dogs led to a reevaluation of human/companion animal relationships in the UK with newly articulated divisions between an idealised moral majority of ‘good dogs and owners’ and a deviant subset of ‘bad dogs and owners’. Using television and newspaper reports and transcripts of parliamentary debates I examine the frameworks that have tied discourses of dangerous dogs and pet-keeping to the dissolution of social structures in the UK. I explore how the disruptions to social hierarchies, characteristic of reflexive modernity, and the perceived threats posed by dogs were part of a wider process of risk management that used media images to organise public understanding. From a range of national and regional media sources I then examine the uses and appropriations of images of ‘dangerous dogs’ and the consequent redefinitions of certain canines as risks and ‘abject’. Risk The concepts of risk and risk society provide a particularly useful theoretical and critical standpoint from which to discuss the discourse of dangerous dogs and the implementation of breed specific legislation in the UK. Risk, in a more general sense, has been theorized from a range of sociocultural perspectives to provide insights into governmental strategies of regulation, critiques of modernity from the vantage point of reflexive modernity (Beck 1992) and, understanding of the cultural investments in symbolic boundaries (Douglas 1966). Each of these aspects of risk theorization offer valuable routes to consider questions around the production of lay and

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expert knowledges about dogs, the regulation and management of human/canine relationships and practices, and the symbolic use and exploitation of dogs to negotiate or affirm social hierarchies and cultural norms. Drawing on each of these approaches it is possible to consider discourses of dangerous dogs and legislative intervention as part of a broader strategy of risk management that is characteristic of late modernity and to relate such strategies to the symbolic and material conditions of everyday life. Risk theorization in this sense offers a framework for a critique of dangerous dogs that connects the discursive management of dogs as ‘risks’ with the material consequences for the lives and treatment of nonhuman animals. Since the English translation of Ulrich Beck’s book Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity in 1992, the notion of the risk society has been widely used by scholars to frame important studies of, amongst others, environmental pollution, food scares and genetic modification.1 These enquiries share a common theme in their examination of the risks or ‘side effects’ that have been produced by human attempts to control nature in modernity. As Beck argues, the notion of world risk society “is pertinent to a world which can be characterized by the loss of a clear distinction between nature and culture. […] Whether we think of the ozone hole, pollution or food scares, nature is inescapably contaminated by human activity” (2000, 221). To critique human/canine relationships within this framework then it is necessary to understand pet-keeping practices as part of the social control of nature and as emerging from the “loss of boundaries” between the realms of nature and culture (2000, 221). In common with most domesticated animals, dogs have been selectively bred for the benefit of humans and as Yi-Fu Tuan proposes, “Domestication means domination: the two words have the same root sense of mastery over another being- of bringing it into one’s house or domain” (2007, 143). In short, nowhere is the line between nature and culture more blurred than within pet-keeping practices where nonhuman animals are brought into the domestic sphere and produced, managed, regulated and trained to adhere to human social patterns, norms, needs and desires. To apply ideas of ‘risk’ to pet-keeping practices in the UK it is also necessary to pay particular attention to specific historical conditions 1

╇See for example, Caplan, 2000; Tulloch and Lupton, 2003 and Adam et al, 2000.

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and social and cultural frameworks. This suggests a divergence in thinking from some perspectives on risk as risk society is a global phenomenon that has a certain democratic logic to it. The argument in this context would follow that risks, such as environmental pollution, ignore the constructed boundaries between nations, cultures and classes and risk is conceptualised as something which affects everyone irrespective of social or geographic location. But it is also the case that risk is mediated, knowledges of risks are produced locally, risks are understood differently at different moments and as Beck points out “it is cultural perception and definition that constitutes risk” (2000, 213). Public awareness of risk is therefore locally constituted and culturally and historically situated. Risks are not consistently perceived as such by a nation and studies have shown that anxieties about medical, lifestyle and environmental risks move in and out of the public arena and public consciousness at different times (Lupton 1999). This shift in the foregrounding of different risks can be understood through the symbolic dimension wherein risk is deployed in the service of establishing or stabilizing a culture in response to behaviours that threaten to undermine certain boundaries or norms. In these situations risks can be understood as “a means of maintaining the moral and social order, a way of dealing with ‘polluting people’ who are culturally positioned as on the margins of society” (Lupton 1999, 49). This perspective on risk offers an important way of examining how the construction of certain types of dogs and dog owners as risks was linked to concerns about the dissolution of social hierarchies, threats to national identity and debates about masculinity, violence and drug culture specific to Britain in the latter part of the twentieth century. In this sense, understanding dogs as risks is part of the symbolic exploitation of nonhuman animals as metaphors for other social anxieties. Risk and Moral Panics Public anxieties about dogs have been exacerbated by the production of multiple and competing forms of knowledge; a characteristic of the era of risk and uncertainty that Ulrich Beck refers to as reflexive modernity. According to Beck (1992) particular conditions of change in the late twentieth century mark a transition into reflexive modernity and the emergence of a risk society. Reflexive modernity is signaled by a transformation from industrial modernization to a

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confrontation with the effects of modernization. In other words, modernity has produced side effects or threats that traditional institutions are unable to deal with thereby giving rise to public insecurities and anxieties. One outcome of the transition into a risk society is that the public become distrustful of authoritative institutions. This distrust occurs because risks are objects of competing discourses; they are constructed variously through the media and other disparate disciplines of scientific, anti-scientific, and pseudo-scientific knowledge (Beck 1992). Within risk society Beck points out that the mass media, along with the scientific and legal professions, occupy the key social and political positions in defining risks (1992, 23). For this reason attention has been given to the risk thesis in recent analyses of media and moral panics. As some studies have noted, the synthesis of risk theory with moral panic models and discourse analysis can highlight important social and cultural processes involved in the production of knowledge about risks (Thompson 1998; Critcher 2003). Philip Jenkins contends that studies of moral panics are useful because the moral panic “illuminates the values, fears, and conflicts of the community, which apparently needs to imagine such an external threat” (1992, 9). Jenkins argues that Britain has been particularly prone to moral panics since the 1970s and that the demonization of particular groups or activities has tended to mobilize around threats to children. He calls this the “politics of substitution” and argues that “Adding children to the picture made it impossible to claim that actions were “moral,” “victimless,” or “consensual” offenses” (1992, 10). Jenkins observations are significant for a study of the dangerous dogs debate as the majority of media reports and the focus of governmental discourse in the late 1980s centred on pit bull attacks on children. By articulating the risk of dogs as one that predominantly threatened children the rhetoric of dangerous dogs simultaneously claimed that ownership of a pit bull was morally indefensible. And, although Jenkins does not suggest that moral panics are solely defined and sustained by the mass media the importance of the popular media in the construction of both risk discourses and moral panics is stressed elsewhere. Kenneth Thompson (1998) has drawn attention to the key role played by the mass media in the spread of moral panics in Britain and in relation to what he refers to as “the politics of anxiety in the ‘risk society’” (1998, 16). Chas Critcher develops Thompson’s ideas to argue that moral panics can be considered as discourses of risk

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which are located within institutional contexts such as the mass media and that they, in turn, define the rules for talking about an issue and affect public perceptions of risk (2003, 164-168). In their study of localised risk perception in Britain and Australia Tulloch and Lupton contend that people will use a variety of media forms in attempts to attenuate risk and formulate perceptions, making distinctions between ‘sensationalist mass media’ and other media sources (2003, 74-75). Whilst each study adopts a different position in relation to the extent of influence exerted by the mass media on public perceptions of risk, what remains consistent is that the mass media continue to figure as one of the principle agents involved in the production of knowledge about risk and that they play a central function in the construction of discourses of risk in Britain. Looking to other historical accounts it is apparent that media involvement in the construction of canine-associated threats in Britain is not a new phenomenon. In her discussion of rabies in Victorian Britain, Harriet Rivto has remarked on the significant role of the press in creating public alarm and panic about ‘mad dogs’. Ritvo states that the rhetoric of the newspapers “seemed calculated to inspire or exacerbate fear” that was “grossly disproportionate […] to the number of documented cases” (1987, 171). There are important differences between the nineteenth century panics about dogs and those of the twentieth century though, such as the scale of media involvement in defining the limits of the discourse, the extent of the pressure exerted on key decision makers and the emphasis on children as victims. Nonetheless the twentieth century media involvement in the construction of a discourse of dangerous dogs does bear remarkable similarities with that of the previous century. It is significant then that in both instances fears about domestic dogs have been raised in parallel with concerns about the erosion of social hierarchies and anxieties about the breakdown of social discipline and control in Britain. The detail of these anxieties differs in relation to the social, economic and historical context of the panic but these examples reinforce the well-rehearsed arguments made by Ritvo and others (Baker 2001; Garber 1996; Fudge 2002) that nonhuman animals provide potent and necessary metaphors for human societies and in doing so they make the function of the media in this process of risk management apparent.

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Abjection and a Discourse of Risk The focus on dangerous dogs by the British media in the 1990s can be seen as a development of public and political concerns about canine aggression that had begun in the 1970s. The Alsatian, a breed of dog later renamed the German Shepherd Dog by the Kennel Club, was the subject of a significant number of press reports about attacks by guard dogs early in the decade. Two high profile cases caught the public attention. One involved an attack on a young woman and the second concerned a fatal attack by two guard dogs on a ten-year old boy. The incidents led to calls from Members of Parliament to amend existing legislation to address the threat posed by guard dogs that were left to roam on private property. In response, the introduction of the Guard Dogs Act in 1975 specified that such dogs were to be kept under the control of a capable handler and that warning signs had to be displayed at any premises where a guard dog was present. During coverage of the incidents both tabloid and broadsheet reports focused on the popularity of the Alsatian as a guard dog but concerns over any aggressive tendencies were considered by authorities to arise from an individual dogs training or handling and were not directly attributable to a particular breed. In 1976 at a British Appeal Court hearing to consider the question of liability for a guard dog attack it was agreed by the presiding judges that “Dogs as a species were not likely to bite human beings” and that “a propensity to cause damage [was] not normally found in Alsatians” (The Times, May 29th 1976, p.€16). The introduction of legislation to control guard dogs was used as an opportunity to foreground other canine-related issues that were considered to be problems in towns and cities. At the second reading of the Dogs Bill in 1975 politicians argued that straying, fouling and the potential for dogs to carry and spread disease urgently required some sort of regulation. The same year, a special parliamentary committee was charged with the task of finding a solution to the various risks posed by dogs. The main change suggested was that the cost of the dog licence should be increased from thirty-seven and a half pence. But with resistance to the proposal the licence charge remained the same and, in the absence of any statistical information from government departments to quantify the issue, the media was left to offer estimates of the dog problem. In 1976 dogs were reported by one newspaper to cause around one thousand traffic accidents per year,

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dog bites were estimated at around two thousand per year and the growing numbers of dogs roaming loose and fouling in parks and streets in towns and city were cited as significant health hazards.2 Toxocariasis from contact with canine faeces and rabies figured at the forefront of media and government discourses on dog control in the mid-1970s. The last reported human death from indigenous rabies in Britain had occurred over seventy years earlier but press reports about the spread of the disease across Europe raised concerns that the large stray dog population would compromise disease control efforts should rabies make its way onto British soil. One popular press report in 1975 stated that rabies “is currently advancing towards the English Channel at a rate of thirty-five miles each year” […] “And now only the slim strip of the English Channel separates it from our shore” (Daily Mirror, 24th September 1975, p. 5). Echoing the earlier nineteenth century treatment of the subject by the press, the rhetoric of rabies characterised the disease as “one of the most horrific diseases known to man” and in another article warned that “Britain’s devoted dog lovers don’t realize the dangers they face from their pets” (Daily Mirror, 24th September 1975, p. 5; Daily Mirror, 29th June 1974, p.€3). The rabies discourse concentrated on two main agents of risk; dogs that would harbour and transmit the disease, and Europe which was reported as being unable to stem the spread of the disease. Plans for the Channel Tunnel which would connect Britain to France exacerbated public anxieties about a rabies epidemic and expert opinion from the British Veterinary Association did little to appease public fears. Their warnings about the risk of a possible rabies outbreak caused by infected animals making their way through the Channel Tunnel from France seemed to justify public apprehension about the creation of a physical connection with Europe. With Britain’s controversial entry in 1973 into the European Union still dividing opinion in the country, the rabies threat from Europe was easily assimilated into wider debates about threats to national identity.3 Government responses to rabies control included The Rabies (Importation of Cats, Dogs and Other Mammals) Order 1974 which required that all mammals being brought into Britain had to have a licence and spend a period of six months in quarantine. The only ╇ Daily Mirror, 5th March 1976, p.€17. ╇See for example, The Times, 30th June 1971, p.€4; The Times, 4th September 1973, p.€5. 2 3

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exceptions under the 1974 Order were farm stock. Herbivores were considered to pose less threat as transmission of the disease was more likely to occur through an infected carnivore and it was generally agreed by expert reports that foxes were considered to be the principal vector animal in Europe (Baer 1991). According to press reports however, the growing numbers of pet dogs allowed to roam freely in urban spaces suggested that domestic canines could pose an even greater hazard as a potential vector animal. With the number of dogs in Britain estimated at around nine million the risk of disease transmission to humans via a stray and free-roaming canine population became a recurrent feature of both political and media discourses. Particularly significant within the media discourse on rabies were the explicit connections made between the disease and ongoing concerns about Alsation attacks. For instance the Daily Mirror newspaper used the same photograph of the head of a snarling Alsation dog to accompany separate articles on guard dogs attacks and the rabies threat.4 The disease was also linked with Alsation attacks in the broadsheets such as The Times which reported, for example, that two guard dogs involved in biting incidents had been shot dead before being tested for rabies as a precautionary measure.5 By the second half of the decade press reports on rabies, toxocariasis and guard dog attacks had amalgamated disease, fouling and aggression into a discernible discourse of risk and these associations constructed the canine body as a site of abjection. One newspaper report went so far as to claim that dogs were “pests that spell dirt, disease and danger” (Daily Mirror, 5th March 1976, p.€17). In this way anxieties about the abject canine body in the 1970s articulated a nascent discourse of risk, predominantly through the media, and located the dog as a growing social problem that required regulation in the form of control, training or destruction. Shifting Constructions of Risk: From Rabies to Dog Fighting The media construction of dogs as risks that emerged over the next decade shifted the focus from rabies to dog fighting following a rapid increase in the number of pit bulls (also known as Pit Bull Terriers) and Rottweilers being imported into, and bred in the UK. The 4 ╇See for example, Daily Mirror, 24th September 1975, pp.€4-5; Daily Mirror, 6th March 1976, p.€17. 5 ╇ The Times, 26th April 1971, front page.

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Â� popularity of these breeds grew at what was considered to be an alarming rate. Speculative estimates placed the UK Rottweiler population at around 180,000 in 1989; a hundred fold increase from around 1,800 in 1979.6 The popular press stressed a causal relationship between the growth in numbers of ‘fighting dogs’ and the increased incidences of dog attacks in the UK. However the Secretary of State for the Home Department confirmed that, “As there is no requirement to report a dog attack, or injuries caused by dog attacks, statistics on them are not collected centrally” (Rumbold 1991). As in the previous decade the ‘risk’ of dog attack was not quantifiable and information about which breeds were involved in biting incidents was unavailable.7 In 1985 the first prosecution of the twentieth century for dog fighting in Britain was widely reported in the news media. The case was brought by the RSPCA following a decade-long investigation into dog fighting across the country and culminated in ten men being prosecuted. Press reports stated that a videotape of a fight between two terriers had been seized during a raid and that the dogs involved had been found injured in a deserted barn. One dog named ‘Kim’ and described in reports as a Staffordshire bull terrier, had to be euthanized due to injuries sustained during the fight. The second dog named ‘Spice’ and described as an English terrier survived (The Times, 1st August 1985, p.€3). Both dogs were named in national press reports and on the day of the prosecution the RSPCA launched a media campaign that used a photograph of Kim with the tagline “Kim’s fight is over, ours goes on” (RSPCA advertisement, August 1985). The 1985 dog fighting prosecution was significant in that it introduced the term ‘fighting dog’ into the discourse of canine risk and situated the RSPCA as a significant voice of authority. Where previously the ‘guard dog’ had been discursively linked with aggression, biting and rabies, after 1985 the ‘fighting dog’ became a key constituent in the lexicon of dog risk. And, in relation to the production of knowledge about dangerous dogs the RSPCA took a principal

6 ╇Source: McAllion, 14.6.89, transcript of parliamentary debate on New Clause 34, column 1063. 7 ╇With a lack of available statistical data, much had to be extrapolated from records held by the Metropolitan Police on reported incidents involving dogs. The Metropolitan Police records did not provide any detail concerning the type of incident or any information on occurrences outside London.

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role by the mid-1980s when canine risk became closely identified with issues of animal welfare and cruelty. The early media discourse on dog fighting oscillated between two positions that located the fighting dog as either a threat to human welfare or a victim, such as in the cases of Spice and Kim. During coverage of the 1985 case images taken from the videotape of the fight were reproduced in news reports as blurred stills of dogs in mid-fight. The other widely circulated images were of another rescued fighting dog named in press reports as ‘Bill’.8 The images of ‘fighting dogs’ that were offered by the media prescribed the limits of representation for such canines. Close-up shots of the snarling head of a dog presented the spectacle of canine aggression in clear detail whilst the technical signifiers of the blurred grainy fighting images maintained connotations with dog fighting as dirty, immoral and deviant behaviour for both the dogs and the people involved. The other images on offer from the 1985 media coverage were those of Spice and Kim with extensive injuries and positioned as victims of dog fighting practices, and the image of Bill, the rescued fighting dog casualty. ‘Fighting dogs’ were located visually in the contexts of either victim or threat but not as companion animal or pet. To further emphasise the nature of the social threat it was noted in media reports that videotapes of dog fighting were a “lucrative source of video nasties” (The Times, 1st August 1985, p.€3) using a term reserved to describe a subgenre of horror films and linking dog fighting with an entirely separate, but ongoing, moral panic. The construction of an explicit relationship between dog fighting and video nasties amplified the social threat of the activity and expressed the abject nature of both by drawing on parallels that operated primarily through a shared discourse of violence and aggression. With the issue of dog fighting firmly on the moral radar, between 1988 and 1991 debates about dogs centred on the key theme of dog registration and the introduction of legislation that would officially link a human owner to a particular dog. In 1988, the Local Government Act removed the dog licence as it was claimed by the Conservative Government that the collection of the thirty-seven and a half pence license fee was no longer economically viable. In 1989 proposals were put forward by Members of Parliament for the establishment of a dog registration bureau with responsibility for the 8

╇See: The Times, 1st August 1985, p.€3; The Mirror, 30th July 1985, p.€5.

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enforcement of regulation resting with district council dog wardens. The identification number of individual dogs would be permanently inscribed on the canine body by tattooing or through the implantation of a microchip under the skin which it was noted, “could be read off like a bar code at the outlet to a supermarket” (Fookes 1989). It was maintained that for legal enforcement to succeed “it is essential to be able to identify a dog permanently, and to link it with its owner” (Fookes 1989). The registration scheme proposed a significant intervention in human/canine relationships that would make pet-keeping a state monitored activity underwritten by a discourse of social responsibility. Dog registration schemes had strong support from the Royal Society of Prevention of Cruelty to Animals (RSPCA), National Canine Defence League (NCDL), British Veterinary Association, the Association of District Councils, National Farmers Union and the Union of Communication Workers as well as cross-party support from members of the Government and the Labour opposition party who claimed that it was a necessary response to meet the public demand for “greater control being exercised over dog owners and their animals” (Cunningham 1989). The scheme aimed to refocus the ‘dog problem’ onto dog owners but the requirement for strategies to manage dog owners through registration were considered by many Members of Parliament, as well as the Kennel Club, to be inappropriate for the whole population. During parliamentary debates on the matter a clear schism began to emerge that aligned dog problems with certain social groups and linked social identity to particular types or breeds of dog. In opposition to the registration scheme it was argued, for example, that guide dog owners’ dogs “do not savage people in public parks and […] do not foul public places” whilst pensioners keep “house dogs [that] are usually tiny and do not cause the majority of problems” (Cunningham 1989). The creation of a moral dividing line between good and bad dog owners emerged from the discourse of dog risk but this was far from unproblematic. The concept of linking a dog and an owner through a registration scheme brought to the fore debates about which social groups owned particular breeds of dog. One authority within this debate was the Kennel Club, the institution responsible for the system that registers pedigree dogs and holds records of the lineage of each registered dog in the form of a pedigree. As the major representative for the community of pedigree dogs owners the Kennel Club

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made a clear distinction between the ‘pit bull’ and other dogs that were recognised as ‘breeds’, particularly the Dobermann, the Rottweiler and the German Shepherd which had also been identified as ‘dangerous dogs’. The recognised breeds had institutional support from the Kennel Club which backed proposals for pit bulls to be euthanized and having no place in society. Dobermann, Rottweiler and German Shepherd breeds maintained associations with the upper middle classes; a relationship that was clearly emphasised by The Home Secretary responsible for the introduction of the 1991 Dangerous Dogs Act who wrote: “There was a danger of over-reaction, with demands to have all dogs muzzled and to put Rottweilers, Dobermans and Alsations in the same category as pit bulls. This would have infuriated the ‘green welly’ brigade” (Baker 1993). The ‘green welly brigade’ referred to the upper middle classes who took part in particular countryside activities and pursuits such as shooting and hunting. In this sense, social identity, economic status, leisure pursuits and activities, and dog ownership were intrinsically linked. Pit bull owners were identified as a disenfranchised social group that existed apart from a larger set of socially responsible ‘dog owners’ and pit bulls were a type of dog that lacked legitimate status as a recognised ‘breed’. With arguments that confirmed a relationship between violent humans and aggressive dogs gathering momentum by the late 1980s, the pit bull was centralised as the principal signifier of risk within the dangerous dogs discourse. Prosecutions for dog fighting following the 1985 case signaled a discernible shift in the media discourse on dog risk as pit bulls and pit bull owners began to figure prominently in media stories on a range of issues linked to social and economic crises in Britain. The country went into economic recession from the late 1980s until 1993 with unemployment figures in 1986 at the highest levels in post-war history, house possessions reaching a new recorded high, and reported increases in violent crime and drug culture. High profile media campaigns by the RSPCA during this time also presented new statistical evidence which suggested that animal cruelty in Britain had reached record levels. Dog fighting, anti-social behaviour and Â�masculinised violence became clearly associated in press reports with repeated links to the status of pit bull owners as unemployed or involved in some aspect of drug culture or violent crime. Many reports on drug raids stated that the dealers owned pit bulls terriers, in others pit bull owners were often described as “brutes” and “Â�brutal”

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and pit bull owners with previous convictions, particularly for violent crime, would attract considerable press attention.9 The dominant construction of a relationship between socially marginalised males and pit bull ownership was clearly articulated in one report which stated “The pit bull is often a favourite of social inadequates to show how macho they are” (Daily Mirror, 14th May 1991, p.€6). The media discourse on masculinity and pit bull ownership was also echoed within parliamentary debates which highlighted the link between violence and pit bull aggression. For instance, one Member of Parliament argued: Sadly, violence in society today is commonplace. The aggressive behaviour of certain individuals is increasing and is being reflected in the behaviour of some irresponsible dog owners. […] Clearly, violence on the part of dog owners is likely to encourage similar behaviour in their dogs (Amess 1990).

And another stated: In recent years however, a certain culture has emerged, and people now keep particular types of dog for particular purposes. For example, someone may keep a dog with the intention of training it for dog fighting. No one is more filthy and despicable than the scum who get hold of dogs of whatever breed and train them in the most foul and abominable ways in which to kill each other. There are also people who think that it is clever and macho to have a large breed at their heel. They think it enhances their image and makes them appear great men- powerful and intimidating (Bowden 1991).

The relationship between human violence and dog aggression emphasised the boundaries of pet-keeping practice in which similarities between dog and owner were configured within moralised codes of social behaviour. The discourse on pet-keeping practices within marginalised social groups, particularly young unemployed males, made claims about the relationship between canine breed-specific characteristics and human social identity. Dominant discourses centralised the pit bull terrier as an aberrant canine breed, uncontrollable and synonymous with tenacious aggression. Pit bull owners were similarly constructed as social deviants with violent tendencies suggesting shared characteristics between human and canine. In this sense, a 9 ╇See for example: Daily Mirror, 26th March 1990, p.€9; Daily Mirror, 10th August 1987, p.€9; Daily Mirror, 14th May 1991, p.€6; Daily Mirror, 10th May 1990, p.€16.

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moral panic about the risks posed by fighting dogs and their owners was able to focus public anxieties about social deviance, drug taking, violence, animal cruelty and the collapse of social responsibility onto an imagined community of dog owners. Authority and Pit Bull Identities The stereotype of the pit bull and the pit bull owner gained credibility through the discourse of dangerous dogs with owners described as “usually sporting tattoos and earrings whilst extolling the allegedly gentle nature of their dogs, whose names were invariably Tyson, Gripper, Killer or Sykes” (Baker 1993). Within this discursive formation, social identity and exclusion was inscribed on the pit bull owners’ bodies through forms of modification such as tattoos and piercings. The outcomes of naming practices—‘Tyson’, ‘Gripper’, ‘Killer’, ‘Sykes’—operated as signifiers that reinforced dominant discourses of anti-social identity. Drawing attention to the naming conventions of the pit bull within the mass media further highlighted differences between anti-social dogs and owners, and respectable owners of companion nonhuman animals. Through the practices of naming their dogs pit bull owners confirmed their and the dogs’ identifications with violence and aggression. This association was compounded by the status of the pit bull as an American dog; a point which drew on potent analogies between breed-specific legislation and firearms control with comparisons being made between ‘American Pit Bull Terriers’ and ‘loaded guns’. 10 The relationship between a cinematic vision of violent, gun-toting America and the pit bull terrier provided a compelling distinction between dangerous ‘foreign’ dogs and ‘traditional British’ breeds. The link between ‘nation’ and aggression that mobilized around the differences between ‘foreign’ dogs and ‘British’ dogs symbolically reaffirmed anxieties about the erosion of British national identity. Ongoing concerns about the ‘Americanisation’ of British culture were present in debates about pit bulls where cultural difference was articulated. For instance, one MP argued: I do not believe that a Jack Russell is capable of bringing down a horse and killing it but an American pit bull terrier is. Is the Minister seriously arguing that the American pit bull terrier is not a qualitatively 10

╇See for example Commons Hansard, 15th June 1989, 1189-1190.

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chapter four more dangerous and different type of dog from the dogs we traditionally have in this country? (McAllion 1989).

Public understanding of the pit bull was assimilated into anxieties about national identity and the negative connotations did little to secure social credibility for pit bull owners. With few opportunities to counter the dominant discourses, the associations with anti-social behaviour and violent practices further diminished pit bull owners’ claims to any authoritative status. Concerned with the distribution of power and meaning within society Dick Hebdige has remarked that “Some groups have more say, more opportunity to make the rules, to organize meaning, while others are less favourably placed, have less power to produce and impose their definitions of the world on the world” (1979, 204). Pit bull owners were excluded from authoritative participation in the organisation of meaning within the mainstream media. Instead, resistance to the dominant discourse of pit bulls took place in marginal and disparate areas of the media, such as special interest petkeeping magazines and videos produced by the ‘pit bull lobby’; a group that represented the interests of pit bull owners. A range of counter-strategies emerged within these media forms which included written accounts of being a pit bull from the dogs’ viewpoint, narratives of family life with a pit bull that highlighted the caring, nurturing aspect of individual dogs, and the production of images of pit bulls as pets. Significantly, many of these accounts and images emphasised the importance of gendered naming practices to locate pit bulls as victims of both breed specific legislation and the mainstream media discourse on dangerous dogs. Common names for pit bulls within the counter-discourse included ‘Becky’, ‘Cassie’, ‘Sophie’ and ‘Stella’ and this was an important aspect of the challenge to renegotiate pit bull identity.11 In contrast to the naming conventions highlighted elsewhere- ‘Tyson’, ‘Gripper’, ‘Killer’ and ‘Sykes’- the ‘pro-pit bull’ discourse attempted to re-write the identity of the pit bull through recourse to social inscriptions of the gendered body. In this way the feminisation of the pit-bull attempted to reinscribe the canine body as gentle, loving and socially unproblematic.

11 ╇ I refer to these practices as part of a counter-discourse as resistance to the 1991 legislation did eventually move into mainstream media with support of organisations such as Pro-Dogs.

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Breed Specific Legislation Within a moral panic extant analyses have shown that there is usually a key event that shifts the panic to the status of a crisis. The media take a key role in agenda setting and media reports are vital in the elevation of an event into a crisis whereby “the crisis formulation quickly establishes the reality of the ‘problem’ so that particular ‘immediate’ solutions can be called for and effected (Ericson in Critcher 2003). For an event to become amplified in this way a discourse of crisis must already be in circulation that the key event then subsequently appears to validate. Chas Critcher argues “In each case study, we find the death of children or young people to be a powerful signifier of crisis” (2003, 140). In the case of the dangerous dogs discourse, the key event that forced the Government to take action was an attack by a dog, reported to be a pit bull, on a child in May 1991. An initial report in the Bradford Telegraph and Argos newspaper about an attack by a pit bull on a six year old girl was picked up and widely reported across the national press. Newspapers and television news programmes used a colour photograph of the child’s face and upper body following the attack. The image showed, in graphic detail, the six-year old severely wounded and partially bandaged in a hospital bed and it was reported that she had sustained thirty-one bites to her back and chest. In the week following the attack on Rucksana Khan, the national media and MP’s began to put pressure on the Conservative Government to introduce legislation to control dogs, resulting in the House of Commons Dangerous Dogs debate on the 23rd May 1991. The Conservative Government was under increased public pressure to act after the incident and MP’s argued that media interest in the attack was forcing an urgent response to the issue of vicious dogs. In the opening speech on the Commons debate on the 23rd May, one MP pointed out that, “The debate stems basically from pressure generated outside because of a series of attacks by dogs, culminating in the saddest attack of all- that on Rucksana Khan, which has received much publicity” (Cryer 1991). During the parliamentary debate media reports about thirteen different dog attacks between January and May 1991 were cited. The high levels of public anxiety about dangerous dogs being out of control in public places was reflected in opinion polls carried out four days after the national coverage of the Rucksana Khan incident. Summarising the polls, MP Angela Rumbold stated:

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chapter four On two points the general public were unanimous. The first was the widespread desire for the new general criminal offence […] The second was the universal public dislike of dogs such as the pit bull terrier which represent such a danger to small children such as Rucksana Khan (1991, 1068).

The Dangerous Dogs Act 1991, implemented in November 1991, was a form of breed specific legislation that regulated, through the mechanisms of registration, tattooing, de-sexing and destruction, the breeding and ownership of dogs bred for the purposes of fighting and imposed restrictions on other types of dogs that could be considered a danger to public safety. Four types of dogs were prohibited by the 1991 Act; the pit bull, Japanese Tosa, Fila Brasiliero and Dogo Argentino. The Act made it a criminal offence to own, breed, sell or exchange such dogs. However with no Fila Brasiliero or Dogo Argentino known to be in the UK and only one Japanese Tosa imported in 1991, the Act was concerned primarily with controlling pit bulls and regulating pit bull ownership. The Dangerous Dogs Act required that all pit bulls types were tattooed, de-sexed and registered on the National Index of Exempted Dogs by 30th November 1991. Once registered a dogs type was fixed as a pit bull. Any unregistered pit bulls identified after the 30th November were destroyed under a mandatory order. The lack of authorised breed status for the pit bull led to complications in its identification and proved problematic for the implementation of the Act. Having no Kennel Club Breed Standard and with owners and breeders of pit bulls being excluded from knowledge production, the identity and definition of a pit bull was open to media construction. The media constructions of pit bull identity relied upon the canine embodiment of aggression (images of dogs with large jaws and teeth bared) and the effects of that aggression (images of injuries sustained by a vulnerable member of society) as defining characteristics. Attempts to assess whether or not a dog was a pit bull on the basis of its phenotype were more problematic for experts. Under the 1991 Act dogs had to be assessed by their approximation to an unspecified physical ideal. Mirroring the unfinished, open media construction of pit bulls, the Dangerous Dogs Bill offered incomplete definitions, without taxonomical closure. The pit bull, was not, and could not be a ‘known animal’ (Eco 1999) as the comments of the Home Secretary indicated:

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[…] no-one underestimates the difficulties of defining in law what is in fact a cross-breed dog. Many experts in this and other countries are considering the point and perhaps in time a more precise and scientific definition may emerge. In the meantime, the Bill’s expression “any dog known as the pit bull terrier” is one that is understandable to the lawyer and the layman (Baker 1991).

The status of the expert- a person qualified to identify a pit bull—was defined by various institutional forces and discourses that consequently produced different understandings of the pit bull ‘type’. Judges, authorised by the Kennel Club to judge Staffordshire Bull Terriers at Championship Shows, offered their services to dog clubs across the UK to assess dogs and provide a certificate stating that the assessed dog was not a pit bull. Other experts authorised to identify pit bulls ranged from the police, empowered by the Act to identify and remove dogs, vets, Kennel Club judges, dog wardens, RSPCA officers, dog psychologists and canine behaviourists. With no definitive image or physical ideal recognised in the UK, owners of Staffordshire Bull Terriers, and dogs of mixed breed type began to object to the media ‘misrepresentation’ of ‘other dogs’ as pit bulls. Reports of socially responsible owners of Staffordshire Bull Terriers being victimised for having a dog that approximated a pit bull began to emerge. Authorities such as the Kennel Club had refused to acknowledge the pit bull and the owners and breeders of pit bulls were denied access to the production of knowledge, meaning and representations of the pit bull. As a predominantly media construction, the ‘pit bull’ was fluid in its image, and pit bull identity was incomplete and open to supplementation by having no embodied ideal with which to ground it. The pit bull was thus a ‘performance’ of canine aggression or, in other words, a performative ideal without a physical ideal. In this sense, the multiplicity of changing images claimed by the media to represent ‘pit bullness’ had fixed indicators of performativity, which Steve Baker has referred to as “the standardized iconography for the ‘devil dog’ and the ‘hellhound’, Typically, it has the photographic image of the offending brute, jaws menacingly open, juxtaposed with (or better still, overlapping) a separate photograph of the wounded child, whose scarred back or face is clinically displayed in full and open horror (2001, 170).

At the end of the twentieth century pit bulls were a cultural fiction, composed of media accounts of individual incidents that had involved

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canines, and expressed through the imagery of performance (‘hellhound’ iconography) and effect (images of the damaged human body). One consequence of the privileged afforded to media representations of ‘pit bullness’ was a confusion of identifications. Conclusion Throughout the dangerous dogs debate of the 1980s and early 1990s the status of the pit bull owner/breeder as a source of legitimate knowledge was overruled by truth claims promulgated by the media, animal welfare groups, official agencies, political groups, professionals of various kinds, and government discourses. Ascription of antisocial identity prohibited pit bull owners from having authoritative status within discursive formations as the moral panic about dog fighting excluded pit bull ownership from the legitimate practices of pet-keeping. The dangerous dogs discourse was delimited by an increase in media reports of attacks by pit bulls on children which rendered pit bull ownership indefensible and closed down the possible meanings of pit bulls thereby reducing them to the principal signifiers of dog fighting and the performance of canine aggression. Whilst pit bull owners and breeders may have been given minimal and closely regulated opportunities to speak about their dogs, they lacked any institutional collaboration. Without support from the Kennel Club the pit bull lobby was marginal to the dominant systems of canine classification, knowledge production, and practices of pet ownership. The claims for pit bulls as a ‘breed’ could not be institutionally legitimated without a Kennel Club Breed Standard and the Kennel Club refused to recognise any association with the disenfranchised pit bull lobby. With the pit bull owner/breeders lack of social credibility and their inability to assert authoritative status, the circulation of authorised knowledge about pit bulls fell to the media. The lack of institutionally legitimised breed status for the pit bull excluded it from the ranks of the ‘pure-bred’ dog and as such it had no pedigree and no authorised ancestral history. Without any form of institutional legitimacy, the media constructed a discourse wherein the pit bull was an illegitimate breed, created by a marginalised social group primarily for the illegal and deviant practice of ‘dog fighting’. Within this discourse the issue of class was emphasised to such an extent that dog breeds and types and the associated behaviours of each were aligned with different social classes.

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What is significant about the dangerous dogs discourse is that only particular breeds of dog became discursively conditioned as ‘risks’. This confrontation with the canine body, in the late twentieth century as a site of risk emphasised the extent to which pit bulls and pit bull owners became assimilated into, and signifiers for, other social problems such as violence, drug culture and anti-social behaviour, within the context of the social and economic crises during the late 1980s and early 1990s. Whilst there were a range of problems linked to dogs that included fouling, free roaming, biting and potential for disease transmission, the assessment of the threat to human health and welfare was problematic. Disproportionality is a key feature of a moral panic and the risks posed by dogs could not be adequately quantified by Government organisations. Evidence concerning dog bite related fatalities and the relationship between pit bull ownership and youth violence presented within Parliamentary debates was taken from American studies, which proved later to be flawed and not applicable to the UK situation. In the absence of a scientific assessment of the risk the mass media construction of the ‘dangerous dog’ and the dangerous dog owner was positioned as the dominant form of knowledge production. Gendered distinctions functioned within the discourse to both make the canine body abject (in relation to masculine violence and aggression) and also to neutralise such constructions. In this sense, the feminisation of the pit bull body became the resistant construction through which some owners attempted to reorganise the production of meaning about pit bulls. The dangerous dogs discourse also segued into ontological insecurities that are characteristic of reflexive modernity. Abject canine bodies and images of dangerous dogs were used to organise understanding and meaning in relation to the dissolution of social hierarchies and the erosion of national identity: Pit bull owners were animalised and abject canine bodies were discursively constructed as ‘foreign’ and ‘dangerous’. In the dangerous dogs discourse, the abject canine body became a mechanism through which hierarchical divisions between human and human, and human and animal, could be established in an attempt to ameliorate ontological insecurity. Throughout the various discourses of dangerous dogs from the rabies threat and concerns about guard dogs in the 1970s to the moral panic about dog fighting and the risks of dangerous dogs in the last two decades of the twentieth century, the canine body has been a contested site of meaning

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wherein otherness and public anxieties have been ideologically managed. References Amess, D. 1990. In Commons Hansard, 24th April, 1990: 164. Baer, G. 1991. The Natural History of Rabies. Florida: CRC Press.. Baker, K. 1993. The Turbulent Years: My Life In Politics. London and Boston: Faber and Faber. Baker, K. 1991. In Commons Hansard, 10th June, 1991: 653-654. Baker, S. 2001. Picturing the Beast: Animals, Identity, and Representatio. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Beck, U. 1992. Risk Society: Towards a New Modernity. London: Sage. Beck, U. 2000. “Risk Society Revisited: Theory, Politics and Research Programmes.” In The Risk Society and Beyond: Critical Issues for Social Theory, ed. B. Adam, U. Beck and J. Van Loon, 211-229. London: Sage. Bowden, A. 1991. In Commons Hansard, 22nd September, 1991: 664. Caplan, P. 2000. Risk Revisited. London: Pluto Press. Critcher, C. 2003. Moral Panics and the Media. Buckingham and Philadelphia: Open University Press. Cryer, B. 1991. In Commons Hansard, 25th May, 1991: 1058. Cunningham, J. 1989. In Commons Hansard, 14th June, 1989, 1057-1060 Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Routledge & Kegan Paul. Eco, U. 1999. Kant and the Platypus: Essays on Language and Cognition. London: Secker & Warberg. Fookes, J. 1989. In Commons Hansard, 14th June, 1989: 1049-1050. Fudge, E. 2002. Animal. London: Reaktion Books. Hebdige, D. 1979. “From Culture to Hegemony.” In Media and Cultural Studies, edited by M. G. Durham and D. Kellner, 2001, 198-216. Oxford: Blackwell. Jenkins, P. 1992. Intimate Enemies: Moral Panics in Contemporary Great Britain. New York: Aldine De Gruyter. Lupton, D. 1999. Risk. London: Routledge. McAllion, J. 1989. In Commons Hansard, 15th June, 1989: 1186. Ritvo, H. 1987. The Animal Estate: The English and Other Creatures in the Victorian Age. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Rumbold, A. 1991. In Commons Hansard, 23rd May, 1991: 513- 1068. Thompson, K. 1998. Moral Panics. London: Routledge. Salisbury, J. 1994. The Beast Within: Animals in the Middle Ages. New York and London: Routledge. Tuan, Y. 2007. “Animal Pets: Cruelty and Affection.” In The Animals Reader: The Essential Classic and Contemporary Writings, edited by L. Kaloff and A. Fitzgerald, 141-153. Oxford: Berg. Tulloch, J. and D. Lupton. 2003. Risk and Everyday Life. London: Sage.

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Chapter Five

Ritual, Reason And Animals Gavin Kendall Introduction There is a strong and understandable tendency to understand humananimal relations in the modern West in terms of ‘rationalistic’ models. Largely under the influence of a Kantian reading of Max Weber’s work, our society can be understood as having become increasingly rationalized and ‘disenchanted’: this, in truth, would fit many social theorists’ basic conception of the modern condition. In this reading, while our society reaps the many benefits of increased rationalization—the triumph of reason and the associated ascent of science and technology lead to innumerable benefits—a certain sterility accompanies this progressive movement: the charismatic and magical (as well as the cruel and the wild) has been forced to give place to the rational-legal, the orderly and the docile. A celebrated version of such a reading of modernity—although not explicitly dealing with animals and their relations with humans—can be found in Michel Foucault’s work, for example, where rationalization and sterile docility go hand in hand throughout a new type of society characterized by the emergence and centrality of large institutions. Under such an analysis, animals are no longer seen as wondrous or magical, but instead are mostly made visible—or even made invisible, which, strangely, amounts to much the same thing—to humans through the circuits of the most depressingly modernized institutions of our age: factory farms, laboratories, zoos, circuses. So, to such typically dystopian accounts of what happens to a society ruled by reason (see, for example, Lasch 1995), we must add the awful fate of many animals. We must, of course, admit that this view is finessed in the literature. So, for example, Philo and Wilbert (2000) suggest that this rationalization of human-animal relations is played out differently in the various spaces and zones of the world (the city is the zone

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for pets, the countryside for livestock, and the wilderness for more exotic animals). Michael (2006, 124) is right to point out that these zones are far from fixed, and that they become hybridized and transgressed: hybridized, for example, when exotic animals can be seen in the urban spaces of the zoo, and transgressed because animals tend to travel into spaces where they do not ‘belong’. Nonetheless, the rationalization of our relationship with and understanding of animals seems a reasonable hypothesis. We can take the example of the use of animals for food: humans in the West are mostly spared the unpleasantness of killing the animals they eat, and rarely have to see food products that betray any hint of a living past. The markers of life and sentience (eyes, mouths, skin, fur, hooves) are made to disappear in the slaughterhouses, those macabre halls where the science of killing as much as possible as quickly as possible has been perfected. Accordingly, humans can have a purely economic and gustatory relationship with a piece of packaged animal flesh, a ‘cold’ interaction to replace the ‘hot’ experience of catching, killing and butchering in the ‘wild’. Or we can take the example of the zoo: the exotic animals—in the wild, perhaps dangerous and difficult to see—are rendered safe and permanently on display. Even though the zoo is slowly being transformed from a voyeuristic space to a space for the preservation of endangered species, nonetheless the clear boredom in the faces of the primates induces a feeling of guilt in all but the most hard-hearted of visitors. Again, the ‘hot’ experience of a fleeting glimpse of these animals in their natural environment is replaced by the ‘cold’ inspection of the zoological gaze (Franklin 1999). This characterization of modernity as a rational, but also highly managed and sterile environment that provides the ground for ‘cold’ relationships between humans and animals is given further weight when a contrast is made with the pre-modern world and the nonWestern worlds in which animals and humans might, perhaps, have much closer and ‘hotter’ connections. Two short examples of humananimal relations in these other worlds outside the West will advance our case. The Hot Relations of ‘Other’ Worlds: Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and the Balinese Cockfight Walter Burkert’s (1983) Homo Necans gives an account of Ancient Greek culture, arguing both for the ubiquity of rituals in public life

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and for the role of those public rituals as a means of making sense of private life. Animals are central to these rituals, although there is a certain amount of functional interchangeability (for example, the virgin may replace the animal for the sacrifice). Nonetheless, nonhuman animals play the key sacrificial role in Greek sacred rituals. For Burkert, this close connection between humans and animals in sacrificial ritual descends into culture directly from the hunt; accordingly, the ambivalence of the hunt (the pleasure and guilt brought on by killing an animal) is seen in the structure of the sacrificial ritual. This ambivalence is played out in the ritual sacrifice by what Burkert calls a ‘comedy of innocence’, whereby the animal has to take responsibility for its own death, by choosing the path it walks down without compulsion, ‘nodding’ its head in assent to be slaughtered, and so forth. Burkert also identifies a shared tripartite structure to the hunt and the sacrifice (sacred preparation, terrible act, celebration), which he argues is the template for a whole series of further rituals (for example, agricultural festivals) in ancient Greek life; as this tripartite structure is played out in the agricultural festivals, the sacred preparation is sublimated into plowing, the terrible act of sacrifice turns into the ‘aggressive’ act of cutting bread, and the celebration is channeled into the gratification of eating. Burkert argues that such structures pervade the whole of Greek ritual. For example, in Chapter IV, he discusses the Dionysian festival of Anthesteria, in which the drinking of wine parallels the terrible act (the wine invokes images of the bloody sacrifice), while the celebration/restitution is found in the sacred marriage, in which the victim is revitalized by being given a wife as a gift. The two decisive theoretical impulses for Burkert’s thesis were functionalism and the work of Konrad Lorenz (1966) on aggression. First, Burkert is drawn to the functional equivalences between ways of organizing social life, and sees these social structures as fulfilling human needs and desires; and even though Burkert was immersed in the structural functionalism of the 1960s while he was working on his book, he is still careful to acknowledge with approval Emile Durkheim (1983, xxi). In dealing with the functional social role of religion, Burkert also tips his hat to Max Weber’s (2001) Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism: “[Religion] seems to deal with more fundamental layers of human life and with its psychological preconditions, which have changed only slightly from the earliest times until now. If religious forms have often provided a focal point for new social and

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economic developments, they were more a prerequisite than a consequence of these developments” (1983, xxi). Second, it is through his engagement with Lorenz that Burkert comes to see aggression as intrinsic to our species, and this allows him to argue that it is only through (animal) sacrifice that we become properly human—homo necans is homo sapiens (1983, 212). The aggression that was normally expressed within our species was turned outwards towards the prey, even though this redirection of the aggressive impulses was not straightforward for such a novice predator. Through this redirection and transference, the hunted animal took on a special status—almost that of an equal—and subsequently became the object of complex rituals that allowed the hunt (and the religious ceremonies that emerged from the hunt) to become multivalent. Here, then, to all intents and purposes we see what seems to be the other of modern Western human-animal relations. Where the Greeks are close—even equal—to their animals, we are distant and superior; where the Greeks glory in the kill, we squeamishly pay others to hide the kill from us; where the Greeks eat as an act of expiation and celebration, we fetishize the experience of taste to minimize the relational aspects of the eater and the eaten. Clifford Geertz’s (1973) celebrated account of the Balinese cockfight gives us the example of a ritualized use of animals in a nonWestern context. In the complicated rules about betting on fights, whose cocks can fight with whose, and so on, Geertz suggests that the Balinese cockfight is ‘a story they [sc. the Balinese] tell themselves about themselves… [an event which] builds a symbolic structure in which, over and over again, the reality of their inner affiliation can be intelligibly felt’ (1973, 448-50). The cocks symbolize the Balinese approval of masculinity (they ‘stand in’ for their owners), while at the same time the Balinese disgust for animality is expressed in the ritual. As with the ancient Greeks, profoundly complex rules—and quite contradictory meaning systems (the cock is both good and evil)— govern the human-animal relationship; even as the animals meet their deaths, they are bound to their human co-actors, who in their turn make sense of their lives, their social positions, and so forth, in the ritual engagement. The fights allow for a heady mix of violence, animality and status concerns: the thrilling cruelty of the fights is not controlled and attenuated, but is fully expressed as an act of communication and self-communication. The deeper the play, the more irrational it is to take part (so Jeremy Bentham suggested in relation

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to gambling—and it is precisely this ‘irrationality’ that Geertz strives to explain), and the greater the irrationality the greater the meaningfulness of the contest; by contrast, we moderns are allowed only shallow, rational interactions with animals, with cold rather than hot emotions in play. Excising Ritual Let us return to the ‘rationalizing’ story that seems be a good candidate for a description of how we modern Westerners relate to nonhuman animals: while there are similar examples of ritual in the modern West to the ones given to us by Burkert and Geertz, they are typically rare, and contemporary accounts usually paint the ritual relationship as exceptional, as a kind of survival of the pre-modern or as an extraordinary incursion of the other into our rational world. Sometimes even practices which would seem good candidates for an account which stresses the irrational turn out not to need such explanatory frameworks. James Howe (1981), for example, gives an account of English fox hunting, and Timothy Mitchell (1986) discusses Spanish bull fighting, in terms that reduce the emphasis on the survival of pre-modern ritual and draw our attention rather to the comparatively modern and ‘rational’ origins of these practices. While both these authors do an excellent job of showing us that animals are part of a series of practices that we use to understand ourselves and explain to ourselves who we are (Geertz’s goal with his analysis of the Balinese), one is left feeling that this is a rarity in the modern world, and that animals are no longer a key element in our self-understanding. Howe, for example, rightly stresses the lack of any single understanding of how humans and animals are related to each other, and is suitably concerned to do battle with Edmund Leach’s and Mary Douglas’s attempts to fit our relationships with animals into a “single scheme of symbolically loaded classification” (1981, 280). He suggests that all the evidence is against any such single scheme: key dichotomies appear and then vanish, the sacred is surprisingly labile, and the special status of certain animals is quickly invented and disappears just as suddenly: If the classification of animals has kept its essential structure through several centuries, why has the distinction between sweet beasts and stenchy beasts (Beaufort, 1885, 22), once so important, disappeared? Why, if the ‘sacredness’ of certain animals is essential to the classification, do we no longer find hares wonderous and miraculous (Edward

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chapter five of York 1909 [1414])? If fox hunting manifests the enduring ambiguous nature of foxes, then why was fox hunting as we know it absent until the late 18th century? (1981, 281).

Howe argues that human-animal relationships are multifaceted and polysemous: Humans do a great variety of things to and with animals—put them in cages, squeeze milk from them, ride on their backs, harness them to plows, castrate them, gather their droppings, put them in mines to smell out gas, teach them to speak or point their feet at hidden birds, put sweaters or armor on them, arrange affairs and unions for them, and of course, kill and eat them (1981, 280).

However, Howe’s examples are of much less intense relationships than those described by Burkert and Geertz; cows and horses are sources of manure, canaries are warning systems for miners, and so forth: non-human animals become parts of our rational systems of food and energy production. Ultimately, in the modern West, we seem to make sense of ourselves not so much through our relationships with animals, but through our relationships with things. Animals, then, are able to enter into these relationships only in as much as they rendered ‘things’, such as fertilizer, meat, transport, or alarm systems (see also Midgley 1994). Mitchell (1986) is, like Howe, keen to dismiss overly simplistic explanations of the meaning of his chosen topic. Just as Howe argues in the case of fox hunting, Mitchell suggests that bull fighting does not have a single psychological meaning for a single cultural group. He is keen to stress, on the other hand, the folk craft elements of the practice, and to oppose the claim that bull fighting is merely an antique ritual. Mitchell emphasizes the growing professionalization of bullfighting under a guild system, which allowed the expression of the artistic style of the fighter at the same time as it pushed the rationalization of bull fighting practices (for example, training of the bulls to make them more ‘noble’ (i.e. cooperative), strict imposition of the hierarchy of fighters (picadors, banderilleros, matadors, etc), and governmental recognition and imposition of ordinances). Crucially, Mitchell contends that the professionalization of the bullfighters was the basis for the growth of its artistic and apparently ritualistic elements, rather than vice versa—bullfighting was not an artistic premodern practice which got professionalized, but could only become an artistic activity once it had been systematized and regularized. In

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this way, Mitchell deflates the ritualistic, pre-modern reading of bull fighting and makes it seem part of a wider social and cultural process of rationalization. We have seen, then, that there is a persuasive account of the decline of ‘hot’ human-animal relationships—typically rooted in ritualistic encounters—in modern Western societies. A Kantian ‘triumph of reason’ account, together with a Weberian emphasis on the ‘triumph of rationalization’, allows us to understand and theorize the reduction of the scale and complexity of ritual in modern life. Virtually all of the functions of pre-modern and non-Western life, which once were subject to the rule of ritual, seem to have become rationalized and bureaucratized; to the extent that animals are part of these functions, they are not almost human, as for Burkert’s Greeks, or a cipher for humans and their worries about their status, as for Geertz’s Balinese –they are no longer totemic—but they are objectified and by various rhetorical strategies rendered fit for the roles ascribed to them by humans (see Birke et al 2007). While tacit social rituals may remain in place, they are seen as anachronistic, and certainly are not key to understanding human-human relations or human-animal relations, which become steadily more ‘rational’. Under this model, the cold rationality of the slaughterhouse, for example, turns the connection between humans and the animals they eat into a distant one, and the repackaging of animal parts to remove any trace of ‘animality’ means that the complex ritual ‘dance’ that the Greeks have with their animals, or the Balinese with their cocks (pun, of course, always intended by Geertz), is almost completely eradicated. However, one possible exception to this rationalized, ‘cold’ set of human-animal relationships can be found by thinking about companion animals (see, for example, Fox 2008; Fudge 2008; Haraway 2003). It would seem that humans have much ‘hotter’ relationships with their companion animals, who (which?) often inhabit a liminal zone between animal and human (Fox’s study shows how humans are able to switch repertoires, at some points understanding their companion animals as ‘humans’, and at others treating them as ‘animals’). While some dwell on the mawkish sentimentality of many humans’ attitude to their pets and their role as substitutes for human significant others (e.g. Strathern 1992), others (see especially Serpell 1996) suggest that not only are pets more likely to be part of a large household—thus adding to existing human-human relationships

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rather than replacing them—but also that authentic types of companionship and friendship result. For Franklin (1999, 84ff), for example, companion animals provide humans with stability in an era of increasing ontological insecurity. Pets are, in some societies, getting ever closer to us; they move from the outside kennel into the house, maybe even sleep in or on the human bed, and are more likely to have human names (‘Fido’ or ‘Prince’ is perhaps only ironically used as a name these days– see, for example, the discussion of naming in Thomas 1983, 114ff). Indeed, on a recent trip to the villages deep in the German countryside, I was surprised to see ‘traditional’ relationships with the pet dog (who had a dog’s name, lived outside in the kennel, was fed scraps, and had virtually no interaction with the family): my surprise is no doubt indicative of a new-fangled set of expectations about how humans and animal companions should live together. Of course, in spite of this new intimacy between humans and their pets, and the admission of pets into realms of life once regarded as limited to the human, we must remember that pets are still parts of rationalized circuits of exchange and government. They are bought and sold, bred to be pleasing to the human eye and for other useful traits (for example, to reduce allergic reactions in humans), Â�registered, microchipped and licensed, and finally ‘euthanized’ or callously dumped. Animals can still be seen as a thing or as a commodity, and so can be disposed of when they are no longer convenient or pleasing. In this way, their status can be quite fragile, and many humans have no difficulty in maintaining a strict boundary between humans and other animals when it suits them. In summary, then, we can see that one particular reading of the development of modernity—one derived from an understanding of the triumph of rationality and the commodification of social relationships (see, for example, Simmel 2004)—suggests a kind of draining of the ‘heat’ from our relationships with animals. ‘Sacrifice’, for example, has become scientific (in the slaughterhouse and in the laboratory) rather than ritualistic; animals’ ability to represent something both intrinsic to humans but other from them—their totemistic capacities—are steadily reduced; and paradoxically, even as the biosciences reveal more and more the insupportability of ideas about hard boundaries between us and other species, we are able to categorize animals and behave towards them in ways that maintain our

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sense of distance from them, and our sense of our specialness and their ordinariness. Modernity and the Inescapability of Tradition The emphasis on the rationalization of our society, the impact this rationalization has had on our relationship with non-human animals, and the way we perceive animals and integrate them into our lives, all of these are central, but it is also worth emphasizing that rationality is not the whole story. There are a range of thinkers who suggest that critical reason is far from the only force at work in the development of our society. Edward Shils (1981), for example, points out that forms of tradition, including ritual, have typically been seen as the enemies of critical reason, or at least its antithesis, and so much so that we are used to thinking of reason and ritual (or any other forms of tradition) as necessarily engaged in a zero-sum game: in a sense, the condition of modernity is thus seen as the journey away from the sorts of traditional, ritualistic practices described by Burkert or by Geertz. However, for Shils, critical reason (as the articulated part of our thinking) is dependent on tradition (the unarticulated part of our thinking); the latter forms not only the bed on which the articulated part can proceed, but is important in its own right in providing much of the context for thinking. Critical rationality, then, requires certain unarticulated techniques, certain unarticulated types of sensitivity to problematic areas, and so forth. For Shils, then, the scientific endeavour—as an archetype of modernist discourse—is this mixture of two types of thinking, the articulated and the unarticulated; and in this formulation he is close to Michael Polanyi’s (1958) ideas about explicit and tacit traditions. As is well known, for Polanyi an emphasis on knowledge as pure reason ignores the role of tradition, authority and belief systems; Polanyi, of course, is not denying that critical reason plays a fundamental role in, for example, the development of modern science; but it is only one side of the coin. For example, in his discussions of authority, Polanyi suggests that two types of authority—general and specific—may be contrasted, and that the former is useful and necessary for the development of science and scientific reason, while the latter is corrosive. Specific authority—the idea that a particular, limited form of authority will always be applicable (for example, the authority of a president of a particular scientific body to determine scientific conclusions)—will become

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authoritarian and will not serve the truth very well, especially at those moments when the individual’s judgment is flawed. General authority—the general suppositions that make up scientific opinion—is seen by Polanyi as the necessary fertile ground from which new ideas can grow. Additionally, Polanyi is a supporter of the authority of science over the opinions of the general public. Science requires the financial and moral support of the general public, and this support is required, of course, for the continuation of science; however, if there is a lack of agreement between science and public opinion, science must be able to defend itself by reference to its professional standards and resist attempts to destroy its authority; interesting, this authority is not simply a manifestation of critical reason, but is a priori inseparable from it. For Polanyi—as well as for thinkers like Oakeshott (e.g. 1967)—tradition is not necessarily the dead hand of the past, nor a handbrake on progressive reason, nor is it necessarily conservative, but is a wellspring from which new ideas can emerge. The idea that reason is unable to operate sua sponte, but must always be accompanied by its context of tradition is one that is fully developed in the philosophy of Hans-Georg Gadamer (2004), who insists upon reason as always located in specific historical contexts. Gadamer attacks the Enlightenment’s own self-image as pure reason, and is eager to point to the aspects of tradition and other contextual forms that make its specific types of rationality possible, and that always frame them. Edward Shils’s work suggested that we need to understand personal knowledge, creativity and innovation as rooted in ritual and tradition. Shils makes a strong case for the centrality of ritual to modern life (see, for example, Shils and Young’s (1975) famous study of the Coronation of Queen Elizabeth II). Of course, the ethnomethodologists are also well known for their attempts to make ritual central to the understanding of modern life—but their focus is on ‘social rituals’: scripted behaviours and interaction rituals in which the self is ‘performed’. Shils’s emphasis is much more on ‘sacred rituals’, or the importance for various communities of ceremonies which link everyday life to the transcendent. Clearly, there are connections here to Emile Durkheim’s understanding of the role of the sacred in modern society, but I prefer to stress Shils’s achievement in developing Max Weber’s work in a way which strips it of its Kantian elements (this Kantian version of Weber was the one that Talcott Parsons made dominate American sociology, although this is another story).

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Shils gives an account of the Weberian concept of charisma which stresses not so much its routinization (Weber’s particular interest) as its dispersion from the centre to the periphery, and its attenuation. For Shils, charisma can be so dispersed as to be co-terminous with society itself. Shils, then, allows us to understand a society in which charisma is suffused throughout, and in which (sacred) ritual is the fundamental process through which individuals are able to connect themselves to political and social communities. An entire ‘charismatic’ society can be built in which sacred ritual is the key to selfunderstanding and self-confidence. And Shils himself makes it clear that boundaries between sacred ritual and social ritual are quite tenuous—so it is possible that ritual may be at work at quite mundane levels of social interaction. Drawing then on Shils, Oakeshott, Gadamer and Polanyi, we can see that ritual and tradition can be central to (even the sine qua non of) society, and that it is not necessary to posit an antithesis between critical reason and tradition or ritual. In the next section, I shall draw upon this insight to discuss the role of tradition and ritual in whale watching and dog and cat shows. Tradition and Ritual: From ‘Making Sense’ to ‘Transformation’ Whale watching is a rapidly growing area of ecotourism, especially noticeable around Australia, where it can often be found in areas once associated with the whaling trade. It has begun to transform the economies of rather sleepy towns, like Hervey Bay in Queensland (mostly known previously for sugar and dairy farming) or Port Stephens in New South Wales (previously known for whaling and the timber trade). Whale watching offers the zoological experience but without the guilt of seeing magnificent animals in dingy enclosures. The whales may or may not make an appearance, and may or may not be interested enough in the humans who visit their habitat to play or breach. The trips, then, allow humans to examine these animals, but very much on the animals’ terms (as the promotional literature for the tours stresses). What is obvious from a study of these tours is how they enable not just the possibility of seeing exotic animals, not just a leisure experience or a chance for a family to engage in an activity together; but much more than this, they offer a transcendent experience. Humans are allowed to be part of a primordial ritual, catching the whales as they migrate up or down the

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coast, following ancient rhythms of breeding, feeding and the search for warmer waters. Being part of this ritual is clearly deeply affecting for many of those who go on the tours: there is not just the excitement of viewing breaching and the play of the calves, but something more humbling in sharing a space and time with such enormous and graceful creatures. The names of the tours cover this range of emotions, using terms like ‘spirit’, ‘venture’ and ‘awesome’ (the latter having both its older, more literal meaning as well as its more recent, ‘Valleyspeak’ sense), and eavesdropping on the conversations of those experiencing the time with the whales, one hears the emotions of the tour nomenclature reused—‘awesome’, ‘spiritual’ and ‘humbling’ are the sorts of terms regularly used. The ritual here is the primarily the whales’, rather than the humans (although in time it may be seen as the ritual of both animals). Yet in engaging with the whales, the humans grasp something of the power of ritual. In Shils’s sense, we see a social setting in which a highly diffused form of charisma operates; the magical experience of time with the whales allows individuals to connect themselves, not just to their ecology, but also to the other adults—friends, family members, lovers—with whom they have come on the trip. Second, the timelessness of the whales (they were migrating up and down the eastern seaboard of Australia before homo sapiens existed) allows the past to be seen in and made salient to the present; again, for Shils this reactivation of the past in the present is a key feature of how tradition and ritual enable humans to make sense of their world, since it enables them to see the continuity of the natural world, and its abiding value. We must remember, however, that it is not necessary to think of traditions like these as static. Even as they experience this ‘timeless’ event, humans are able to use it in an active way, to reconfigure and change their world. David Kertzer (1988) has argued that one of the functions of rituals and tradition is to allow people to grasp their world but then, perhaps, alter it. In engaging in ritualistic and traditional practices, humans can express their understandings of the social world. But these understandings are not determined, and may be conservative or radical. Ecotourism spectacles, such as whale watching, no doubt propel a certain number of those who experience them to be more active in environmental politics, or at the very least to review their everyday practices (all the whale watching tours I studied had a didactic element, ensuring that people came to understand the threats to the whales from human activity; it is also the case that

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the various Great Barrier Reef trips have a strong educational component, and many tours feature professional marine biologists who are there to answer questions, to explain the threats to the reef caused by global warming, ‘bad’ tourism, etc., and to ensure the tourists understand their responsibilities in caring for the reef while on the trip). Dog and cat shows are arresting examples both of ritual and of tradition. In terms of tradition, the shows feature particular breeds of cats and dogs whose long lineage is the animal’s (and, perhaps more importantly, the owner’s) status marker. Of course, the whole idea of these breeds as ancient is mostly self-delusion on the part of the owners and breeders; to take just the letter ‘B’, beagles, basset hounds, bulldogs and boxers were all only really established as breeds in the 19th century. Most cat breeds are less than one hundred years old, with a recent spurt in varieties since about 1950. Nonetheless, in connecting themselves with the tradition of the breeds, however imaginary, the human breeders, owners and handlers connect themselves to the past, and so doing frame a social community to which they belong. These communities are enormously complex and variegated: in Australia, the Victorian Dog Shows can be ‘Championship’, ‘Open’ or ‘Parade’, while ‘Competitions’ can be either ‘Sanctioned’ or ‘Members’’. A dizzying number of breeds take part in these events. In addition, there are a range of specialized trials: earthdog, herding, endurance, obedience, tracking, retrieving, and many others. Within the shows, the display of the dogs requires mastery of particular rituals. Dogs Victoria again provides some guidance for three exercises within the judging ring: Exercises Up and Back With the dog’s leash in the left hand all the time, move up to the ring edge directly in front of you. Turn so the dog turns to the left on the inside. Return to the judge and set your dog up. Correct Triangle Start with the leash in the left hand and move to your right hand top side of the ring. Now move across to the other top side and now return directly to the judge. Set your dog up. ‘O’ Pattern (for around the ring) Simplest of all. Start with the leash in your left hand move anti-clockwise and finish where you started. Set your dog up.

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chapter five When you have been judged remain within the precincts of the judging ring until your breed judging is completed.

Tradition and ritual here work hand in hand, as the precise dressage of the handling of the dog, and the detailed grooming of both cats and dogs interact with the sense of history encapsulated in the breed. Once again, we can follow a Shilsian line and see this as the bringing of the past into the present, and in this way humans construct both meanings for themselves and the social communities within which these meanings circulate. Yet we should note some important differences between the communities of whale watching and the communities of the dog and cat shows. The whale watching community is clearly less tight knit: as an occasional rather than a regular activity, ecotourism will always be less ‘authenticated’. Ritual becomes stronger the more times it is replayed and reactivated: repetition increases the experience of the ritual, strengthens it, and makes it more authentic. The dog and cat shows, with their regularity of occurrence and with their continuity of actors, are better placed to become communities; by contrast, ecotourism is a series of containers for a brief time only of an ecological sentiment. The second difference is that the dog and cat shows are part of a more conservative social community. They provide good examples of how the tradition/ritual couple can work to cement social communities but also social understandings—in this case about the nature of cats and dogs, their desired characteristics, appearance and carriage, and so forth, which are not regarded as negotiable or subject to change. By contrast, the ritual experience of ecotourism is more radical, using an understanding of nature to question the current relationship between humans and non-human animals. To be sure, in some ways this radical intent is nostalgic, with an emphasis on a return to a purer state of nature presumed to have been corroded by modernity. But there is also the hope of generating an entirely new type of relationship between humans and non-human animals: a relationship based no longer on domination and exploitation (see also Ingold 1989, 1994). Conclusion: From Animals to Social Theory For Walter Benjamin (2008), authenticity is connected to originality and singularity. Replication, especially mechanical replication, destroys this authenticity. The authentic is the Mona Lisa in the Louvre or Michelangelo’s David in the Galleria dell’Accademia—and

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the keyrings and fridge magnets that imitate these originals lose something as they move further and further away from the original. However, there is another, quite opposing, way to understand authenticity—through ritual and tradition. Ritual and tradition become stronger and more authentic the more they are reproduced; in this paper I have argued that in our relationship with animals, these are the key to how we understand ourselves and how we make sense of non-human animals. Although on the surface our society appears highly rationalized and mechanized, and appears to have become drained of all its magic, theorists like Shils show us that ritual and tradition have played and will continue to play an important role in the development of critical reason. It is misleading to imagine reason and ritual as rivals: rather our society is Janus-faced, looking towards both simultaneously. Some commentators have noticed the breakdown in the dream of the triumph of the totally rational society, and attribute this to a kind of postmodern moment. In this reading, our society was once premodern (perhaps looking a bit like the worlds we see through Burkert’s or Geertz’s descriptions), became highly modernized and rational, but is now seeing a challenge to its presumptuous and violent settlements: so, for example, the environmental movement can be seen as a sign of the breakdown of the binary distinction between humans and other animals, a binary distinction which is the theoretical face of domination and injustice. In this paper, I have explored a different side of the rationalization story, using especially Edward Shils’s reading of Max Weber. In this reading, modernity was never really completely drained of tradition and ritual, and critical reason never really was alone on the battlefield, with tradition dead at its feet. As James Howe and Timothy Mitchell showed us in relation to fox hunting and bull fighting respectively, human- animal relations in the modern period were always a mixture of reason, tradition and ritual. These practices, like dog and cat shows, or like the search for something transcendent in contemporary forms of eco-tourism, are not the exception to our age, but its rule. Bruno Latour (1993) has suggested that the modern age is not so much the age of critical reason, but the age that failed to impose a series of purifications on the terrains of nature and culture. Now, says Latour, we are starting to see that those purifications cannot possibly work. Perhaps by Â�studying the relationships between human animals and non-human animals, we can begin to see how our age has always been shaped by reason,

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ritual and tradition. In this way, we can recognize that our society was one in which charisma was not extinguished, but was rather dispersed throughout society, and that the coldness of rationalization was always somewhat warmed by tradition and ritual. References Benjamin, W. 2008. The Work of Art in the Age of its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings on Media. Cambridge, Mass: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press. Birke, L., Arluke, A. and M. Michael. 2007. The Sacrifice: How Scientific Experiments Transform Animals and People. West Lafayette: Purdue University Press. Burkert, W. 1983. Homo Necans: The Anthropology of Ancient Greek Sacrificial Ritual and Myth. Berkeley: University of California Press. Geertz, C. 1973. “Deep play: Notes on the Balinese Cock Fight.” In The Interpretation of Cultures: Selected Essays. New York: Basic Books. Fox, R. 2008. “Animal Behaviours, Post-human Lives: Everyday Negotiations of the Animal-Human Divide in Pet-Keeping.” Social and Cultural Geography 7(4): 525-537. Franklin, A. 1999. Animals and Modern Cultures: A Sociology of Human-Animal Relations in Modernity. London: Sage. Fudge, E. 2008. Pets. Stocksfield: Acumen. Gadamer, H-G. 2004. Truth and Method. New York: Continuum. Haraway, D. 2003. The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People and Significant Otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Howe, J. 1981. “Fox Hunting as Ritual.” American Ethnologist 8(2): 278-300. Ingold, T. 1989. The Appropriation of Nature. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Ingold, T. 1994. “From Trust to Domination: An Alternative History of HumanAnimal Relations.” In Animals and Human Society: Changing Perspectives edited by A. Manning and J. Serpell, 1-22. London: Routledge. Kertzer, D. 1988. Ritual, Politics and Power. New Haven: Yale University Press. Lasch, C. 1995. The Revolt of the Elites and the Betrayal of Democracy. New York: Norton. Latour, B. 1993. We Have Never Been Modern. Hemel Hempstead: Harvester Wheatsheaf. Lorenz, K. 1966. On Aggression. London: Methuen. Michael, M. 2006. Technoscience and Everyday Life: The Complex Simplicities of the Mundane. Maidenhead: Open University Press. Midgley, M. 1994. “Bridge-building at Last.” In Animals and Human Society: Changing Perspectives, edited by A. Manning and J. Serpell, 188-194. Routledge: London. Mitchell, T. J. 1986. “Bullfighting: The Ritual Origin of Scholarly Myths.” The Journal of American Folklore 99: 394-414. Oakeshott, M. 1967. Rationalism in Politics: and Other Essays. London: Methuen. Philo, C. and C. Wilbert. 2000. “Animal Spaces, Beastly Places: An Introduction.” In Animal Spaces, Beastly Places: New Geographies of Human-Animal Relations, edited by C. Philo and C. Wilbert, 1-34. London: Routledge. Polanyi, M. 1958. Personal Knowledge. London: Routledge.

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Serpell, J. 1996. In the Company of Animals: A Study of Human-Animal Relationships. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Shils, E. 1981. Tradition. London: Faber and Faber. Shils, E. and M. Young. 1975. “The Meaning of the Coronation.” In Center and Periphery: Essays in Macrosociology, edited by E.A. Shils, 135-52. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Simmel, G. 2004. The Philosophy of Money. London: Routledge. Strathern, M. 1992. After Nature: English Kinship in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Thomas, K. 1983. Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England, 15001800. London: Allen Lane. Weber, M. 2001. The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism. London: Routledge.

PART THREE

Animal Performers

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The Representation Of Animal Actors: Theorizing Performance And Performativity In The Animal Kingdom Gregory S. Szarycz For most people, animals are symbolic: their significance lies not in what they are, but in what we think they are. We ascribe meanings and values to their existence and behaviors in ways that usually have little to do with their biological and social realities, treating them as emblems of nature’s purity or bestiality in order to justify, ultimately, our views of other human beings. (Bagemihl 1999, 79)



Introduction While the symbols associated with nature are infinitely complex, the ‘meaning’ of nature is constructed entirely within the subjective interpretations of individuals and cultures. These interpretations are often reflected in popular culture texts such as public displays, animated movies and documentary films, in which careful training, editing and behavioural manipulation makes it possible for individuals to form a mediated connection to animals they may never observe in person. These ‘texts’ all depict the intricately woven influence of animals in people’s lives. Bruce Bagemihl’s words in the introductory quote to this chapter reflect the long-held view that people like to look at animals, even if it is to learn from them about human beings and human society. We find the theme of modernity reflected in the bodies and lives of animals. We polish, in a certain way, an animal mirror to look for ourselves. The modern animal has become, to borrow Jacques Derrida’s expression, “a memory of the present” (quoted in Lippit 2000, 2-3). The biological sciences’ focus on Â�monkeys and apes, for example, has sought to make visible both the form and history of our biological and social bodies. Recent theories of animal ‘culture’, which are based largely on anthropomorphic

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Â� characterizations, have been powerful in legitimating beliefs of animal agency against an overwhelmingly anthropocentric worldview, while simultaneously enhancing our own understanding of human life. Akira Mizuta Lippit, in his book Electric Animal: Toward a Rhetoric of Wildlife defines modernity as the disappearance of wildlife from humanity’s habitat and by the reappearance of the same in humanity’s reflections on itself: in philosophy, psychoanalysis, and technological media such as the telephone, film, and radio. By this definition, among the general questions that arise in analysing a culture’s outlook on is fauna are some of the following: Where do animals belong in the worldview of that culture, in their cosmogony or historical mythology, and how do these beliefs reflect upon the economic and symbolic position of animals? What is the range of Â�emotional attitudes towards man’s enigmatic non-human counterparts, both wild and domestic? Are animals used in entertainment? Questions such as these may be further refined by determining which species are domesticated, which hunted, which are eaten, which taboo. Are animals kept as pets, and if so, what kinds of names does a culture give them—human names or abstract names embodying a spiritual quality or force in nature? To what extent are these nonverbal creatures a substitute for affection or sadistic punishment, or a target for aggressive or hostile feelings? In other words, what qualities does humanity project onto animals? The answer to some of these questions lies partly in the roots of Western philosophical tradition. In her examination of nature, culture and gender in wildlife film, Hillevi Ganetz observes that for centuries, at the core of Western culture, there was way of thinking in dichotomies, of dividing into twos, of constructing binary oppositions; for example, good and evil, male and female, body and soul, feeling and reason, etc. (2004). Ganetz points out that one of the most fundamental dichotomies, in both literal and symbolic terms, has been the one between nature and culture. Like many opposing forces, this dichotomy has been discussed and deconstructed in a number of works in the last few decades (e.g. Butler 1991; Franklin, Lury & Stacey 2000; Haraway 1989, 1993; Robertson et al. 1996), but in spite of the fairly large agreement in the scientific community that culture and nature should not be regarded as opposites, but rather, that they are interdependent and presuppose one another, the idea of an opposition thrives.

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While people have always interpreted nature, primarily characterised through science or entertainment (Bousé 2000; Mitman 1999), there can be no claims by either, to ‘pure’, or objective depictions of nature, only interpretations that depend on historical, cultural and social contexts. Judith Butler (1991, 37f) has argued that what is defined as nature in relation to culture is in fact already culture, that is, it is culture that determines where the border to nature is drawn. In this sense, there is no ‘objective’ line between the two, as they are all the time defined through various practices, resulting in different representations of the natural world.1 Stated differently, while the connection between popular entertainment and environmental discourse may not be immediately obvious—after all, people often think of the natural world as a retreat from the hallmarks of civilization such as pop culture and mass media—the popularity of zoos, circuses, wildlife parks, rodeos, wildlife films and fictional representations of animals nevertheless indicates that there is a strong interest in the natural world that is satisfied through media and popular entertainments. Thus, representations of nature within the cultural frame of modernity form the dominant source of information and myth about the natural world for a majority of the world’s population. While many of these representations are often framed within objective and scientific terms, scientists, filmmakers, and audiences can only guess at the motivations of other species. As a result, the imposition of narrative forms upon the behavioural configurations of wild creatures blurs the line between reality and fictionalization. Ultimately, any evaluation of humanity’s representations of nature serves as an important reminder that perceptions of nature formed through various anthropomorphic discourses are merely cultural products and not direct representations of the natural world. By way of example, in this chapter, a critical appraisal of performance and performativity provides an opportunity to examine how humans construct some of their subjective perceptions of the natural world through the representation of animal actors. Animal performances, broadly defined, are those activities enacted by animals and staged by humans for public display. Such Â�enactments, 1 ╇ Cf. Rothfels (2002), where a number of representations of animals are described. This volume presents analyses of animals in literature, in art, the construction of the ‘fox’ in British fox-hunting, how the history of the cloning of a pet animal is represented on the internet (The Missyplicity Project), etc. See also Burt (2002) about the representation of animals in feature films.

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in a broad array of manifestations, have evolved in western culture over the last two centuries, along with acting styles, dramas, audience tastes, and theatre and media technologies. The roles played by animals throughout history, as well as in recent popular culture, together with the scripts that humans have written for them, and the relationship between spectators and animal performers, are heavily imbued with symbolism and values with which humans have invested animals, as are the roles given them in popular entertainments in order to fulfil our expectations and demands. Their performative representation has, in fact, come to be our idea of what animals are.2 The performative as an aspect of animal enactments is central to the complex interrelationship between humans and animals in society, as are the ways in which these interrelations are integrated into public performances. It is further argued that particular dimensions of this performance can be explored within the contexts of time and space, social and spatial regulation, and issues of power. Such performances are shaped by the opportunities and constraints against which reciprocal human-animal interaction occurs, and are informed by the symbolic meanings and spatial organization surrounding such interactions. Theorizing Performance It is herein argued that all social life, both human and non-human, is thoroughly dramaturgical, built of roles according to social contexts (Geertz 1993; Goffman 1959). Both literally and metaphorically, animals, like humans, can be considered to enact a range of performances on distinct and diverse stages. Their enactions are distinguished according to various factors, including their competence, reactivity, the extent to which they are directed and regulated, or participate in group or solo routines. Inevitably, such behavioural actions are mannered, stylized, and recognizable. To further question such conceptions, and following the sentiments of authors such as Barad (2003), and Birke, Bryld, and Lykke (2004), the metaphor of performance is used to establish a basis to examine the diverse Â�practices or performative exhibits with which animals entertain and 2 ╇ It should perhaps be said in passing that some ‘natural’ animal ‘enactments’ lean more towards instinct and typical species-specific behaviour than performance, but still possess certain performative aspects, an argument to which we will return later.

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present themselves to humans in everyday contexts. I begin, however, by suggesting that we do not necessarily need to make a distinction between performance and performativity, although, as the title of this chapter implies, we frequently conceptualise them as disparate entities. At the heart of the matter is the question of the relation of performativity to performance proper. Are there any limits to performativity? Is there anything outside of the purview of anthropocentric performance studies? To answer, we must distinguish between ‘as’ and ‘is’. Any event, action, item, or behaviour may be examined ‘as’ performance. Approaching phenomena as performance has certain advantages. One can consider things as provisional, in-process, existing and changing over time, and in rehearsal, as it were. On the other hand, there are events which tradition and convention declare ‘are’ performances. In Western culture, until recently, performances were of theatre, music, and dance--the ‘aesthetic genres’, the performing arts. Relatively recently, since the 1960s at least, certain aesthetic performances have developed that cannot be located precisely as theatre or dance or music or visual arts. Usually called either ‘performance art’, or ‘mixed-media’, ‘happenings’, or ‘intermedia’ these events blur or breach boundaries separating art from life and genres from each other. The performative, by contrast, engages performance in places and situations not traditionally marked as ‘performing arts’, from dressup to certain kinds of writing or speaking. The acceptance of the performative as a category of theory as well as a fact of behaviour has made it increasingly difficult to sustain the distinction between appearances and facts, surfaces and depths, illusions and substances. Appearances are actualities. And so is what lies beneath appearances. Reality is constructed through and through, from its many surfaces or aspects down through its multiple depths. The subjects of performance studies are both what is performance and the performative— and the myriad contact points and overlaps, tensions and loose spots, separating and connecting these two categories. Performances may, also, articulate a meta-social commentary which reproduces or challenges social norms and conventions (Geertz 1993) and they have also been described as a “discrete concretization of cultural assumptions” (Carlson 1996). Yet besides the management of the self, the codification of performances—what is ‘appropriate’, the order of action, who should participate—is

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Â� frequently regulated by key personnel, who monitor and instruct performers and maintain key scripts. The wielding of cultural power to synthesize meaning and action through regulating performance constructs common sense praxis and reaffirms cultural norms. Rather than being fixed, performance is an interactive and conÂ� tingent process: it succeeds according to the skill of the ‘actors’, the context within which it is performed, and the way in which it is interpreted by an audience. Even the most delineated social performance must be re-enacted in different conditions and its reception cannot always be controlled by the performer. Since no separate performance can ever be exactly reproduced, fixity of meaning must be continually strived for (Schieffelin 1998). Moreover, although it is often implied that performance concerns the strategic, purposive management of impressions, conscious intentions are not always part of the performance. For organizing routine, everyday practices produce unreflexive, embodied forms of practical knowledge. This is clearly the case with regard to a wide range of animal enactments. Although it seems particularly apt, there have been relatively few explorations of animal enactments as a set of performances. In his influential 1972 essay “On Acting and Not-Acting,” Michael Kirby set out to prove that at its simplest level, most animal acting involves framing trained behaviours in a ‘non-animal narrative’, through a process Kirby described as ‘matrixing’. Kirby developed a continuum of acting, and his analysis of how simple behaviours and appearances can produce meaning without definite, knowable intention on part of the performer describes, without mentioning it specifically, how Â�animal acting is presumed to work. Animal actors function either in a ‘symbolic matrix’, in which “the performer does not act and yet his or her costume represents something or someone”, or in Kirby’s next phase, ‘received’ acting: “When the matrices are strong, persistent and reinforce each other, we see an actor, no matter how ordinary the behavior” (1972, 5). These ‘cast members’, then,’ are often required to wear outfits and expressions that are harmonized with themed environments. Paul Bouissac’s classic Circus and Culture: A Semiotic Approach (1976), while little concerned with the question of animal acting per se, approaches the meaning of circus-animal acts more comprehensively, connecting animal behaviours both to the broader language of the circus and to fundamental cultural dynamics such as the Â�presumption of human superiority. Tellingly, Bouissac, as both a

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semiotician and circus insider, gave substantial details of the training of animal performers. While elsewhere he stresses that the process of developing circus acts is less relevant to his study than reading the act as text—“In other words, the problem is largely one of decoding” (1976,19)—in his discussion of circus horse acts he gives a detailed account of how a profusion of signs exchanged between trainer and animal is gradually reduced. In the act as performed for an audience, the trainer’s cues are obscured so that the animal appears to behave intelligently and autonomously (1976, 53–57). In Bouissac’s words, the animal does not ‘perform’, but “negotiates social situations by relying on the repertory of ritualized behavior that characterizes its species” (1981, 24). Bouissac thus argues that what seems to be performance is actually an invariable natural response of the animal to a stimulus provided by a trainer who, in the most inconspicuous of ways, ‘frames’ it as such. In this way, while offering an account of the production of the ‘secret’ code that allows animal acts to work, Bouissac favours a symbolic reading of the resultant behaviour, playing down the role that an audience’s knowledge of the existence of such training plays in the perceptions of the spectator. At a primary, perhaps ostentatiously obvious level, animal performances are crude narratives about nature. Spectators at animal performances, regardless of setting, seek to discover something of the ‘truth’ about animals, largely through a theatrical discourse that has the beast replicate carefully scripted movements or through unscripted natural behaviours that in their own way satisfy spectators’ curiosity about the ‘real’ animal underlying the performer. This quest for knowledge —some idea of what an animal might be, might think, or might know—has structured the way in which animals have been exhibited in performance throughout history. The impulse to train, exhibit and witness performing animals appeals to human curiosity, to the will to power, to pleasure, and to sentiment. More importantly, an animal act creates an expectation, a hope, that it will reveal something new. In many ways, animal performances do this. Stripped from its layers of entertainment value and cultural context, an animal act displays both the physical and mental capacities of the performer. Often, animal training is based largely on shaping and making more acute the behaviours that are natural to the class of animal involved. As in the case of the world famous Lipizzaner Stallions, trainers take the horse’s natural movements and develop them under

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rider and saddle to make their delicate dance appear untouched by human influence. At the other end of the entertainment spectrum, the presentational aspect of animal performativity can be modified to reflect what is considered by audiences to be fitting or (as is often the case perceived) ‘natural’ behaviour for animals (Think, for the sake of comparison, of the performances of Bart the (Grizzly) Bear in films like The Edge); or, reduced to a morally and physically undignified treatment for members of particular species (again, for the sake of comparison, the dancing clown bears of the Moscow Circus). Through techniques of staging the natural (Desmond 1999), the audience gets a show of the ‘culture’ of the natural world (i.e., its distinctive, unique, and ‘essential’ characteristics), though the animal shows and exhibitions discussed herein conform rather to a typically contrived model of ‘staged performativity’. Such an idea is generally, though not exclusively, operative in circus acts and animal theme parks, where animal shows are often framed as ‘extensions of natural behaviours’. Clearly, the role of animal actors on the stage and in film are far more theatrical than the roles of gorillas at the National Zoo, who languidly ‘perform’ their lives grazing, scratching and thoughtfully moving through their enclosure, occasionally interacting with one another or with curious onlookers. But even as an example of the shrinking gap between the actor and the animal, these gorillas cannot truly represent their species in such an artificial environment. For all their massive scope, animal performances exist on a continuum ranging from those that are strictly entertainment, to those that stress education and conservation, such as those at the aquarium and the zoo. But ultimately, few animal acts expose the ‘real’ animal, and rarely can they be considered highly scientific. By and large, animal performances are generally, and theoretically, constructed as light entertainment, coloured by the fantasy of popular imagination. So, how salient is the concept of the performing wild animal in the late modern, urban consciousness? Certainly, the sheer volume and variety of images of wild animals in the mass media and through popular culture might provide us with a broad indication of the continuing interest our species has in the other species with which it shares the global environment. However, complex as are the ecological and symbolic dynamics of the human/animal nexus in the popular imagination, our understanding of the representation of animals, in a performative sense, is somewhat more problematical, and we are faced with even more abstruse problems when we come to consider

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the ways in which individuals conceptualize and construe the wild animal as performer. It is therefore essential to describe certain fundamental features of animal performances through which the wild animal is experienced, by humans in general and by the human members of modern urban societies in particular. Staging the Natural The staging of the natural, to borrow a truism coined by Desmond (1999), is enframed and informed by different discourses, which provide practical orientations and cultivate [animal] subject positions, specifying what actions should take place at particular places and times. These culturally situated symbolic meanings constitute “relations of dramatic performance” which “articulate [a sense of] shared forms of perception and understanding” for the spectator (Chaney 1993, 4). Thus, for instance, audiences look at symbolic attractions in distinctive styles, communicate and consume particular narrative interpretations and, where applicable, move through carefully prepared performative stages in specifiable ways. Certainly, the figurative representation of wild animals, though not framed in a performative sense, is a process of great antiquity, as the many examples of rock art and cave painting around the world demonstrate. As human cultures evolved, representations of wild creatures, in literary, artistic and symbolic terms, became ever more elaborated and sophisticated. It virtually goes without saying that in the modern context such representations have reached unprecedented levels of technical sophistication and unprecedented levels of output. Thus, painting, drawing and sculpture have been augmented and overtaken by film, television and conventional and computer-based animation, which can provide highly graphic and dramatic visual and audible representations of the appearances and behaviours of even the remotest and most exotic wild animals. It is no exaggeration to suggest that the typical television viewer’s primary mode of engagement with the wild is through highly processed (and skilfully edited) electronically mediated representations of real or ‘virtual’ animals (again, think of Bart ‘the acting’ Bear in feature films like The Edge and Legends of the Fall or the CGI-created Aslan the lion in The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe). Arguably, such representations, and the ideological frameworks within which they are organized, come to dominate the ways in which the ‘wild’ is construed in contemporary cultures. The wildlife

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documentary (whether composed of ‘natural’ or ‘staged’ footage, or a combination of the two) effectively replaces and supplants the encounter for the majority of individuals. What is more, such material is supplemented by books and photographs created for popular consumption by professional encounter seekers. The presentation of animals by contrast, differs from representation in that perception of the animal is not mediated but is direct. It is thus subjected to a level of human scrutiny which it might otherwise avoid. The menagerie or zoo in various forms (which will be discussed in more detail below) is the primary institutional location of wild animal presentation. Other forms include the circus (in both the classical and modern senses), the aquarium and the aviary. There are, of course, some important differences here. Circuses (in the modern sense) are usually mobile, bringing the presentation to the audience. However, fixed sites of presentation, like zoos and aquariums, demand that clients come to them and therefore animals become attractions and destinations in themselves, or exist in conjunction with other attractions. Features of Animal Performance Peterson (2007), remarks that animals are not ‘read’ in performance unless considerable effort is made to reduce them to signs. By way of example, for most urban humans, direct [and essentially nonperformative] experience of wild animals is either extremely rare or essentially trivial (casually noticed garden birds, or a squirrel seen in the park). On the other hand, deliberate human/animal proximity (such as might be experienced on-stage at a circus or in a carefully managed safari park) provides a certain performative pretext for the animal’s presence or behaviour, which can vary enormously in the course of encounters, from actual physical contact at one extreme, to a mere glimpse in the distance at the other. Almost by definition then, for urban individuals, the wild animal is the very embodiment of ‘otherness’. It is, and in this case somewhat paradoxically, both ‘outside’ human society, and ‘inside’ human culture, in the sense that human cultures recognize, categorize and describe such beings. The performative element underlying much of western culture’s attitudes towards, and relationships with, non-human animals Â�manages to dislocate attention from merely symbolic meanings to embodied doings and enactments. Drawing inspiration from

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� dramaturgical sociology in seeing non-human animals as expressive performers, and following prevailing understandings about bodies, space, and time (Desmond 1999), animal performances, broadly defined, are here framed as embodied encounters with other bodies, technologies an╂d material places. Moreover, the nature of the stage upon which such performances occur, is dependent on the kinds of performance enacted upon it. Stages can continually change, can expand and contract. Before proceeding with our argument, and to develop the analysis further, it is essential to describe what are herein described as several fundamental features of animal performances through which the animal performer is experienced, by humans in general, and by the human members of modern urban societies in particular. Each feature requires discussion in some detail. Temporal and Spatial Dimensions All performances are culturally and socially located in time and space. Indeed, the normativity of everyday performances, be they human or animal, belies the specific modalities of historical and geographical situatedness. This becomes evident at those sites at which a range of contesting animal performances are, and have been, played out, separated only by different historical junctures and subject to historical and cultural change and development. It is interesting, for example, how quickly, from an historical point of view, western cultures have moved from protecting themselves from wild bears to training bears to dance for them. Indeed, the question of why animal theatricality appeals to popular audiences at all raises some interesting speculation about how we think about animals, and how we imagine animals might think. Performances that feature animals have always appealed to mass audiences, presumably because the crudest animal exhibitions demand only a simple emotional response. For centuries, the production of a small animal act, such as that of a dancing bear show, involved nothing more than a minimal cost for the purchase and upkeep of the animal actors, a few simple props, an easily transportable performance space, perhaps a bare-bones script, and some degree of training. The audience was assumed to bring only a sense of humour, a feeling for the extraordinary, and a morbid curiosity. The performing animal was only required to exhibit its terror, hunger

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or ferocity; its ability to perform physical behaviours that appeared to be either impossible or vastly different from its usual movements as to be absurd or comical; or a series of tricks that, when strung together, appeared to involve a thoughtful response to a hypothetical situation relayed by command. In some cases, when the audience was unfamiliar with the creature, its mere presence supplied the performative element, preferably with the addition of movement and sound or, ideally, of hostile behaviour. Thus, the scenario of the animal whose behaviour changes radically in response to certain circumstances or persons is one of the earliest narrative strategies around which the earliest animal acts were based. Likewise, throughout history, dispositions according to class, gender, ethnicity, and other influences are brought by spectators to specific places and expressed in a variety of contexts and across an assortment of stages. For example, Clifford Geertz, in his widely popular exposition of the Balinese cockfight, explicates that the ritualistic and yet equally entertaining “bloody drama of hatred, cruelty, violence, and death” (311), lies at the core of the Balinese communal and cultural landscape. 3 And yet, while anthropologists such as Geertz have long scrutinized cockfighting as a cultural phenomenon of ‘traditional societies’, that is, societies supposedly unaffected by the political economy of global capitalism, cockfighting likewise continues to thrive in hybrid, postmodern locales such as New York City, Southern California, and even small towns in the U.S. South and Southwest, where newly arrived immigrants from Latin America revitalize the dying subculture of rural cockfighters. And again, although cockfighting often receives sympathetic treatment as an expression of ‘native culture’—Geertz famously compared the drama of cockfighting in Bali to the novels of Dostoyevsky—it continues to function as a bête noire of U.S. culture—especially in the South, where it is most prevalent. It has even been suggested that cockfighting is part of a larger pattern of a white Southern bloodlust that extends to lynching, NASCAR, and American football.

3 ╇ A second example, briefly mentioned here, and perhaps undeservedly so, makes reference to the well-known symbol of Spain, bullfighting. Some critics might argue that bullfighting in Spain is neither purely sport, nor simply art, nor only culture. It is instead all of the above— a highly ritualized enactment of life and death deeply rooted in Spanish history, life, self-conception, and character.

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Social and Spatial Regulation Performance and performativity are likewise socially and spatially regulated to varying extents. Here, the nature of the stage is important. It may be carefully managed, facilitate transit, and contain discretely situated objects around which performance may be organized; or its boundaries are blurred. However, it is always cluttered with other actors playing different roles, is full of shifting scenes and random events or juxtapositions, and can be crossed from a range of angles. The extension of theatrical metaphors to include notions about the direction of animal performances, the stage-management of space and the choreographing of movement helps to reveal the spatial and social controls that are mobilized to assist and regulate such events. A live animal acting a role on a stage is, from the perspective of the spectators, an anomaly, and interjects itself between the audience and the performance in habitually inexplicable ways. Animal actors can, and often do, disrupt the flow of a show by introducing extraneous and sometimes unexpected material. As Peterson informs us in his essay The Animal Apparatus: From a Theory of Animal Acting to an Ethics of Animal Acts (2007), in 2004 a stage-performing white tiger purportedly mauled superstar illusionist Roy Horn during a Friday night showing of Siegfried & Roy at The Mirage hotel in Las Vegas. Extensive news coverage reported that the 7-year-old tiger named Montecore, who actually had performed in the show for years, refused a command to lie down, clamping its jaws on Horn’s right arm. The magician repeatedly struck the animal in the head with a microphone, at which time the beast lunged, clamped its jaws around his neck and pulled him out of the audience’s view. Peterson suggests, however, that one largely overlooked dimension to the intensive media coverage subsequent to the event, was that both Roy and the tiger had been acting—creating for the audience the illusion of events and interactions that were fictional. It may be that the cat, Montecore, is not the star of the show Siegfried & Roy; in fact, he plays a minor supporting role. And yet his presence makes a striking difference to the production. When the tiger walks onto the stage behind Roy, he is more than an animal prop. His relationship to the audience is different than that of the other actors on the stage, because, while we suspend our disbelief and allow human actors to embody the characters they play, we see in an animal actor a

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Â� performer who cannot pretend. And we as the audience cannot ignore the anomaly. Can Montecore the tiger blindly go on playing a complacent cat without any acknowledgement to us that he is not really a pacified feline, only a wild tiger, an aggressive and dangerous predator? In fact, although he is the stage Montecore, he is so much more—a living, breathing animal (will he urinate, defecate, see a mouse, or a man in a hat he doesn’t like? Will he break out of character?) After all, he is only a tiger who cannot understand the Stanislavsky method4 and not be able to go on acting without yawning or losing concentration. What then, is the relationship of the audience to such animal ‘actors’? How do we see their part in the complicity between subjects of the stage—the characters, the spectators and the act itself? While we anthropomorphize animal actors as representing animals ‘humanly’, consequently giving them human emotions and motives, we must allow that the animal actor is present, is real, is making conscious decisions to perform a script, and is so doing in an acutely animal way. What happens in the gap between our anthropomorphism and the animal’s animalism, its own nature and understanding? Vicki Hearne’s analysis of an orangutan act performed in Las Vegas helps to suggest an answer. In her essay The Case of the Disobedient Orangutans, Hearne describes Bobby Berosini’s comedy act with five orangutans ‘at liberty’ in close proximity to their audience. The meta-theme of this act is “How I train them”. Berosini constantly returns to the refrain, “people ask me how I train them, and I tell them, I…” The act is then built around a running joke between the animals and the audience, with Berosini—or as Hearne points out, the character of Berosini- as the butt, since he cannot get the animals to behave as he wants. In the first sketch, Berosini brings out one orangutan to demonstrate his training philosophy: “I have to show them who is boss.” The ape, in response to a command, not only refuses to jump onto a stool, but tricks his master into doing so by feigning incomprehension until Berosini himself demonstrates the trick. Against the obvious paradox in which the animal has 4 ╇ Stanislavski’s system is an approach to acting developed by Constantin Stanislavski, a Russian actor, director, and theatre administrator at the Moscow Art Theatre (founded 1897). The system is the result of Stanislavski’s many years of efforts to determine how a human being can control in performance the most intangible and uncontrollable aspects of human behavior, such as emotions and artistic inspiration.

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Â� successfully trained the trainer, the orangutan then invites the audience to clap for his foolish master. In the next sketch, Berosini revises his methods and tells the audience that he does not, in fact, have to train the animals because he has ‘magic cookies’ that achieve the desired results for him. Hearne informs us that “a fast and lively slapstick results”, in which and orangutan named Bo juggles and spits out the cookie bribe, eventually feeding it to Berosini but never eating it herself. Finally, the trainer admits the ‘truth’ to the audience explaining to them that he does not need to train the apes, since, in actuality, he mesmerizes them. To demonstrate, he calls Bo to him. She responds to his hypnosis by dropping her shoulders, standing more and more still, and finally closing her eyes. But when the trainer whispers, “Are you asleep?” she enthusiastically responds in the affirmative by grinning and vigorously nodding her head. The she slips back into a trance. The joke, according to Hearne, is not just on the ‘trainer’ character, but on the audience, and by extension on humanity at large. When such animals perform a ‘disobedient act’, a string of belief systems is broken. The fact that animals can comprehend a command and perform a trick in response is the basis for any animal act; the fact that they can refuse as command and perform a trick of ‘their own’ against the trick desired becomes subversive, funny and unsettling. Again, Paul Bouissac, as both a semiotician and circus insider, gave substantial details of the training of animal performers. In effect, he proved that the ability of animals to ignore what would seem to the audience to be clear commands, including verbal and body language, while, at the same time, reading hidden cues to perform the correct response, is both complex and meaningful. The efficacy of the performance relies equally upon the ability of the audience to share the meaning the animal actor hopes to transmit. This also raises the question about the intended audience for the performance. Since much social drama is an attempt to transmit meaning and identity, the effect of performance is contingent upon an audience that understands the message. The degree of reflexive awareness mobilized by the performer or imposed by groups and audiences is likely to influence the level of detachment or involvement experienced by the audience during the performance. This suggests that total immersion in a performance, or role distantiation (an awareness which inculcates critical reflection upon a performance), is defined by the conditions under which it is performed. Thus, the

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range of an animal actor’s repertoire and the extent to which it is improvised may be determined by the audience’s expectations, the regulation of the stage, and the pressure to conform exerted by fellow performers. The Stages of Animal Performers Having proposed that spaces and places constitute stages, it is suggested that the form of space, its organization, materiality, and aesthetic and sensual qualities can influence the kinds of performances that animals exhibit, although not in any predictable and deterministic fashion. To explore the relationship between animals (as actors broadly defined) and the spaces in which they reside and pass through, the contrasting forms of ‘enclavic’ and ‘heterogeneous’ stage space are briefly described. These idealized categories are suggested by a distinction between “strongly contrived’’ spaces (effectively circumscribed and framed, with conformity to rules and adherence to centralized regulation), and ‘weakly classified’, heterogeneous spaces with blurred boundaries (where the often serendipitous elements of animal performativity cover a wider range of encounters and greater expressiveness. This distinction reveals how the kinds of enactions taking place on these stages are influenced by performative norms and habits, the modes of control exerted by industry personnel and locals, and the material form and organization of space. Bearing in mind also, the observations on the influence upon performances by the material and regulatory organization of stages, by way of example, several kinds of animal performance are tentatively identified. These should not be interpreted as, nor are they equivalent to a typology of animal performers. These performances may be typical of particular kinds of animal species, but they may also be enacted by others depending upon the social and spatial factors which impact upon performative contingencies. Enclavic Space As a species of purified space, enclaves depend upon continual policing and monitoring for their coherence with and their distinction from other stages. One of the most important features of enclavic space is the continual maintenance of a clear boundary which demarcates and highlights the human/animal dissimilarity. Moreover, the complex of facilities constituting the enclave is organized to provide

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a self-contained environment where audiences are encouraged to spend as much money as possible. The extension of stage-management over enclavic space includes attempts by managers to “create and control a cultural as well as a physical environment” (Freitag 1994, 541). Set design is strictly maintained by landscaping and watering, and anything considered to be an ‘eyesore’ is removed. Above all, enclaves are designed for gazing. Theming imposes a visual order, and a predictable spectacle of few surprises. Accordingly, the observer’s gaze is directed to particular attractions and commodities and away from “extraneous chaotic elements”, reducing “visual and functional forms to a few key images” (Rojek 1995, 62). These ‘themed milieus’, familiar enough by virtue of their codes and spatial organization, are often designed according to a limited range of motifs derived from media cultures. The theming of enclavic space, the application of ‘sceneography’ (Gottdiener 1997, 73), and a monitored aesthetic combines ideal cleanliness and just a hint of the ‘exotic’ to concoct the requisite combination of high standards and strangeness. The direction of animal performances within enclavic spaces then, seems to be accompanied by its continual material, aesthetic, and regulated upkeep, militating against transgressive behaviour. There is no doubting the influence of such factors, but taking these metaphors too literally creates a spatial determinism, erroneously suggesting that animal ‘performers’ are unconditionally compelled to ‘act out’ specific conformist performances. Yet even with variations according to the genre of display (e.g. zoo, circus, etc.), animals in enclavic spaces are almost uniformly presented as aestheticized bodies (Desmond 1999). Often seen at rest, the stasis of such bodies heightens their objectness and allows for our leisurely contemplation of their discrete bodily details. Within the artificial confines of the zoo, circus or safari park, parallels inevitably come to mind with what Mulvey (1981) has termed the ‘male gaze’, referring to the ways in which many printed, film and electronic media make available images of women as objects of gaze for men. Women are, in much the same way, seen as the passive objects of male scrutiny through the processes of representation (and of course, the male gaze can also be catered for more directly through the presentation of women in such [enclavic] locations as strip clubs and lap-dancing bars.) It is manifestly the case, however, that in recent decades the rationale behind the zoo has been undergoing a transformation. As early

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as the 18th century, fundamental shifts were taking place in western culture concerning the relationship between humans and the natural world (Thomas 1983). By the latter half of the 19th century, moral attitudes towards animals had become more sensitized to the idea of human/animal kinship (Verney 1979). By the latter part of the 20th century social scientists like Fiddes (1991) were arguing that a shift from an exploitative to a ‘caring’ view of animals and their environments has led to far-reaching changes in both attitudes and practices. Certainly, within a philosophical context, a substantial body of argument has emerged laying powerful emphasis on animal rights and animal welfare issues (see for example Midgley 1983; Regan 1984; Singer 1976); and, with specific reference to zoo and circus animals (Bostock 1993). In such a situation, the zoo as a site for the exercise of naked power over animals, and as a location for the indulgence of an unashamedly recreational gaze upon its captive inmates, becomes less and less appealing, and more difficult to justify. This process is almost certainly compounded by changes in public perception induced by the enormous increase in the anthropomorphized portrayal of animals in printed, film and electronic media. This shift, in turn, leads us directly into a consideration of heterogeneous spaces, described in some detail, below. Heterogeneous Space Heterogeneous spaces are usually to be found where animal ‘performances’ are inherently natural, and have often emerged in an unplanned and contingent process. These stages provide contexts for a range of non-human social performances that range from the commercial to the recreational, from the spectacular to the mundane, and from the industrial to the ritual. Particularly, with recent advancements in technology, animal acting and roles for animals have accelerated into various new dimensions. Indeed, the process of making animal performances less overtly custodial and more ‘natural’ (that is, the creation of quasifications not of animals per se, but of their native habitats) has arguably been most aligned through film, and largely within a set of cultural and anthropomorphic values, wherein the roles for animals have developed and changed in such a way as to retain a consistent representation of those values. As film developed as a medium, acting styles, narrative techniques, temporal and spatial development, and scripts themselves were

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affected. The film industry, in particular, has created casting offices, agents, publicity departments, acting schools, awards ceremonies, halls of fame, and a star system for animal actors. Modern trends in televised animal acting are geared perhaps more towards character and story-driven modes of presentation. The problem, however, in being compelled to go down the path of ‘dramatic entertainment’ is—as producers themselves are well aware—that in so doing there is an even stronger temptation to favour staged or contrived sequences. The whole history of animals in film has, of course, been beset by uncertainties about how far one could go in setting up events for the camera. If one were attempting, for instance, to demonstrate a particular trait of animal behaviour, there was always concern as to what kind of ‘assistance’ could legitimately be provided in creating situations where this behaviour could be recorded? (James 1985, 95) As in other forms of preparing animal performances, there has been frequently heated debate as to the justification for staging events (Kilborn 2003, 144-8). These concerns have centred on two main issues: 1) the degree of intervention which could be justified in the quest to obtain revealing animal behaviours without jeopardising the welfare of the animals you were filming (Boswall 1982) and 2) the lengths to which one could go in editing together the filmed material into an attractively packaged narrative account to which viewers could relate (but one which necessarily omitted many of the more boring or routine aspects). The first of these concerns highlights the difficulty of striking a balance between the wish to connect with the audience and the need to provide scientifically informed insights into ‘real’ animal behaviour. The second foregrounds issues of anthropomorphism (the ascribing of human traits and tendencies to animal behaviour) and the degree of distortion which can occur when any filmed event is presented within a narrative frame (Bousé 2000, 4-10; Englaender 1997, 6-7). In this regard, it is possible to say that film has stressed two opposing paradigms in representing animals: first, that animals behave the way we think they do and second, that their behaviour is strikingly different than we had always thought. As Edward Edelson puts it, in Great Animals of the Movies, “Filmmakers generally swing from one extreme to another: either they make wild animals seem tamer than they are, or they make them seem wilder than they are” (p. 37). We see for instance, that Hollywood has generally depicted gorillas as vicious and chimpanzees as harmless (even in fiction, we see this,

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perhaps most notably in the characterization of ‘aggressive’ gorillas versus ‘intellectual’ chimps and orangutans in Franklin J. Schaffner‘s The Planet of the Apes). And films such as Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963) or Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1976) have given a whole new dimension to bird and shark behaviour, respectively. Whilst these concerns remain, contemporary developments in non-human animal ‘acting’ have tended to foreground a new set of issues. Most of these relate to the herein discussed concepts of ‘performance’ and ‘performativity’. Modern-day animal ‘acts’—whatever their manifestation, have always been preoccupied with ‘performance’ rather than ‘performativity’; there is little room for reflexivity or improvisation given the narrow repertoire and the rigid script around which performance is organized, so participants generally remain typecast, occupying specified roles and enacting prescribed movements. The dispositions of such participants is dutiful, with a concern to perform efficiently in the ‘appropriate’‘ fashion, in compliance with popular ideals and orthodoxy. It is difficult, though perhaps not impossible, to improvise outside the narrow repertoire demanded by these kinds of performance, and departure from the script can lead to a failure to communicate and rebuke from stagemanagers, directors, fellow participants and audience members. The traditional ‘performative’ category, by contrast, not unlike the heterogeneous space in which it occurs, is typified by different forms of planning, regulation, and surveillance, and is often more contingent. Those wild animals that share these ‘stages’ may be subject to limited systematic attempts at controlling their movements. This is emphatically not to argue that the politics of power is not played out in heterogeneous space; nevertheless, the limited aesthetic and commercial regulation of heterogeneous space is organized according to an altogether different set of theatrical norms which calls for and facilitates a distinct performative disposition in the animal actor. Here too, however, the motions and interactions are highly scripted and choreographed. The execution of specific actions on cue in effect turns the animals into performers who both produce and perceive the fictive aspects of said theatrical performance. As Jane Desmond observes, “The animals […] perform a fiction of themselves as wild, and they do so within the context of an obviously constructed theatrical vehicle for their display” (151). This last point, then, leads us to a final consideration of heterogeneous animal performance, what

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Desmond has categorically labelled as ‘in-situ’, or performances within the animal’s natural environment. Perhaps due in large part to a growing realization of heightened ecological awareness, a segment of the tourism industry has developed a focus towards animals staging natural performances in the wild. If animal performances do indeed attract mass spectatorship and satisfy their curiosity about the ‘real’ animal underlying the performer, then places where animals can be viewed performing unscripted behaviours and natural activities could represent—and be commercialized as—the ultimate animal productions. Accordingly, affluent individuals with leisure time, for example, go on nature tours—which can never package the experience of animals in such a succinct way as, say, circus acts or nature shows, but in many respects, do surpass them in intensity. Such trips offer consumers the opportunity to watch the performative element of migrating polar bears, of nursing harp seals, and of grazing caribou. Popular audiences—vacationing families—also have the chance to observe spontaneous wild animal performances with the burgeoning whale-watching industry. The humpback whale is probably the most commonly known and spectacular public performer. Humpbacks are often seen swimming with their calves; they can also be seen breaching—raising their bodies half-way out of the water and crashing down haphazardly—apparently simply to have fun or to dislodge parasites. Occasionally, whales, like dolphins, can be seen skyhopping, in which a large portion of their bodies is held vertically out of the water, while they propel themselves backwards with their huge flukes (tails). And perhaps the most intriguing of sites is to see a whale spout, different patterns indicating different species. The experience of whale-watching is unlike that of most staged animal performances in that the performer controls the performance. And clearly, these intelligent animals have some sense of the activity of tourist boats. Often, whales will ‘visit’ the boats and perform whatever level of activity they please. At times they are highly active, at others, they can be difficult to approach. Through their active or passive response, spectators can assume some degree of communication with the animals. The gray whales of San Ignacio Lagoon off Baja California, in fact, have collectively chosen a behaviour that directly communicates with tourists. In 1977, a single gray whale became ‘chronically friendly’ and allowed itself to be patted by passengers of any tourist boat that could find it. Since then, the number of friendly

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whales has soared, with hundreds of gray whales approaching boats for cosseting and stroking. Emotional response and intellectual curiosity is perhaps just beginning to evolve between humans and animals and some kind of performance offers the clearest means of mutual communication. If some fortunate spectators have responded to whales in such intimate terms, the average spectator at animal performances has generally not found deep satisfaction with ad hoc performances in the wild. As Colin Turnbull points out, “too much separation between man and nature is perceived by the average tourist on safari”, or presumably on any nature tour.” In fact, the relationship between most spectators and animal actors is generally a highly artificial one— constructed by popular nostalgia and the tropes of contrived perÂ� formance. Wild elephants do not sit on tubs; parrots do not play cards; and orca whales do not rise up out of the sea to touch a ball. Accordingly, then, the types of performances herein described, could be said to take a place on two parallel spectrums: one that runs from the most artificial representation to the most real; the other that runs from acts of pure popular entertainment to presentation of popular science. Conclusion For many years, scholars have paid attention to the different meanings attached to the notions of performance and performativity in various fields of performance studies. Johannes Fabian (1990), for example, takes a quite critical stand when he describes how social scientists, in employing the term, have vacillated ambiguously between two possibilities: “Either they methodologize performance such that the concept can cover almost any sort of action or they celebrate performance as an artistic achievement in which case the concept should be reserved to acts of extraordinary intensity and heightened significance” (Fabian 1990, 16). There are, however, others who see the polarisation of the usage of these terms without so much cynicism; rather they tend to take it as a sensible distinction between two different research preferences. In this essay, it has been speculated that humans crave knowledge about animals that remain essentially unknown to us, and that the related concepts of performance and performativity is but one means

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of creating an understanding and meaningful dialogue between humans and animals. We give animals a script and through that script they can say something to us. In the most powerful circumstances, the spectator of an animal act can discover some deeper understanding of another species by watching it interpret a script, repeat it daily, wait for cues, plan moves, anticipate other actors and play with the meaning of human entertainment. On one side of the ‘entertainment ledger’ we have raised animals, taught them acting techniques, and then painstakingly trained them how to act like the animals they are meant to represent. But most frequently we have simply populated human narratives with animals, often to provide a necessary symbolism. This is most obvious in theatre and film, but it also applies to the circus, aquarium or zoo with respect to dressing animals, having them imitate humans, presenting them as playing part in our jokes, and interpreting their behaviour in human terms. In wildlife films, animals are above all made human in the voiceover, where they are given feelings such as hope, happiness and grief. A clear example of this type of anthropomorphism is to be found in the recent nature documentary film March of the Penguins, where the original French language release [La Marche de l’empereur; literally The Emperor’s March] features dialog ‘dubbed‘ as if it were spoken by the penguins themselves. A much earlier example includes the 1984 critically acclaimed documentary drama The Bear, which tells the story of a bear cub’s first year of life, again told from the animal’s own point own of view. We see here that much that passes for animal acting today involves attributing human characteristics to non-human entities and is often framed in a thoroughly human sociality. While the declared objective here may be to bring us closer to nature than ever before, the representation of animal actors focuses equally on celebrating the technological competence required to capture the performative skills displayed by the new generation of ‘furry’ presenters, both on and off screen. But perhaps the most important factor in the phenomenon of animal actors in contemporary culture is the quality that has been described by producers of all types of animal performance as magic: an inexplicable, mysterious agency that elicits a delightful emotional response. Animal actors all have the qualities we might refer to as magical: mystery, beauty, power and difference, purely unexpected and shockingly real. In performance, animals reveal something we did not know of them, and in so doing, we have discovered that some

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animals are truly great actors and that their effect on mass audiences is excessive in some magical ways. Our response to animal performances is a curiosity and a desire that at its best is fed by the rapport evident in the finest animal/trainer relationships—a glimpse of a synchronized accord and an absolute knowledge shared by all great performers. References Bagemihl, B. 1999. Biological Exuberance: Animal Homosexuality and Natural Diversity. London: Profile Books. Barad, K. 2003. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28:801831. Bhabha, H. 1994. The Location of Culture. London: Routledge. Birke, L., M. Bryld and Lykke, N. 2004. “Animal Performances: An Exploration of Intersections between Feminist Science Studies and Studies of Human/Animal Relationships.” Feminist Theory 5: 167-183. Bostock, S. 1993. Zoos and Animal Rights: The Ethics of Keeping Animals. London: Routledge. Boswall, J. 1982. “Wildlife television: towards 2001.” Wildlife 24:222-25. Bouissac, P. 1976. Circus and Culture. Indiana: University Press. Bousé, D. 2000. Wildlife Films. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Butler, J. 1990. Gender Trouble: Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London: Routledge. Butler, J. 1993. Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’. London: RoutÂ� ledge. Carlson, M. 1996. Performance: A Critical Introduction. London: Routledge. Chaney, D. 1993. Fictions of Collective Life. London: Routledge. Coates, P. 1998. Nature: Western Attitudes since Ancient Times. Oxford: Polity Press. Desmond, J. 1999. Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display from Waikiki to Sea World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Edelson, E. 1980. Great Animals of the Movies. New York: Doubleday. Englaender, W. 1997. “Some reflections by a student of animal behaviour.” EBU diffusion:5-8. Fabian, J. 1990. Power and Performance: Ethnographic Explorations through Proverbial Wisdom and Theater in Shaba, Zaire. Madison: University of WisÂ� consin Press. Fiddes, N. 1991. Meat: A Natural Symbol. London: Routledge. Franklin, S., L. Celia and S. Jackie. 2000. Global Nature, Global Culture. London: Sage. Freitag, T. 1994. “Enclave Tourist Development: For Whom the Benefits Roll?” Annals of Tourism Research 21:538-554. Ganetz, H. 2004. “Familiar beasts: Nature, culture and gender in wildlife films.” NORDICOM Review 25:197-213.€http://www.nordicom.gu.se/common/publ_ pdf/157_197-214.pdf. Geertz, C. 1993. “Deep Play: Notes on the Balinese Cockfight.” In Daedelus of Cultures: Selected Essays, edited by C. Geertz, 1-37. London: Fontana. Goffman, E. 1959. The Presentation of Self in Everyday Life. New York: Doubleday.

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Gottdiener, M. 1997. The Theming of America: Dreams, Visions and Commercial Spaces. Oxford: Westview Press. Haraway, D. 1989. Primate Visions: Gender, Race and Nature in the World of Science. London: Routledge. Hearne, V. 1994. “The Case of the Disobedient Orangutans.” In Animal Happiness: a moving exploration of animals and their emotions- from cats and dogs to orangutans and tortoises, V. Hearne, 175-197. New York: Harper Collin. James, J. 1985. “Art and artifice in wildlife films.” Discover September:91-7. Jamieson, D. 1985. “Against Zoos.” In In Defense of Animals, edited by P. Singer, 108–17. New York: Basil Blackwell. Kilborn, R. 2003. Staging the Real: Factual TV Programming in the Age of Big Brother. Manchester: Manchester University Press. Kirby, M. 1972. “On Acting and Not-Acting.” TDR 16:3–15. Reprinted in Acting Reconsidered, edited by P. Zarrilli, 43–58. New York: Routledge. Lippit, A. 2000. Electric Animal: Toward a Rhetoric of Wildlife. Minneapolis: UniÂ� versity of Minnesota Press. Midgley, M. 1983. Animals and Why They Matter. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Mitman, G. 1999. Reel Nature: America’s romance with wildlife on film. Massachusetts: Harvard University Press. Mulvey, L. 1981. “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema.” In Popular Television and Film, edited by T. Bennett. London: British Film Institute. Peterson, M. 2007. “The Animal Apparatus From a Theory of Animal Acting to an Ethics of Animal Acts.” TDR 51: 33-48. Preece, R. and L. Chamberlain. 1993. Animal Welfare and Human Values. Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Regan,T. 1984. The Case for Animal Rights. London: Routledge. Robertson, G., M. Mash, L. Tiekner, J. Bird, B. Curtis and T. 1996. FutureNatural: Nature, Science. Culture. London: Routledge. Rojek, C. 1995. Decentring Leisure. London: Sage. Schieffelin, E. 1998. “Problematising Performance.” In Ritual, Performance, Media, edited by F. Hughes- Freeland, 194-207. London: Routledge. Singer, P. 1976. Animal Liberation. London: Jonathan Cape. Steinbock, B. 1999. “Speciesism and the Idea of Equality.” In Morality and Moral Controversies, edited by J. Arthur, 141–7. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall. Thomas, K. 1983. Man and the Natural World: Changing Attitudes in England, 1500– 1800. London: Allen Lane. Verney, P. 1979. HomoTyrannicus: A History of Man’s War Against Animals. London: Mills and Boon.

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Chapter SeveN

The Gaze of Animals Philip Armstrong I. I’m looking at a tiger, but she’s not looking at me. I’m in London’s Regent’s Park Zoo, so of course there is heavy wire mesh between me and the big cat. She’s surrounded by human visitors: the Sumatran tigers’ enclosure is roughly circular and they can be seen from any point on its circumference. Indeed my snapshot captures the face of a woman peering through a window on the opposite side. But it’s the animal’s own gaze that gives me pause for thought. She is looking out of her cage, but not directly at me or any of her other observers. Within this animal’s gaze but not the focus of it, I feel uncomfortable, guilty, ashamed. This feeling returns whenever I look at the photograph. How should I theorize this experience? The word theory comes from the Greek theōrein, to gaze upon: our theories about things are intimately related to how we look at them. So what does it mean if what we are trying to theorize can look back at is? Or if it (or she?) can look back, but refuses to?1 My experience with the tiger seems to confirm John Berger’s argument about human-animal relations in modernity, which has had a significant impact on recent scholars and theorists.2 According to Berger, industrial capitalism has ruptured the once-intimate relationship between humans and other animals: the intensification of agri1 ╇ For a thoughtful and recent study of “the ways an animal looks at a human and how a human responds to such a gaze”, see Wendy Woodward, The Animal Gaze: Animal Subjectivities in Southern African Narratives (2008). 2 ╇See for example Jutta Ittner’s essay on the animal gaze, which begins with a question very similar to my own: “What makes us come back again and again to the zoo, that sad ‘monument to the impossibility of animal encounters’, in order to catch the eye of the tiger behind bars—what are we hoping for”? she asks, citing Berger (2005).

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culture distances farmers from their livestock, and urbanization separates city-dwellers from wild and rural nature. Real animals have disappeared, Berger claims, and been replaced by forms of virtual animality such as spectacle (the zoo) and anthropomorphism (Disney cartoons). “Today”, he concludes, “[m]ost people scarcely ever meet the gaze of an animal” (1971, 1043). According to this theory, the Sumatran tiger in Regent’s Park Zoo is not a real animal at all: she is a simulacrum, a sign of the absence of an authentic human-animal relationship. [N]owhere in a zoo can a stranger encounter the look of an animal. At the most, the animal’s gaze flickers and passes on. They look sideways. They look blindly beyond. They scan mechanically. They have been immunized to encounter .… Therein lies the ultimate consequence of their marginalization. That look between animal and man, which may have played a crucial role in the development of human society, and with which, in any case, all men had always lived until less than a century ago, has been extinguished (Berger 1980, 26).3

However Berger’s thesis also requires him to posit an authentic visual relationship that preceded capitalist modernity. In this lost, primordial and once-crucial exchange, [t]he eyes of an animal when they consider a man are attentive and wary…. Man becomes aware of himself returning the look. The animal scrutinizes him across a narrow abyss of non-comprehension. This is why the man can surprise the animal. Yet the animal—even if domesticated—can also surprise the man. The man too is looking across a similar, but not identical, abyss of non-comprehension…. [W]hen he is being seen by the animal, he is being seen as his surroundings are seen by him. His recognition of this is what makes the look of the animal familiar. And yet the animal is distinct, and can never be confused with man. Thus, a power is ascribed to the animal, comparable with human power but never coinciding with it. The animal has secrets which, unlike the secrets of caves, mountains, seas, are specifically addressed to man (1980, 2-3, italics in original).

This pre- or non-modern exchange is characterized by mutuality and difference. Both human and animal look across an ‘abyss of noncomprehension’; they are familiar but not the same; their knowledge and their ignorance of each other are similar but not identical; there ╇ For an extensive discussion of zoo spectatorship see Randy Malamud’s Reading Zoos (1998, 225-68). 3

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is recognition but distinction; address but secrecy; expectation but surprise. Berger notes parenthetically that this visual encounter could pertain even between humans and domesticated animals. He is referring to the kind of relationship that he attributes (rather nostalgically) to “those who live intimately with, and depend upon, animals”, for example ‘peasants’ (1980, 5). But he specifically excludes from this authentic relationship those domesticated species that he considers to be products of modernity, such as the zoo animal and the companion animal: “[t]he eye of the pet acts only as a coloured mirror”; pets are “creatures of their owner’s way of life”, a fact that “lies behind the truism that pets come to resemble their masters or mistresses” (Berger 1971, 1043; 1980, 13).4 Nevertheless, the gaze of a pet cat has recently inspired and preoccupied one of the most original and influential figures in contemporary theory. Shortly before his death, Jacques Derrida turned with great seriousness to questions provoked by an apparently trivial encounter: one morning, before getting dressed, he found himself naked in front of the fixed stare of his cat. Of course this is precisely the kind of relation—between ‘pet’ and ‘pet-owner’—that for Berger would preclude the possibility of a mutual encounter; however Derrida’s description is strongly reminiscent of Berger’s evocation of the pre-modern authentic relation between human and animal5. Berger writes of the animal’s “secrets” being “addressed to man” across a “narrow abyss of non-comprehension” (1980, 3); Derrida stresses that the animal’s gaze is an “address”, but one that is “uninterpretable, unreadable, undecidable, abyssal and secret” (2008, 8, 12). Berger asserts that ‘man’ is “being seen as his surroundings are seen by him” (1980, 3); Derrida describes the gaze of his cat as “there 4 ╇Scholars and theorists of human-animal relations remain divided on this issue. Ittner, for example, repeats and accepts Berger’s judgement about the visual nonagency of pets (2005, 111). But Woodward offers a more nuanced discussion of the different potentialities implied by the gaze of different animals (2008, 91-3), while accepting that “[t]he power dynamics inherent in responding to the gaze of a feline predator or a wild baboon are very different from those inherent in the gaze of a dog with whom one lives” (92). 5 ╇ In fact Derrida remarks that “the cat … is a domestic animal, but according to me not a tamed one, not trained, not ‘domesticated’” (2008, 157). This distinction opens a gap ignored or denied by Berger, between the taming effects of consumercapitalist domesticity and the capacity of animals to resist those effects in some form or degree.

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before me, there next to me, there in front of me … [and] behind me. It surrounds me” (2008, 11). Berger argues that in the exchange of the gaze “a power is ascribed to the animal” because “[n]o animal confirms man, either positively or negatively” (1980, 3); Derrida writes that “the gaze called ‘animal” offers to my sight the abyssal limit of the human: the inhuman or the ahuman, the ends of man …” (2008, 12). Both theories suggest that ‘man’ is unmanned when confronted by the gaze of an animal. What is the source, nature and history of this unsettling power of the animal gaze? II. The human experience of discomfiture before the gaze of other animals has a long genealogy. For many centuries the eyes of animals were thought to emit a physical force, an irradiation with the power to transfix or infect those who encountered it. In his Natural History (c. ad 70) Pliny describes how “[t]he eyes of night-roaming animals like cats shine and flash in the dark so that one cannot look at them”, while those of the wolf “gleam and shoot out light” (Pliny 1940, 527). The thirteenth-century bestiarists hyperbolized this observation, writing that domestic cats have “such sharp sight that the brightness of their glance overcomes the power of night” (Barber 1997, 109). Renaissance natural historian Edward Topsell (1607) went further, asserting that cat’s eyes “glister above measure, especially when a man comes to see them on the sudden, and in the night they can hardly be endured for their flaming aspect” (Topsell 1981, 37). Moreover cats are “dangerous in the time of pestilence” when they are apt “to poison a man with the very looking on him” (40). The eyes of the lion are “red, fiery, and hollow…. The pupils or apples of the eye shine exceedingly, insomuch as beholding them a man would think he looked upon fire” (127). The wolf’s eyes “are yellow, black, and very bright, sending forth beams like fire, and carrying in them apparent tokens of wrath and malice …” (176). In these descriptions, a dynamism is ascribed to the nonhuman gaze that correlates with uncertainty about human mastery over the animal in question. So, in the case of the lion, Pliny’s advice (repeated by the bestiarist and Topsell) is to meet the animal’s fiery gaze with abject supplication, for this noble beast “spares those bent down

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before it …” (Pliny 1940, 37).6 Not so the wolf, however, whose eye has “a noxious influence” such that “[i]f a wolf looks at a man before the man sees the wolf, the man will temporarily be unable to speak” (59). This belief is expanded upon by the medieval bestiarist, who writes that the wolf’s eyes “shine in the night like lanterns” and “its nature is such that if it sees a man before the man catches sight of it, it can deprive him of his voice”. On the other hand “if the wolf thinks that it has been seen first, it loses its wildness and cannot run away” (Barber 1997, 70). Here is the human-canine dialectic rendered in visual terms: subject to the gaze of the wolf, the human becomes a dumb animal; subject to the human gaze, the wolf becomes docible, doglike. Such was the mystique of the association between nonhuman menace and radiant vision that it featured as a primary characteristic of mythical creatures. In Beowulf (c. ad 1000) English literature’s oldest extant epic, the gaze of the beastly Grendel is described in this way: “him of ēagum stōd / ligge gelīcost lēoht unfǽger” (Chickering 2006, 90-1); “a baleful light, / flame more than light, flared from his eyes” (Heaney 1999, 24). At the end of the poem Beowulf faces a dragon, another opponent associated with ocular potency: the word derives from the Greek drakon, meaning acute and penetrating vision (OED). Topsell speaks of “the vigilant eyesight of dragons”, their “most bright and clear-seeing eyes”, and their correspondingly heavy eyelids: “whensoever they move upon the earth, their eyes give a sound from their eyelids much like unto the tinkling of brass” (1981, 75-7). In “The Dragon of the North”, an Estonian legend retold by 6 ╇Woodward discusses a fascinating recent instance of subjection to an apparently merciful leonine gaze, described by acoustic biologist Katy Payne (Woodward 2008, 57-8). Attempting to record lions roaring at night in Etosha National Park, Payne finds herself face to face with a wild lion, separated only by a fence with a large hole in it:

I lay as still as I could, for I remembered an instruction from my childhood: in the presence of a threatening animal, you must hold perfectly still so he will think you are dead. I looked into his eyes, since that’s what I was doing when he arrived, as unblinkingly as possible (as if dead)…. (Payne 1999, 136). She remains transfixed by the lion’s eyes, which are “exquisite, brown and gold”, with a “glint” picked up from the moonlight. Eventually the lion begins to drool: “I thought, He has acknowledged that I am food and has not reached for me. He has decided not to do it…. Was the decision pragmatic or merciful?” (137). At last, after “[t]welve hours have passed since the start of our vigil”, the lion looks away, gets up and walks off; a few minutes later Payne sees that he has killed a kudu (137).

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Andrew Lang, the monster’s “two great eyes shone by night, and even by day, like the brightest lamps; and anyone who had the ill luck to look into those eyes became bewitched and was obliged to rush into the monster’s jaws” (Lang 1949, 12). This tradition of potent vision is bequeathed to the dragons of modern fantasy: Beowulf scholar J.R.R. Tolkien writes of the “baleful eyes” of the firedrake Glaurung, which cast a hypnotic spell (Tolkien 2007, 178-80, 208-9, 243), and of the eyes of the dragon Smaug, which emit piercing rays that illuminate his den “from floor to ceiling like scarlet lightning” (Tolkien 1978, 189, 192-3). Perhaps the most vivid example of an animal attributed with preternatural ocular power was the basilisk or cockatrice, a hybrid of venomous serpent and cockerel, which according to Pliny and the bestiarists could “kill a man simply by looking at him” (Barber 1997, 184). Shakespeare relies on his audience’s familiarity with this mortifying gaze, in Romeo and Juliet (1597) referring to “poison” in “the death-darting eye of cockatrice” (3.2.46-7) and in Henry V (1599) comparing the king’s eyes to “[t]he fatal balls of murdering basiÂ�lisks” (5.2.17)—a punning reference to a type of large cannon. To Shakespeare’s audiences, such images were not mere poetic fantasies, but references to a real animal with real powers. Topsell’s History of Serpents (1608) confirms that the “hot and venomous poison” of the cockatrice is transmitted via the animal’s sight (Topsell 1981, 46-7). No doubt these accounts of nonhuman ocular power derived, in the first instance, from observation of ‘eye-shine’, the reflective illumination in the eyes of night-roaming animals such as cats, dogs and wolves. Today’s biologists attribute this radiance to the tapetum lucidum, an area behind the retina that enhances night vision by reflecting light back into the eye; this mechanism is present in many nocturnal species (cats, dogs, possums and so on) but lacking in diurnal ones (including humans and other apes, pigs and squirrels) (Ollivier et al. 2004). It also seems likely that this eerie phenomenon led to a durable theory about the nature of vision itself: the notion that the eye, rather than merely passively receiving images from outside, actively sends forth a kind of visual flux to apprehend the objects of its gaze. Thus Plato’s Timaeus (c. 360 bc) describes sight as a corporeal “stream” or a “visual current [that] issues forth” from the eye (cited in Lindberg 1976, 2-3). At least until the seventeenth century, experts continued to believe in this capacity of the eye to have physical effects on its objects, and

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particularly to inflict harm. Visual beams issuing from the ‘evil eye’ could produce various emotional disturbances, diseases or even death in any person upon whom they were cast. Even the skeptical Reginald Scot, author of the Discoverie of Witchcraft (1584) describes how distempered humours, “ascending into the highest parts of the head, doo fall into the eies, and so are from thence sent foorth” as “ beames and streames” with a “fierie force”. It is by this means that “the cockatrice depriveth the life, and a woolfe taketh awaie the voice of such as they suddenlie meete withall and behold” (Scot 1930, 281-2). Nearly a century later Sir Thomas Browne’s Pseudodoxia Epidemica (1672), another work dedicated to discrediting superstitious views of the natural world, continued to assert that “venenation shooteth from the eye, and that this way a Basilisk may empoyson … is not a thing impossible … for the visible species of things strike not our senses immaterially, but streaming in corporall rayes…” (Browne 1981, 183). Conceived as a current, flame, fire, stream of particles, or corporeal ray, eyesight was not just an active force in itself but also a vehicle for other physical effects: poisons, contagions, influences of various kinds. Moreover this visual flux seemed especially menacing because it was observably strongest in the gaze of humanity’s most feared animal predators: wolves and big cats. Yet, although the theory of visual flux survived in the work of early modern skeptics, its influence was weakening in two ways. First, the connection between vision and the power of actual animals was being challenged by empirical evidence. Thus even the broad-minded Edward Topsell—who accepts the existence not only of the basilisk but also the unicorn, the lamia and the winged dragon—dismisses as “fabulous rather than true” the belief that the gaze of wolves causes muteness in humans and vice versa (1981, 179). Browne rejects the link between lupine vision and power over humans still more emphatically. He asserts this “conceit” to be “daily confutable almost every where out of England”—presumably because in his time wolves had already become scarce in England and were in retreat on the Continent—and suggests that the source for the notion was probably not a “venomous emanation, but a vehement fear which naturally produceth obmutescence …” (Browne 1981, 187). The shape of this argument demonstrates a fundamental shift in thinking about the nonhuman natural world occurring during the seventeenth century, whereby the authority of classical and medieval sources was first supplemented and then replaced by the emphasis on skepticism,

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rationalism and empirical observation associated with Francis Bacon, René Descartes and other proponents of the ‘New Science’. The second way in which the power of animal vision was undermined was by the rise of geometrical theories of vision. Johannes Kepler’s 1611 theory of the retinal image, upon which Descartes based his 1637 essay on optics (Lindberg 1976), represented the progressive abandonment of the ancient and medieval notion of vision as an unpredictable, risky, corporeal network—a complex interchange of fiery rays, material atoms, contagious vapours and animal spirits—in favour of an abstract and mathematical concept of vision as a field of intersecting vectors. One consequence of this paradigm shift was the removal of visual agency from nonhuman animals and its sole investiture in the human mind, which alone possessed the capacity to apprehend optical geometry. In this way, the New Science struck flat the thick rotundity of the world; the rich multi-dimensionality of pre-modern visual phenomenology was reduced to a series of two-dimensional planes. The translation of vision into a problem in geometry is a crucial enabling factor in the modern conquest of nature, whereby each field of modern enterprise acquired its own mathematical application: navigation and cartography for the exploration and colonization of space; astronomy and optics for the reconceptualization of time; perspectivism for the development of realism in the visual arts. And for the study of nonhuman animals: anatomy, focusing on the measurement, weighing and tabulation of organs and bones. In this way the animal body was also reduced to a layered series of planes, to be opened up and mapped by the dissecting gaze of the natural philosopher. The translation of visual phenomena into metrical formulae, and the accompanying translation of the nonhuman animal into a dissectible body, is central to Descartes’ theoretical contribution. In the Discourse on Method (1637) he sets out a series of epistemological steps: first he establishes the existence of the cogitating mind “entirely distinct from the body”; then contemplates the world as “the object studied by geometers”; then “[f]rom the description of inanimate bodies and plants I went on to describe animals, and in particular men” (Descartes 1985, 127-9, 134). The undertaking to treat the organic body the same way geometry treats the earth leads inevitably to dissection: so there may be less difficulty in understanding what I am shall say, I should like anyone unversed in anatomy to take the trouble, before

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reading this, to have the heart of some large animal with lungs dissected before him (for such a heart is in all respects sufficiently like that of a man) …. (134).

The point of this demonstration is to show that the body (of the animal, and by inference, of the human also) operates according to purely “mathematical” principles, “just as necessarily as the movement of a clock follows from the force, position, and shape of its counterweights and wheels” (136). Accordingly, referring to the radiance in the eyes of “those creatures which can see in the dark, such as cats”, Descartes insists that this “action is nothing other than light”—explicitly ruling out older theories of vision as a material flux, poison, contagion or heat (154). He thereby subjects the power of the animal gaze to the rule of geometrical optics, and hence to the epistemological mastery of the philosopher. The obvious next step follows: Descartes recommends the reader test out these principles by dissecting “the eye of an ox or some other large animal” (166). By the time we get to the heyday of Enlightenment, at the end of the eighteenth century, the older notion of visual flux seems to have been mostly extirpated from natural historical discourse. Thomas Bewick’s General History of Quadrupeds (1790) makes no mention of it in the entries on cats, wolves or reptiles. Only his description of the lion includes an echo of the tradition, albeit a qualified one: “his round and fiery eye-balls … upon the least irritation, seem to glow with peculiar lustre …” (Bewick 1980, 201, italics added). III. Of course the Enlightenment emphasis on the sovereignty of reason and empirical observation, and the scientific and industrial practices that followed, produced powerful forms of reaction and resistance. These included, in the cultural sphere, Romanticism and Gothicism, which continued to evoke the archaic, the spiritual, the irrational and the supernatural in defiance of the modern, materialistic, rationalistic and positivistic spirit of the age. Accordingly the ancient notion of a dynamic animal gaze, however decisively it was ruled out by natural philosophy, remained a feature of the literary imagination. A typical Romantic example is provided by William Blake’s “The Tyger” (1794). “In what distant deeps or skies / Burnt the fire of thine eyes?” the poet asks, evoking the intense visual energy of the animal,

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“burning bright / In the forests of the night”, in contrast to the “hammer”, “chain”, “furnace” and “anvil” that represent the fetters of early industrial Britain (Blake 1970, 148). Blake’s models were the captive big cats of London’s Tower menagerie—the forerunner of Regent’s Park Zoo—who spent their whole lives in dark stone cells. Perhaps for this reason, the painting that accompanies the poem in Songs of Experience depicts a blunt, soft, feeble creature, glancing sideways with eyes that appear dim and apprehensive. By pitting poem against painting, fiery gaze against a look of subjection, Blake implies a contradiction between what a tiger ought to be and what it is reduced to by colonial and industrial modernity. The Gothic genre—Romanticism’s dark twin—evoked the fearsome aura of the animal gaze with great vigour. In “The Raven” (1845), Edgar Allen Poe writes of “the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core” (Poe 1966, 755). And “The Black Cat” (1843), an early fictional recognition of the link between animal abuse and violence towards other humans, begins with an attack against the animal gaze when the narrator cuts out one of his cat’s eyes. This cruelty leads to more violence: he hangs the animal, then acquires another cat which he also comes to hate because it, too, has only one eye. When he is prevented by his wife from killing this second animal, he kills her instead and walls her up in the basement. The murder is discovered because unwittingly he has also imprisoned the cat, which yowls until police tear down the wall, discovering the decomposing corpse of the wife with the cat sitting on her head, its “solitary eye of fire” shining in the darkness (Poe 1966, 63-70). The survival of folk beliefs about demonic beasts with glowing eyes can be observed even in nineteenth-century works that take a skeptical attitude to the supernatural. In Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre (1847), the prosaic title character finds herself at night approached by a dog, which momentarily she mistakes for the “North-of-England spirit called a ‘Gytrash’” which “haunted solitary ways” in the form of a large beast; she half-expects the animal “look up, with strange pretercanine eyes, in my face” (Brontë 1996, 128). Such creatures, with eyes that like embers or sparks of fire, linger in British folklore, and include the Padfoot, Barguest, Hellhound, Black Shuck and Demon Cat (Matthews and Matthews 2005, 57, 78-9, 267). Arthur Conan Doyle’s Hound of the Baskervilles (1902) was inspired by such legends, but the novel’s dénouement represents nothing other than the triumph of empirical rationalism over

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Â� irrational ‘superstition’. The story opens with reports that a beast is terrorizing Dartmoor: Watson’s diary records the rational interpretation, that “these poor peasants … are not content with a mere fiend dog but must needs describe him with hell-fire shooting from his mouth and eyes” (1973, 117). Yet, during the climactic scene on the darkened moor, Watson and Holmes do indeed encounter “an enormous coal-black hound” with eyes “ringed with fire” and glowing “with a smouldering glare” (167-9). Having shot the animal dead, however, they discover the scientific explanation: the villain of the story has painted the dog’s eye-sockets with phosphorous. So it is that, in the first years of the twentieth century, the reader’s satisfaction aligns with the triumph of the analytic scrutiny of science as it discredits the uncanny gaze of the animal. A similar pattern shapes Rudyard Kipling’s 1897 story “The Tomb of his Ancestors”. John Chinn, whose father and grandfather have been imperial administrators in Madhya Pradesh, arrives in India to discover a legend among the local Bhil people that his ancestor rode a clouded tiger as a sign of supernatural authority. Perceiving the younger Chinn as the reincarnation of his grandfather, the Bhils become fearful and resistant to the current project of the imperial administration, which is to vaccinate them against smallpox. The story’s denouement requires Chinn to kill a clouded tiger in order to disperse the uncanny aura that surrounds him. Describing the animal emerging from his cave, Kipling writes: He looked leisurely for some ten seconds, and then deliberately lowered his head, his chin dropped and drawn in, staring intently at the man….; so that, head on, as he stood, he showed something like a diabolically scowling pantomime-mask. It was a piece of natural mesmerism that he had practiced many times on his quarry, and though Chinn was by no means a terrified heifer, he stood for a while, held by the extraordinary oddity of the attack…. â•… “My word!” he thought. “He’s trying to frighten me!” and fired between the saucer-like eyes, leaping aside upon the shot (Kipling 1988, 131).

The power of the animal’s gaze, whether natural or supernatural, is answered down the barrel of a gun; it is extinguished by the Cartesian conjunction of instrumentalism, visual geometry and mastery of the nonhuman world. With the death of the tiger the Bhils’ supernatural suspicion of Chinn evaporates, and he is able to administer vaccinations to them all.

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Around the same time H.G. Wells—perhaps of all novelists the most ardent proponent of science—also focused on the visual aspect of the confrontation between human and animal. In The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896) the narrator Prendick finds himself aboard a vessel carrying a cargo of wild animals to the Pacific island where Moreau has his experimental station. Prendick’s first anticipation of the nature of the doctor’s work occurs when he encounters M’ling, who is one of the products of Moreau’s attempts to create human beings out of animals through surgical, chemical and hormonal adjustment. Facing M’ling at night, in the light of a lantern, Prendick notices that “the eyes that glanced at me shone with a pale green light”, suggestive of a “stark inhumanity” (Wells 1996, 76). Later, having landed on Moreau’s island, Prendick is nervously exploring when through the undergrowth he observes “something” drinking from a stream. At first, the figure seems to be human insofar as he returns and holds Prendick’s look: He looked up guiltily, and his eyes met mine. Forthwith he scrambled to his feet and stood wiping his clumsy hand across his mouth and regarding me…. So, staring one another out of countenance, we remained for perhaps the space of a minute. Then, stopping to look back once or twice, he slunk off among the bushes … (96-7).

By their second meeting, however, Prendick has begun to realize that the island’s inhabitants are not entirely human. This perception is expressed as shift in visual relationship: looking hard, I distinguished through the interlacing network the head and body of the brute I had seen drinking. He moved his head. There was an emerald flash in his eyes as he glanced at me from the shadow of the trees, a half-luminous colour, that vanished as he turned his head again…. In another moment he had vanished behind some bushes. I could not see him, but I felt that he had stopped and was watching me again. â•…What on earth was he—man or animal?.... I was anxious not to show the fear that seemed chilling my backbone. I pushed through a tangle of tall white-flowered bushes, and saw him twenty yards beyond, looking over his shoulder at me and hesitating. I advanced a step or two looking steadfastly into his eyes. â•… “Who are you?” said I. He tried to meet my gaze. â•…â•… “No!” he said suddenly, and turning, went bounding away from me through the undergrowth. Then he turned and stared at me again. His eyes shone brightly out of the dusk under the trees (100).

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The human-animal relationship, and the relationship between the concepts of humanity and animality, are here dependent on the politics of the gaze. The human’s imagined mastery consists of an ability to out-stare the non-human. At their first meeting, when the Leopard-Man met and held Prendick’s regard, he seemed more man than anything. Hence at their next meeting he seems worthy of the question “Who are you?” (rather than “What is it?”) But his response to that question, even though spoken, reveals the beast in him: he tries to meet the man’s gaze again but he cannot. The same idea occurs in Kipling’s 1894 Jungle Book, where the wild boy Mowgli’s adult separation from his animal clan is signalled when he looks into the eyes of his adoptive wolf family, and those of his friends the panther Bagheera and the bear Baloo, and finds that none can meet his gaze. “He is a man”, declares the tiger Shere Kahn, “and none of us can look him between the eyes” (Kipling 1955, 18). Eye to eye, then, the power of the human gaze out-ranks that of the animal. But something unsettling can still occur when the animal watches, stares or glances at the human in a way that escapes the latter’s gaze: “I could not see him”, says Prendick after the Leopard Man makes off into the undergrowth, “but I felt that he had stopped and was watching me again” (Wells 1996, 100). Here the animal gains mastery of the field of vision while the human loses it. Prendick senses his vulnerability to the beastly gaze physically, as a chill up his spine. Moreover what makes this different from being watched by another human is the “emerald flash”, the “half-luminous colour” in the glance of the “brute”, the radiance of his eyes as he stares from the shade. The gaze of the animal still achieves its most potent and uncanny expression as a flash, spark, light or fire. Ultimately, however, it is extinguished using the same method as Kipling’s John Chinn. The Leopard-Man becomes a rebel against Moreau’s authority, and is hunted. Prendick finds the fugitive first, and “seeing the creature there in a perfectly animal attitude, with the light gleaming in its eyes”, he aims his revolver “between its terror-struck eyes” and shoots (Wells 1996, 166). Prendick’s visual encounters with M’Ling, the Leopard Man and the other Beast Folk remain unsettling as long as he has no guaranteed or predetermined mastery of the visual field. Small wonder that the end of the novel, having witnessed the death of Moreau and the ‘regression’ of the beast-folk into ‘mere’ animals, Prendick retreats as far as he can from the insecure boundary between human and other

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species. He takes refuge from the animal gaze in the most modern of ocular pursuits: the study of astronomy and optics, which allows access to “whatever is more than animal in us” by translating the visual field into pure geometry, abstracted from the other senses and from animality itself (Wells 1996, 207). IV. In the fictions of Wells, Kipling and Conan Doyle we see the fiery animal gaze extinguished by the epistemologies of analytic rationalism and evolutionary theory, the instrumentalism of the gun, and the accompanying ideology of human mastery over nature. Berger’s hypothesis of a rupture between humans and other species, embodied by a break in the mutuality of the gaze, would seem to be borne out. Amongst the modernist writers who were the literary successors of the Victorians, evocations of the animal gaze were most often elegiac, expressing mourning for a lost, primeval authenticity. For example Ernest Hemingway’s final and unfinished novel, The Garden of Eden (posthumously published in 1980), turns on the traumatic memory of David, the narrator, witnessing his father’s shooting of a bull elephant in Africa. Fallen but not yet dead, the elephant returns the child’s appalled gaze: “[h]e did not move but his eye was alive and looked at David. He had very long eyelashes and his eye was the most alive thing David had ever seen” (Hemingway 1980, 199). And D.H. Lawrence describes the stallion St. Mawr, in his 1925 novel of that name, as having “great, glowing, fearsome eyes, arched with a question, and containing a white blade of light like a threat. What was his non-human question, and his uncanny threat?”. Yet the very dynamism of this animal dooms him: too proud and dangerous to ride, he is first threatened with castration, and eventually ends up “slavishly” serving human profit on a stud farm (Lawrence 1925, 20, 154). Again, these nostalgic snapshots of the animal gaze confirm Berger’s analysis, since they subscribe to a theory of animals’ marginalization. “The horse is superannuated, for man”, writes Lawrence, adding “[b]ut alas man is even more superannuated, for the horse” (1925, 90). In a similar vein, Berger describes how [d]uring the 20th century, the internal combustion engine displaced draught animals in streets and factories. Cities, growing at an ever

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increasing rate, transformed the surrounding countryside into suburbs where field animals, wild or domesticated, became rare. The commercial exploitation of certain species (bison, tigers, reindeer) has rendered them almost extinct. Such wild life as remains is increasingly confined to national parks and game reserves (Berger 1980, 10-11).

However, because “[t]he animals of the mind cannot be so easily dispersed”, the material marginalization of animals in the twentieth century was accompanied by the proliferation of conceptual (or, we might say, theoretical) animals. As they vanished from physical reality, animals multiplied in the psyche. Yet even these virtual animals, Berger insists, “have been co-opted into other categories so that the category animal has lost its central importance” (15). When industrial modernity thinks about animals, then, “animals are always the observed. The fact that they can observe us has lost all significance. They are the objects of our ever-extending knowledge” (14). This effacement of the animal gaze by twentieth-century theories of knowledge is vividly illustrated by psychoanalysis. One of Freud’s most famous case histories is known popularly as “The Wolf Man” (1918), a title that refers to a dream the patient had as a young boy: through the windows of his room he sees, sitting in branches of a tree outside, several white wolves, staring menacingly at him: “[i]t seemed as though they had riveted their whole attention on me” (Freud 1979, 259). By reading the wolves as representations of the boy’s father, Freud manages to reverse the look that the animals direct towards the boy, interpreting it as the child’s fantasy of observing his father having sex. Even real animals are interpreted by Freud as representations of unconscious fears and desires. The Wolf Man confesses that as a child “he used to torment beetles and cut caterpillars to pieces”, “to catch flies and pull of their wings, to crush beetles underfoot”, and that “[o]n other occasions he … enjoyed beating horses”, but to Freud these acts of interspecies violence are merely displacements of the child’s “sadistic impulses” towards other small children whom he perceives as rivals for his father’s affection (Freud 1979, 244, 255, 355). Thus Freudian theory epitomizes the transposition—characteristic of the twentieth century, according to Berger—of animality into fantasy, myth, dream and fiction, and the associated eclipse of the animal gaze.

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The second half of the twentieth century saw, at least in wealthy and heavily urbanised societies, a resurgence in the desire for connection with ‘nature’, and especially with animals—a resurgence closely associated with a growing tendency to blame industrial modernity for despoliation of the organic environment and depletion of human beings’ relationship to it. Widespread manifestations of this postmodern trend included the proliferation of urban parks and zoos; the rise of the television nature documentary; a growth in numbers of companion animals; the renaissance of the vegetarian, animal rights and environmental movements; and an efflorescence of interest in wildlife study, habitat conservation, bush walking and ecotourism (Franklin 1999, 45-61). The representation of human-animal relations in literature and theory was no less thoroughly affected. If, as Berger argued, industrial modernity involved the disappearance of animals, and the extinction of the human encounter with their gaze, then the attempt to reverse those tendencies has been a strong feature of postindustrial and postmodern cultures. Yet this reversal also undercuts some of Berger’s assumptions, for the gaze that proves most unsettling in postmodernity often derives from the very animals he considered incapable of possessing one: industrialized livestock, laboratory specimens, zoo captives, urban pests and pets. Although they are, no less than their human counterparts, the products of modernity, these creatures are often shown in postmodern texts and theories to be capable of resisting or escaping its structures. In Margaret Atwood’s futuristic satire Oryx and Crake, the narrator Jimmy recalls as a child visiting the laboratory where his father worked and meeting the eyes of the ‘pigoons’, pigs genetically modified to produce multiple organs for transplantation into human recipients, whose “tiny, white-lashed pink eyes” look up at Jimmy “as if they saw him, really saw him, and might have plans for him later” (Atwood 2003, 26). Later, after surviving a GE virus that has wiped out the rest of Homo sapiens, Jimmy is troubled by a sense of being observed by “someone unseen, hidden behind the screen of leaves, watching him slyly” (46); this cryptic observer turns out to be one of the many feral animals, descendents of laboratory escapees and bioengineered pets, who have taken over the post-apocalyptic landscape. Other writers focus on more mundane animals to signify a crisis in the psycho-social foundations of contemporary urban life.

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Jonathan Noel, the protagonist of Patrick Süskind’s The Pigeon (1989), flees the village of his birth because his wife’s infidelity exposes him to “public attention”; he settles in Paris and dedicates himself to avoiding the gaze of others by withdrawal into a tiny apartment, the only environment over which he can exercise absoÂ�lute control (Süskind 1989, 3). Yet even this modest security is destroyed by a single encounter with the gaze of an animal—a pigeon he encounters outside his apartment door. “It had laid its head to one side and was glaring at Jonathan with its left eye. This eye … was dreadful to behold …. lashless, browless, quite naked, turned quite shamelessly to the world and monstrously open” (9). This gaze overwhelms Jonathan with “a riotous mass of the most random terrors”: “You’ve had it! … no human being can go on living in the same house with a pigeon, a pigeon is the epitome of chaos and anarchy, a pigeon that whizzes around unpredictably, that sets its claws in you, picks at your eyes, a pigeon that never stops soiling and spreading the filth and havoc of bacteria and meningitis virus, … you won’t be able to leave your room ever again, will have to starve, will suffocate in your excrement …” (12).

The pigeon’s eye contaminates Jonathan’s compulsive social hygiene; it possess the same contagious virulence that was attributed to the gaze of certain animals in pre-modern theories of vision. Merely seeing himself seen by the bird leaves Jonathan susceptible to bacterial and viral infection; he even imagines himself contracting the fecal incontinence for which pigeons are everywhere notorious. Similarly, in Keith Ridgway’s Animals (2007), the presence—or even the imagined presence—of otherwise familiar animals embodies an escalating sense of giddy helplessness. Ridgway’s narrator suffers from a growing panic that, rather than being explained by any rational or clearly identifiable cause, seems to be a response to an overcomplex and unhealthily artificial society. As in Süskind’s novel, this anxiety is first evoked by the menacing gaze of an animal, here “a large, dark dog” who appears walking “with a great swagger … right down the middle of the sodden roadway, as if it was in charge here”. It glanced this way and that with huge cloudy eyes, and paused, and went on, and looked, as it passed, directly into the café—directly, it seemed, at me—registering my stare, taking note of me, its hard intelligent mind considering and then dismissing me (Ridgway 2007, 38).

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Later, after a serious of ludicrous accidents, the narrator ends up trapped in a city park at night. In a state of increasing agitation he imagines that he sees the now-luminous gaze of the same animal: “at the edge of the path, I thought I saw two reddish pinpricks of light, at knee height, quite close together” (140-41). Abandoning all pretence of calm, he clambers to the top of a roundabout and, looking around at the darkness, envisions it full of “animals everywhere. The dark was alive with forms, with life, with the idea of living things” (144). And again there follows a febrile interior monologue in which animals appear as the incarnation of all the forces that threaten the fragile scaffolding of contemporary urban life. We live on manufactured surfaces, inside boxes, with everything brought to us … and we believe we are above it all, that the world is ours, but really we know nothing here, we have forgotten what the world is, we have forgotten the terror and the threat, …. [W]e give each other science and we give each other comfort, and we think we are ancient but we are new, and we think that we are safe but we’re not, and we think we are special but we’re surrounded, and we think we are in control but we’re surrounded, and we think we are alone but we’re surrounded—by animals (144-5).

One way of responding to the postmodern return of this kind of atavistic fear, of course, is to reach back nostalgically to the kinds of mastery that seemed appropriate to human-animal relations during the reign of high modernity. This tendency is demonstrated in Yann Martel’s Life of Pi (2002), which centres on the story of a young man and a Bengal tiger marooned together on the lifeboat in the Pacific. The protagonist, Pi, decides that he can only survive by establishing territorial mastery over his companion, and does so by a combination of techniques derived from the theories of scientific behaviourism and practised in zoos and circuses.7 In particular he dominates the animal through eye contact: using a technique he explicitly associates with zookeepers, Pi stares “wide-eyed and defiant” into the tiger’s eyes, until eventually the latter “lick[s] his nose, groan[s] and turn[s] away”. From that point, we are told, Pi’s mastery is “no longer in question” (Martel 2002, 222). There is, of course, another way of responding. Although the gaze of animals in postmodern culture is often challenging or even menacing, it can be taken as an opportunity not for panic or despair, nor 7

╇ For a fuller discussion of this novel see Armstrong (2008).

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for a reactionary renewal of mastery, but rather for a new set of theoretical and material relations. This is the kind of response portrayed in Peter Höeg’s The Woman and the Ape (1996) when the privileged, bourgeois protagonist Madelene encounters an ape captured from the wild for display in Regent’s Park Zoo. Then she met the ape’s gaze. It was open, incalculable. Madelene … had the feeling that she was being unmasked, spied on, scrutinized, as though it saw right through her, saw her naked, devoid of make-up and, worse still, saw her pathetic inner self, her insecurity, her worthlessness (Höeg 1996, 31).

Unlike the characters in the other novels just discussed, however, Madelene responds to the gaze co-operatively: she takes the peach offered her by the ape, and so moves into a relationship with him that will completely re-make her view of society and her place in it. It is the possibility of this kind of response that returns us, at last, to Jacques Derrida’s contemplation of the experience of being gazed at by his cat. VI. Echoing Berger, Derrida argues that “from Descartes to the present”, in Western cultures, “the language both of … refined philosophical argumentation and of everyday acceptation and common sense” has been structured by the refusal of human beings to take “account of the fact that what they call ‘animal’ could look at them, and address them from down there, from a wholly other origin” (Derrida 2008 13, 27, italics in original). Unlike Berger, however, he believes that this tradition can be disrupted—deconstructed, perhaps—by an encounter with the gaze of any animal, even a little house cat. “[C]aught naked, in silence, by the gaze of an animal, for example, the eyes of a cat, I have trouble, yes, a bad time overcoming my embarrassment” (Derrida 2008, 3-4). “I have … a bad time” is a translation of “j’ai du mal”, an expression which “also evokes the sense of evil or a curse” (Wills, in Derrida 162 n. 4). Derrida loves puns, and this one associates the cat’s gaze with malediction, recalling the long tradition of the evil eye and the potential for harm thought to reside in the eyes of cats, wolves and other beasts. In Derrida’s thought, this gaze will prove most harmful to the theories

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of animality and humanity that have dominated European thought for several centuries. He posits that a properly attentive and open encounter with any animal’s gaze must entail a challenge to the fantasy of objective knowledge of what we like to call ‘nature’. For in this case, what is observed is not a mere object of vision, passively vulnerable to human scrutiny, but a subject of vision, the source of a gaze in which humans are objects too. The animal is there before me…. And from the vantage of this beingthere-before-me it can allow itself to be looked at, no doubt, but also— something that philosophy perhaps forgets, perhaps being this calculated forgetting itself—it can look at me. It has its point of view regarding me (Derrida 2008, 11).

Here Derrida draws on twentieth-century phenomenology, which challenged the faith shown by positivist theory in the possibility of a truly objective structure of observation. “The positivist concept of being” requires “a negativist conception of the seer, which must be an incorporeal and nonsensorial knowing agency, an immaterial spirit …” (Lingis, in Merleau-Ponty 1968, lv). In other words, positivism imagines an observer who sees but cannot be seen, who undertakes abstract scrutiny from a non-place, a point of view outside the field of vision. For the phenomenologists of the second half of the twentieth century, this came to be seen as delusional. Jean-Paul Sartre insisted that the eye of the seer always depends upon the gaze of the other (1969). Maurice Merleau-Ponty theorized that participation in the visible only becomes possible because both seer and seen are caught up in the ‘flesh’ of the world (1968). And Jacques Lacan described how the geometrical mapping of visible space, inaugurated in the Renaissance, allows the humanist subject to remain blind to its own subjection to the gaze (1979). For all these thinkers, it is only possible to look if one is the kind of being that can also be looked at. Derrida, “in front of the insistent gaze of the animal”, comes to the same conclusion (2008, 5). And since to be looked at—indeed to be surrounded by the gaze to which one is subject—is nothing other than to have a body, he keeps coming back to the simple, irreducible, material fact of his own body, which he associates with animality. The phrase he uses to describe himself in the eyes of his cat is “á poil: a common expression for ‘naked’, literally meaning ‘down to one’s

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(animal) hairs’” (Wills, in Derrida 2008, 162 n. 5). A little later he speaks of being “as naked as a beast” (Derrida 2008, 4). And while insisting on the corporeality of his own point of view, Derrida also reminds his audience (and himself, perhaps) of the materiality of his scrutinizer: “the cat I am talking about is a real cat, truly, believe me, a little cat. It isn’t the figure of a cat” (6, italics in original). The look directed at him by this little cat also invites Derrida to deconstruct the most formidable and durable of distinctions used to reinforce the boundary between humans and (other) animals: language. This, of course, was the crux of Descartes’ theory: the ‘fact’ that only humans could use linguistic signs meaningfully meant that only humans possessed ‘mind’. Derrida, is not interested in whether animals other than Homo sapiens can use language in the human sense. Instead he suggests widening our understanding of what language might mean, so that the gaze of a cat might be understood not as a mere “reaction” (according to the Cartesian and evolutionary notion of animals as machines programmed by instinct, or by genes), nor as “speech”, but as a “response” and an “address” (Derrida 2008, 8, 13). And he goes on to argue, with uncharacteristic directness, that such a reconsideration of our dominant theories about animality must also entail an urgent reassessment of how animals are treated; that refusal to encounter the gaze of animals comprises a “disavowal” of their subjection to “cruelty” and “violence” of “unprecedented proportions” by industrial and technoscientific systems “on a global scale” (25-6). Of course, as Donna Haraway points out, in order to engage appropriately with the gaze of animals, both philosophy and practice need to learn from other ways of ‘gazing upon’ (or theorizing) animals. She suggests that in order to consider “what the cat might actually be doing, feeling, thinking, or perhaps making available to him in looking back at him that morning”, Derrida could have read the work of ethologists like “Jane Goodall or Marc Bekoff or Barbara Smuts” who have “met the gaze of living, diverse animals and in response undone and redone themselves and their sciences” (Haraway 2007, 19-21).8 It is no accident that these are researchers who prefer to observe animals in natural environments, rather than in the 8 ╇ Actually, Derrida seems to agree with Haraway’s criticism when he criticises Kant, Heidegger, Levinas and Lacan for failing to integrate “progress in ethological or primatological knowledge” into their theories of animality (Derrida 2008, 89).

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laboratory, for the latter is a space purpose-built to eclipse animals’ gaze, and to grant the scientific observer that “incorporeal and nonsensorial knowing agency” which Lingis describes above. Lynda Birke offers an instance of the practices required to maintain this fantasy of a transcendent point of observation when she cites a technician’s remark that “the scientists in the lab insisted that she put the rats in opaque cages. They did not like having rats in clear cages because the ‘animal could look at you’” (2003, 215-16). By contrast, studying animals in the environments proper to them means that the body of the human observer is inescapably caught up in the visual field, along with her or his subjects.9 And it means forgoing the abstract geometry to which modernity reduces the gaze, and instead allowing vision to regain its interconnection with those other sense networks—aural, tactile, olfactory and pheromonal—to which animals are attuned. Moreover, only by observing them in context can the true diversity and complexity of animal’s gazes be recognized; hence field studies document not one animal gaze, but a whole bestiary of visual transactions. Cats “look around” to feign indifference in response to an “observer’s gaze” (Leyhausen 167); they signal changes in mood by “pupil expansion” or the “degree of opening or closing of the eyelids” (Morris 1996, 179). Dogs and wolves indicate aggression with “eyes large” and focused in a “direct stare”; “narrow[ing]” of the eyes accompanies attack; “blinking”, “eye closure” and “looking away” can communicate respect for a social superior; but so can “constantly looking towards” senior pack members (Fox 1971, 45-6; 1977, 732-5). Amongst primates, staring with “eyebrows raised” indicates a challenge and “eyebrows lowered” suggests submission” (Zeller 1987, 435-6), yet “trying to catch the other’s eye” and even “gaz[ing] intensely into each other’s eyes” can also be a means of “reconciliation” after conflict (Goodall 1986, 435-7). Derrida’s thought comes nearest to these kinds of observation when he cites Martin Buber on the meaning and liveliness of the nonhuman look: “[a]n animal’s eyes have the power to speak a great language…. The beginning of this cat’s glance, lighting up under the touch of my glance, indisputably questioned me ….” (Buber 1958, 9 ╇ Perhaps no one has written more evocatively about this than Jane Goodall, who describes with (sometimes painful) honesty her own sensory and emotional experiences of living amongst chimpanzees, along with their reactions to her presence and the long-term impact of her studies upon their world (Goodall 1971). See also Woodward’s extensive discussion of the genre of popular field ethology (2008).

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96-7, cited in Derrida, 164 n. 11). The phrase “lighting up” restores the kind of radiant power that humans once perceived in the eyes of animals, while the word “glance” suggests a more appropriate human-feline visual transaction than a “gaze”, if Leyhausen is correct in asserting that cats usually hate to be stared at intensely (1979, 1678). Indeed, when he goes on to describe the discomfiture of tigers in zoos as a result of constant exposure to the human gaze, Leyhausen offers another perspective on the troubling experience with which I began this chapter. In bringing together philosophy, the arts, and the sciences, perhaps our new theories about animals—our new ways of “gazing upon” them—will allow us to learn from animals as well as about them; to encounter them with greater respect; to know when to catch their eye and when to avert our own, when to gaze intensely in the spirit of reconciliation, and when to glance away in shame. References Arluke, A. and C. Sanders. 1996. Regarding Animals. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Armstrong, P. 2008. What Animals Mean in the Fiction of Modernity. London: Routledge. Atwood, M. 2003. Oryx and Crake. London: Bloomsbury. Baker, S. 2000. The Postmodern Animal. London: Reaktion. Barber, R. trans. 1999. Bestiary: Being an English Version of the Bodleian Library, Oxford M.S. Bodley 764. Woodbridge: Boydell Press. Berger, J. 1971. “Animal World.” New Society 25:1042-3. Berger, J. 1980. “Why Look at Animals?” About Looking. New York: Random House. Bewick, T. 1980. A General History of Quadrupeds. Chicago: W.H. Smith and Son Ltd. Birke, L. 2003. “Who—or What—are the Rats (and Mice) in the Laboratory?” Society and Animals 11:207-24. Blake, W. 1970. Songs of Innocence and of Experience. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Brontë, C. 1996. Jane Eyre. London: Penguin. Browne, Sir T. 1981. Pseudodoxia Epidemica. Oxford: Clarendon. Buber, M. 1958. I and Thou. Translated by R. Gregor Smith. New York: Scribner’s. Chickering, H. eds and trans. 2006. Beowulf. New York: Anchor. Derrida, J. 2008. The Animal That Therefore I Am. Translated by D.Wills. New York: Fordham University Press Descartes, R. 1985. The Philosophical Writings of Descartes (Volume one). Translated by J. Cottingham, R. Stoothoff and D. Murdoch. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Desmond, A. 1979. The Ape’s Reflexion. New York: The Dial Press. Doyle, A. 1974. The Hound of the Baskervilles. London: John Murray and Jonathan Cape.

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Fox, M. 1971. Behaviour of Wolves, Dogs and Related Canids. New York: Harper and Row. Franklin, A. 1999. Animals and Modern Cultures: A Sociology of Human-Animal Relations in Modernity. London: Sage. Freud, S. 1979. Case Histories II. Translated by J. Strachey. London: Penguin. Goodall, J. 1971. In the Shadow of Man. London: Collins. Goodall, J. 1986. The Chimpanzees of Gombe. London: Belknap. Haraway, D. 2008. When Species Meet. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Heaney, S., trans. 1999. Beowulf. London: Faber and Faber. Hemingway, E. 1986. The Garden of Eden. New York: Scribner’s. Høeg, P. 1996. The Woman and the Ape. Translated by B. Haveland. London: Harvill Press. Ittner, J. 2005. “Who’s Looking? The Animal Gaze in the Fiction of Brigitte Kronauer and Clarice Lispector.” In Figuring Animals: Essay on Animal Images in Art, Literature, Philosophy, and Popular Culture, edited by M. Sanders Pollock and C. Rainwater, 99-118. Houndmills: Palgrave. Kipling, R. 1955. The Jungle Books. London: Reprint Society. Kipling, R. 1988. “The Tomb of his Ancestors.” In The Day’s Work, 102-33. London: Penguin. Lacan, J. 1979. The Four Fundamental Concepts of Psychoanalysis. Translated by A. Sheridan. London: Penguin. Lang, A. 1949. The Yellow Fairy Book. London: Longmans. Lawrence, D. 1925. St. Mawr; Together with the Princess. London: Martin Secker. Leyhausen, P. 1979. Cat Behavior: The Predatory and Social Behavior of Domestic and Wild Cats. Translated by B. Tonkin. New York: Garland. Lindberg, D. 1976. Theories of Vision from Al-Kindi to Kepler. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Malamud, R. 1998. Reading Zoos: Representations of Animals and Captivity. New York: New York University Press. Martel, Y. 2002. Life of Pi: A Novel. Edinburgh: Canongate. Matthews, J. and C. Matthews. 2005. Element Encyclopedia of Magical Creatures. London: HarperElement. Merleau-Ponty, M. 1968. The Visible and the Invisible. Translated by A. Lingis. Evanston: Northwestern University Press. Morris, D. 1996. Cat World: A Feline Encyclopedia. London: Ebury. Ollivier, F.J., D. Samuelson, D. Brooks, P. Lewis, M. Kallberg and A. Komáromy. 2004. “Comparative Morphology of the Tapetum Lucidum (Among Selected Species).” Veterinary Ophthalmology 7:11–22. Payne, K. 1999. Silent Thunder: The Hidden Voice of Elephants. Johannesburg: Jonathan Ball. Pliny 1940. Natural History, Volume Three. Translated by H. Rackman. London: Heinemann. Poe, E. 1966. Complete Stories and Poems of Edgar Allen Poe. New York: Doubleday. Ridgway, K. 2007. Animals. London: Harper Perennial. Sartre, J. 1969. Being and Nothingness. Translated by H. Barnes. London: Methuen. Scot, R. 1930. The Discoverie of Witchcraft. Great Britain: John Rodker. Süskind, P. 1989. The Pigeon. Translated by J. Woods. London: Penguin. Tolkien, J. 1978. The Hobbit. London: George Allen and Unwin. Tolkein, J. 2007. The Children of Húrin. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Topsell, E. 1981. Topsell’s Histories of Beasts. Chicago: Nelson-Hall. Wells, H. 1996. The Island of Doctor Moreau. London: McFarland and Co.

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Woodward, W. 2008. The Animal Gaze: Animal Subjectivities in Southern African Narratives. Johannesburg: Wits University Press. Zeller, A. C. (1987) ‘Communication by Sight and Smell’ Primate Societies. Ed. Barbara Smuts et al. 433-49, University of Chicago Press, Chicago.

PART FOUR

Forward thinking

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Chapter EIGHT

Can Sociology Contribute To The Emancipation Of Animals? Nik Taylor Social theory is littered with grand meta-theories which seek to reduce the complexities of social life to something simple and, ultimately, explainable. Social life however is, in reality, messy and often refuses to conform to this idealized view. Take, for example, our relationships with other animals. We eat them, wear them, love them, live with them, abuse them, consider them family members, deify them, and much more. Moreover, any individual in any one lifetime may do any, or all, of these with one, or many, animals. Our relationships with other animals often defy categorization (as does much of social life) yet for the most part we seek to explain and understand these relationships with recourse to traditional social theories, now centuries old and having their roots in entirely different social systems, which maintain that we can, and should, neatly categorize social life. As social theory (and sociology in particular) attempts to come to grips with ‘the animal question’ it is finding that a direct corollary of this is the need to revisit ‘the social question’ as our current conceptions of animals are based on a belief in the social-natural divide. Moreover it is precisely this divide which maintains current oppressive animal practices. Within modernity, culture is cast as firm opposite, as ‘Other,’ to nature. This “ideological fiction” (Haraway 1992, 13) is then embedded in such a way that it becomes the taken-for-granted base of an epistemologically realist science which reiterates the ‘truth’ of these beliefs axiomatically. These ‘truths’ are not limited to the justification of human domination of other species but also include those of women and people of color. Furthermore this oppression of Others is often inextricably interwoven. For example, Marjorie Spiegel (1988) documents how, historically, African Americans were ‘dehumanized’ in order to justify their continued slavery. This was

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achieved, she argues, largely by comparing them to negative stereotypes of non-human animals. Similarly Keith Thomas points out that “once perceived as beasts people were likely to be treated accordingly. The ethic of human domination removed animals from the sphere of concern. But it also legitimized the ill-treatment of humans who were supposedly in an animal condition” (Thomas 1983, 44). More controversially, Patterson (2002) points out the similarities in the justificatory rhetoric used by the Nazis and other eugenicists who historically supported slavery and that used by modern proponents of animal use for human benefit. Whilst quick to point out the dualistic, and thus reductivist, tendencies in other theoretical paradigms, social scientists rarely apply this level of criticism to their own work. I am interested in what may happen if, in taking ‘the animal question’ seriously, we seek to move away from this idea that human-animal relationships (and the rest of social life) are neat and categorize-able and cease seeking ‘the one’ theory which will explain it all. It is my contention that Sociology in its current forms can not contribute effectively to the emancipation of animals in anything other than the most superficial of ways. This is due to the fact that the vast majority of social thought is based in the very epistemological, ontological (and methodological) systems that maintain the (anti-animal) status quo and thus maintain the inferior status of animals in the first place. Indeed, it may even be argued that sociologists inadvertently contribute to the maintenance of such oppression with their attachment to theories and concepts which (often unintentionally) reinforce current oppressions. In order to fully contribute to the emancipation of animals (and, for that matter, other oppressed groups), sociologists must first address the very epistemic foundations of the discipline. This means re-addressing social theory on the broadest of levels. This is not a new endeavor. It has been oft pointed out that much Sociology is based upon essentialist and/or dualist thinking and that, in order to remain topical and relevant to the changes in modern life, Sociology must abandon such modernist pretensions (e.g. Latour 1993). Despite this, the history of Sociology is littered with failed attempts to move away from the structure-agency divide and/or attempts to rethink this divide. Indeed some have argued that the social sciences “have alternated between two types of equally powerful dissatisfactions,” those of micro and macro level theories (Latour 2004a, 16). This is evidenced in the numerous attempts within

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Sociology to either move beyond dualistic modes of thought (e.g. Garfinkel 1967) or to re-unify the structure-agency divide (e.g. Giddens 1984). It is worth noting here that such attempts to re-cast the structureagency divide do so from within ‘traditional’ Sociology with its ‘modernist’ overtones. Traditional sociology, broadly conceived, is positivist in orientation and as such operates under the assumption that there is a reality ‘Out There’ to be understood through the application of various scientific methods to the problem at hand. As such, these theories begin from a structural perspective which sees the structures or social forces in society as more powerful than those who inhabit them. Arguably, this has little relevance to modern society with its unstructured and mobile character. That is to say that there is increasing recognition that the hitherto assumed stability of society and the relationships within it are now increasingly drawn into question. Gone are the ideas of the past where “‘the social’ was about conformity; the rest was anomie, anomaly, pathology or deviance: the a-social, the anti-social” (Bauman 2004, 21). Instead, in their place lie conceptions of society as ‘liquid-modern,’ as ultimately and irrevocably mobile and emergent, i.e. as constantly in a state of flux and change and as produced by its inhabitants as opposed to being preexisting. With this re-conceptualization of society as fluid, mobile, messy, and often un-categorisable comes an emphasis on “the processuality of relationships” (Bauman 2004, 22). In other words scholars are starting to abandon the idea of concrete relationships that have a pre-existing form and instead see them as a process—as always on the move, in flux and always under creation. Thus sociologists, now freed from the limiting confines of studying only relationships, can begin instead to study their ‘relating,’ i.e. the processes not the person (Latour 2004a, 20). Theoretically this allows a move away from the inherent psychologism of Sociology and away from traditional, dualist accounts towards a “praxiological, constructionist account” (Coulter 1989, 6). Crucially, for human-animal studies, this means that ‘the social’ is no longer synonymous with ‘the human.’ To date, attempts to re-work social theory in such light have, however, failed and still return to either some form of essentialism or rest upon some kind of dualism(s) or, more typically, both. After all, this way of knowing the social world is so deeply ingrained that it usually goes unquestioned, even by sociologists. It is, however, this intelÂ� lectual tradition—of Cartesian dualistic modes of thought—which

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Â� justifies many of the oppressions in our world today by creating ‘Others’ to whom we deny key things such as the right to be fully counted as a ‘social being’ (for further discussion see Spiegel 1988). Thus it would seem logical to hypothesize that if such modes of thought could be eradicated it may well lead to a concomitant eradication of the€the forms of oppression they so easily lead to and justify, chief amongst which is animal oppression. Sociology, Animals and The Social Sociology has, until recently, denied any possibility that human interaction with non-human animals could ever be considered social which has led to a “sociology as if nature did not matter” (Murphy 1995). This has ultimately led to a post-Enlightenment Sociology which sees “itself in terms of man’s ascent from animality” (Murphy 1995, 689). Not only has this created and maintained an anthropocentric view of the world but has also resulted in the social-natural relationship being characterized “in terms of unidirectional causality from the social to the natural” (Murphy 1995, 690). This posits ‘the social’ as ultimately, and fundamentally, superior to ‘the natural.’ Current attempts to re-think the boundaries between ‘the social’ and ‘the natural’ do exist. Most notably they can be found in Environmental Sociology (e.g. Lockie 2004) or the Sociology of Scientific Knowledge (e.g. Barnes & Bloor 1996) where such ideas are used to examine the distinction between humans and the environment or humans and inanimate objects respectively. Clearly, neither of these is applicable to the uniqueness of human-animal relationships per se but key ideas may well be borrowed from them. One way in which we may begin is to consider the very nature of ‘the social’. The ‘social’ is, by definition, cast in opposition to ‘the natural’ and some sociologists have sought to theorize about animals by extending the boundaries of the social. For example, Clint Sanders (1993) outlines the ways in which animal caretakers attribute ‘mindedness’ to their canine companions and uses this to argue that caretakers bestow ‘personhood’ on their animal companions thus granting them the ability to move beyond the ‘natural’ to the ‘social’. However, arguments such as this simply maintain dualist conceptions whilst moving the boundary slightly (i.e. from human/social v. animal/natural to human and (some) animals/social v. natural). That

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is, such arguments do not challenge traditional ways of thinking about social-natural divisions and, as such, ultimately reinforce traditional anthropocentrism by arguing that it is we as humans who can grant, or with-hold, entry into ‘the social’. Thus, ‘the social’ remains neatly as ‘the human’. Moreover, such theories rest upon the presumption that it is the human interpretation of the social world which is the only one of import. Therefore any arguments regarding the social construction of anything (e.g. mindedness, personhood, humanity, animality) must, out of necessity, be anthropocentric, being based as they are on the idea of human interpretations of situations. As much as it may be denied by proponents of such theories this harks back to Mead’s insistence that linguistic ability is the key to symbolic interaction. For Mead, only humans, because of their ability to use language and interpret the gestures of others, could be considered capable of social interaction (Myers 2003; Taylor 2007b). Whilst modern re-conceptions of the divide between the social and the natural, which rest ultimately on some form of social constructionism, may claim to move beyond this their insistence on human interpretations of situations (whether linguistic or otherwise) always forces them to return to a fundamentally anthropocentric theory. For example, recent studies from this field have demonstrated that human caretakers often attribute ‘personhood’ to their nonhuman charges (e.g. Sanders 1993, 1999; Taylor 2007a). This is predicated upon the notion that both parties in the interaction are ‘co-present’ (Goffman, 1963), that is, minded actors who possess agency (Weider 1980). Here, agency is defined as the propensity for self-willed action (Irvine 2004). This argument rests upon the notion of intersubjectivity, i.e. metaphysical typifications of essentialist agency are sidestepped in favour of arguments regarding the intersubjective achievement of agency through performance. One problem with this line of thought, however, is that it rests upon human interpretation of the situation, in this case human interpretation of animal agency. Thus humans are seen to ‘bestow’ agency on their animal counterparts and by extension humans are seen to invite animals into what is always and essentially their own social realm. If we are to include non-human animals into the arena we currently denote as the social surely human relationships with their environment also have to be included as part of social life; after all humans interact with their environments everyday (and this may or

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may not include interaction with other species) (Latour 1993). Thus if one of the ways of accounting for human-animal relationships is to argue that animals do, and can, have social characteristics then do we not also need to extend this argument to the wider environment/ nature itself? If this is the case, where does it end; do we also include material and inanimate objects? At what point do we stop extending the boundaries of the social to make them sufficiently inclusive and start to examine the concept of social itself and perhaps admit its limited utility. Thus, if we wish to find a less-anthropocentric way of addressing human-animal relationships we need to consider the foundational categories which constitute the base upon which our presumptions to date are built. One way of investigating the ‘social’ world which may offer some insight is that of actor-network theory (ANT). Although somewhat erroneously labeled (as Latour states “there are four things that do not work with actor-network theory; the word actor, the word network, the word theory and the hyphen!” (Latour 2004a, 15)) as a ‘theory’ this approach has grown out of attempts to recast the ways in which we think about our relationships with the nature, and production, of scientific knowledge and has had considerable influence on modern social ‘theory’. In particular it seems to have resonated favorably with environmental sociologists who have utilized it to embrace alternative ways of thinking about human relationships with the environment (e.g. Woods 1997). Given the link between breaking down traditional modes of thought and conceiving of the world in a less-anthropocentric way it is timely that we consider whether alternative approaches such as ANT can meaningfully be applied to human-animal relationships. Moreover we need to consider what the consequences of this may be for both social thought and for the ways in which we conceptualize our relationships with other animals. ANT is not a theory of social life per se, rather it is an attempt to understand the ways in which social actors go about, make sense of, their daily lives. In this respect it is similar to ethnomethodology in that it addresses the ‘hows’ of life rather than the ‘whys’: how do actors negotiate, for instance, the politics of a situation, instead of why. However, because of the belief that “to become an actor is as much about a local achievement as obtaining a ‘total’ structure” (Latour 2004a, 18) and the conclusion that the social may possess “the bizarre property of not being made of agency and structure at all, but rather of being a circulating entity” (Latour 2004a, 17), ANT

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may well be better placed to investigate the ‘politics’ of the humananimal divide. Actor-Network Theory et al Actor Network Theory is a line of thought that developed initially from within science and technology studies. It also has resonance with, and draws from, strands within the sociology of scientific knowledge and feminist technoscience studies. Given this rather unwieldy semantic background I have chosen to refer to this grouping of thought as ANT et al for the remainder of this chapter, unless the specificity is needed in which case it is used. Whilst this may well conflate issues that purists will find objectionable it serves to make the chapter more readable and to draw attention to the fact that what I propose below borrows from a fusion of these schools of thought rather than remaining faithful to any particular one. Actor-network theory itself was originally developed by sociologists of science as a tool to analyze what scientists do on a daily basis. It is a way of looking at the social world which stresses that humans live and operate within wide networks of phenomena. These phenomena may be other humans, animals, inert objects, ideas, technology and so on. Instead of seeing the social as something which exists a priori to interaction, the argument is that “society, organizations, agents and machines are all effects generated in patterned networks of diverse (not simply human) materials” (Law, 1992). It is therefore a sociology which addresses relationships as opposed to ‘relators’: a sociology of association wherein “there is no society, no social realm, and no social ties, but there exist translations between mediators that may generate traceable associations” (Latour 2005, 108 italics in original). The central argument rests upon the notion that to achieve a specific ‘outcome,’ actors must enroll others into a ‘program’ designed to achieve their ends. Thus ‘work’ gets done through the conduit of a complex series of negotiations between human and non-human actants (so named to differentiate from the traditional usage of ‘actors’ which implies human-exclusive subjectivity and agency). It is this very negotiation between actants which leads ultimately to the definition of their qualities and identities. This constitutes translation, that is, “the way in which the components of a coherent actor are assembled” (Woods 1997, 322). Precisely because of its stress on relationships, it is also a form of social inquiry which rejects natural-social dualisms. For those within

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ANT et al, social action itself is relational and adopting this approach has the real value (to human-animal scholars) of allowing us to study the relatings rather than the relators. In essence this means that the focus moves away from knotty problems like who (or what) is conceived as an actor; as having agency; as being co-constitutive in relationships. It also serves to bring back down to a level playing field all those things that aren’t human. Instead of prioritizing the human and enabling the “privilege of partial perspectives” (Haraway, 1991) and thus writing out any other perspective (animal, environmental etc) it is an approach which sees all perspectives as equal—as tied together in networks. A further cornerstone of this approach is that of process, of fluidity. Instead of seeing the world and its inhabitants in terms of static structures there is a stress on the need to see the processes of things— the immanence of things. This is therefore an attempt to break away from structure-agency arguments and an attempt to clear a new epistemological space. By this I mean the clearing of a space which allows us to think anew—to rethink?—taken for granted assumptions about the world, its inhabitants and how we think about them. It is an epistemologically radical alternative in large part because of its insistence that human superiority and human perspectives not be prioritized and it leads to some radical conclusions, not least of which are the methodological prescripts/questions. ANT et al is not so much a theory as it is a philosophical/epistemological position. In posthumanist thought the very idea of a ‘theory’ becomes irrelevant as it suggests a fixed end point that one can attain (a theory which works to explain something universally). Given the stress on becoming, on process, ANT et al can never be a theory in that vein. Rather, then, it is a standpoint, somewhere to start from as opposed to somewhere to end. This standpoint has real-world implications—not only about the way we think as outlined above, but also about the way we do. ANT, then, is a method rather than a theory, a starting point, a paradigm, a philosophical position, a spatial-temporal-material quagmire of undoing which allows us to recognize animals as ‘subjects.’ As such, it is “a semiotic machine for waging war on essential differences. It has insisted on the performative character of relations and the objects constituted in those relationships” (Law 2004, 7). Furthermore it has distanced itself from the structure-agency debate by demanding that attention be focused on both actors and networks equally. The actor does not ‘construct’ the network, the actor works

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in-and-with the network and is simply another integral part of the network. Thus, ANT problematises what constitutes an actor: “Not only is an actor defined solely in relation to other actors in the network, but fundamentally, potential actors are not limited to humans, but may be non-human agents: animals, organizations, machines, technologies” (Woods 1997, 322). ANT et al and Human-Animal Studies Importantly, for human-animal studies the actant is no longer restricted to ‘the human’ and instead can be animal or an inanimate object. According to Latour (2005, 10), within an ANT approach, nonhumans “have to be actors and not simply the hapless bearers of symbolic projection.” As such they are seen to constitute an active part of the network and can ‘object’ and otherwise play a meaningful role in the ‘program’. Crucially, the actants are also considered to be equal to each other. Because of its stress on the relations between actors (as opposed to the actors themselves) and on the performative and emergent nature of any qualities they may possess, human and nonhuman actants are seen as equal. There is no a priori ontological assumption of human superiority. This neatly allows ANT to sidestep what Latour refers to as ‘purification’, the process of which “creates two entirely distinct ontological zones: that of human beings on the one hand; that of nonhumans on the other” (Latour 1993, 10-11). It is this process of purification which is both embedded within traditional modes of thought and one which non-anthropocentric theories must find a way of avoiding. ANT’s processual approach is one which allows the cognitive capacities of humans to migrate to objects. These in turn become efficient, intelligent, co-ordinated, or ‘purposive’. Qualities which had been the privilege of humans and guaranteed their distinctiveness from non-humans are simply recycled to characterize the heterogeneous ‘hybrid’ collective which became the new source of action (Gomart and Hennion 2004, 224).

For Sociology this is a radical alternative in that it no longer sees action, agency or human interpretations/construction of entities as the central unit of analysis. Instead it addresses the heterogeneous elements within networks which generate emerging action. This serves to remove the ‘actor’ as the essential and irreducible unit of analysis. For human-animal studies it means that nonhuman animals

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can be considered to possess equal standing within the network and thus points the way toward a less-anthropocentric mode of analysis. In other words, a network approach offers to both social theory and human-animal studies “an opening—pried loose with a partly rhetorical liberation of things and an attentiveness to spaces, dispositions, and events—which releases us from the insoluble opposition between natural determination and human will” (Gomart and Henion 2004, 224 -226). ANT et al and Animal Oppression There are (at least) two major ways in which ANT et al offers radical potential to those of us who study human-animal relations and who seek a different way of looking at animals—a way which is not hierarchical and grounded in dualist conventions wherein the human/ social is always given primacy over the animal/natural. The first is the philosophical/epistemological promise offered. ANT et al offers a radically different epistemological starting point. As outlined above ANT et al offers a conception of the social world as social action and in doing so questions assumptions about the centrality of human endeavor in the ‘creation’ of this world. By creating a starting point which no longer reeks of humanism, ANT et al offers a framework for sociologists to use to address ‘Others’ on an equal footing: Actor-network theory is analytically radical in part because it treads on a set of ethical, epistemological and ontological toes. In particular, it does not celebrate the idea that there is a difference in kind between people on the one hand, and objects on the other. It denies that people are necessarily special. Indeed it raises a basic question about what we mean when we talk of people …. Analytically, what counts as a person is an effect generated by a network of heterogeneous, interacting, materials (Law, 1992).

The second potential that this approach has for human-animal studies is more concrete: ANT itself is centrally concerned with the mechanics of power (Law 1992) just as it is concerned with the idea of ‘knowledge.’ For those within ANT knowledge is not abstract, rather it is embodied and enacted and emerges from the interactions of various objects within networks. For human-animal studies the potential here is startling. For example, we may wish to study empirically how reified knowledge about animals is produced and used within networks. If the key task of sociology, under ANT et al, is to

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“characterize .. networks in their heterogeneity and explore how it is that they come to be patterned to generate effects like organizations, inequality and power” (Law 1992), then this is readily transcribe-able to human-animal-environmental relations. For example, we could use this to address how human-animal relations are patterned in such a way as to justify human uses and abuses of animals. Moreover, ANT itself is often concerned with how it is that the heterogeneous networks that make up social life are often invisible. Again, this is easily transferred to human-animal relations. How, for example, do the various pieces of the networks that make up and legitimize ‘factory farming’ come to be ‘unseen’ by the public. The potential of this is not to be understated or decried as merely academic. If, for example, we are able to make seen these processes then they can be changed by other actors in the networks—say, by consumers who choose not to buy the products of factory farming. ANT et al and Animal Liberation? Animal liberation and animal rights are issues which are commonly seen as occupying an entirely different epistemological and ontological space than human rights which, ironically, ignores the fact that we are all—human and nonhuman—animals. Moreover the distinction between the two is one which forms the bedrock of most of the arguments that deny animals rights. The arguments take many forms but usually rest upon the perceived difference(s) between ‘us’ and ‘them’ where the ‘us’ side of the equation is always given more weight than the ‘them’. Take, for example, Leahy’s arguments re the lack of linguistic ability in nonhuman animals. His argument is that calls for animal liberation are based upon an erroneous conception of the mental and emotional lives of animals which cast them as too similar to humans for his liking. Utilizing a Wittgensteinian framework, Leahy argues that animals, who do not possess the ability to project because they do not possess linguistic ability, do not suffer to the same extent as humans. That, “lacking language, animal behavior does not have meaning for them” (Leahy 1993, 139). Hence, animal “subjectivity consists of nothing more than a constellation of discrete phenomenal experiences, with nothing to connect or unify them; there is no subject that ‘has’ or ‘experiences’ those experiences, and no subject for whom those experiences have meaning” (Pleasants 2006, 319). Thus, it is acceptable to use them for human benefit.

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Arguments like this mirror common thinking about animals and are firmly based upon the idea that to be considered a ‘social animal’ one has to have the ability to interpret the world in a wholly human way. Hence there is no such thing as the ‘social animal’, there is, and can only ever be under such an interpretation, the ‘social human’. Thus animal interpretations of the world become null and void. Yet interpret the world they surely do for how would they eat, forage, interact with other ‘safe species’ and so on without this ability. What we do not know about animals and their worlds outweighs that which we do know and will continue to do so while we look at the world with such a narrow, anthropocentric focus. Moreover, traditional Sociology which considers ‘the social’ to be limited to being the realm of ‘the human’ is, deliberately, or inadvertently, contributing to such beliefs. Until we begin to approach social life un-anthropocentrically, Sociology simply cannot contribute to the emancipation of animals (and, by extension any oppressed ‘Others’). Theories which have sought to help the plight of animals in modern societies have been generated from within such a traditional epistemological framework and, as such, cannot hope to contribute to a removal of animal oppression other than by the most superficial of means. For example, sociological approaches towards animal rights (or ‘animal protection’ if preferred, see Taylor 2004) define animals and the cause of animal rights as a ‘construct’ of its members, whether this be its human members or the animals they fight for. This inherently misses what individuals do as activists. The actor becomes lost within such structural imperatives as ‘identity’ or ‘social movements’. Unless we wish to return to positivistic, and dualistic, theories then the starting point for sociologists investigating the ‘animal rights movement’ is no more, and no less, than its constituents and what they actually do as opposed to what they actively construct. This is all but impossible if the starting point assumes a human construction of the world. It may be that animal rights also constitutes an “issue around which challenges for power can be made” (Woods 1997, 321 ) but only if those involved (and that includes in this analysis its antimembers/protagonists) are actively involved in creating such a discourse. Even if they are, this will not be the only discourse, nor will it be produced in a vacuum. It, and others like it, will always be the outcome of actors utilizing agency within a network, a network which we tend to see as being comprised of humans alone. ANT

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forces a reconsideration of this and starts from the position that this network is comprised of humans, animals and inanimate objects, and, crucially, that their respective place in the network are of equal import. It is, however, important to note that this suggests equality in terms of function/role but should not be mistaken as a moral equivalent. This is not unproblematic for human-animal scholars and it is something to which I turn later in the chapter. This will lead to very different kinds of analyses than we are used to, precisely because it starts from a fundamentally different point. One cannot hope, for example, to simply ‘apply’ ANT like a new layer, on top of traditional analyses. The epistemological and ontological uniqueness of ANT demands a different starting point, different methods and an altogether different emphasis—on the processes of relating rather than on those who do the relating. But this, in essence, is the point. Until we begin to think of animals differently—not as innately inferior and/or dependent upon humans for meaning—we cannot contribute to their emancipation. Whilst some will object to this idea because it appears, prima facie, to relegate animals to the same ‘level’ as inanimate objects, such an objection misses the point. Conceptually, ANT essentially removes the ‘hierarchical’ view which pervades social science thinking and thus, there is nothing intrinsically ‘wrong’ with arguing that humans, animals and inanimate objects occupy equal spaces within the network. After all, ANT is an analytical approach, not a moral one. This does not mean, however, that the outcomes of it cannot contribute to a social theory which itself, in turn, contributes to an eradication of animal oppression. In other words, once we begin to ‘think about’ animals differently, some form of emancipation will of necessity follow. If the current uses and abuses of animals are—to oversimplify the argument—based on the idea that they are both different to humans and outside the social/human realm then removing such distinctions will lead to a radical rethink of animals’ place(s). How this emancipation might look is beyond the scope of the current chapter. Although Sociology can contribute to animal liberation by, for example, analyses of the institutions in society which underpin and maintain animal exploitation and analyses of the importance of animals in modern life it can only do so superficially. While such contributions are not to be understated because they take as their standpoint a paradigm which accepts traditional divisions between humans and other animals, at a conceptual level they cannot offer a

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challenge to the status quo. Yet it is precisely this kind of challenge which is needed if we are to effect meaningful change in the lives of nonhuman animals. Morals, Ethics, and ANT et al Two of the knottier problems with the approach I am advocating here are questions of morals and ethics. If the philosophical position which underlies ANT et al mandates that we treat as our subject matter the relatings, the becomings, the processes and so on, and moreover that we treat them as of equal standing within the network then are we destined to forever describe as opposed to prescribe? Due to its birth in science studies, much of the debates within ANT regarding the place of entities within the network concerns animate v inanimate objects. Again, because of it being a methodological prescription, or epistemological starting point, ANT seems lacking in moral and/or ethical frameworks for the current purposes. That is to say, that if we are talking of all being equal within the network then whilst this allows the possibility of animals’ being seriously considered as part of the network, it also leaves begging certain questions. Are dogs equal to lettuce in the network; are humans equal to computers; frogs to ferns and so on? I realize that these questions are somewhat tangential to the ideas which motivate ANT and thus am not criticizing proponents of ANT for not considering them (yet). And I also realize that I am conflating things which ought not be conflated under ANT (essentialist questions regarding moral and ethical positions do not fit epistemologically with the precepts of ANT), but they are nevertheless questions which need answering if human-animal scholars are to make use of ANT in certain ways. By certain ways, I mean if ANT et al is to be taken as a starting point for the generation of knowledge which aims to emancipate animals. This is a highly political aim and as such may not have much room within ANT per se but for our current purposes it needs addressing. Latour tells us that politics and power are not a function of the phenomena/owner/thing but of the relations between things (Latour 2004b). This seems to have promise as a way forwards for those of us working in human-animal studies who see our work as more than ‘just’ academic inquiry, as a continuous critique of the status quo and as the bedrock of an alternate future for nonhuman animals. However, I am not convinced that this approach works

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alone—without some kind of ethical and moral principle behind it. Of course, the irony is that the philosophical assumptions underlying ANT do not necessarily have room—ontologically and epistemologically speaking—for meta theoretical, essentialist ethical/moral position. Rather, the ethics of any given situation are seen as emergent properties of the ongoing relations. Where then does this leave us? To my mind it leaves us with a beginning, somewhere to start from. An acknowledgment that traditional ways of thinking/ knowing/ speaking/ seeing the social world (as rooted in hierarchical, dualist frameworks) is no longer a tenable one within which to do critical animal studies. It also offers an alternative way of doing human-animal studies—methodologically speaking—and this alternate way starts from a presumption of similarity between humans and other animals. Not a similarity in form or even function, but an assumption that both play a critical—and equal—role in our networks, in our interactions, in our relationships. The challenge is then to see where this takes us. To think about alternate futures, alternate visions, futures and visions which start from this alternate philosophical standpoint and see where they take us. Put like this, this way of thinking about humans and animals becomes a call for action rather than an abstract discussion of how we might know the world of which we are a part. Conclusion The idea of removing dualistic, and anthropocentric, tendencies within social thought is not new yet the fact remains that we still see the world through dichotomized eyes and most of the attempts which claim to do otherwise have sadly failed. Furthermore such dualisms inherently underpin anthropocentric thought. For those of us who support the animal rights agenda finding a non-anthropocentric way to view the world is imperative for it is this very anthropocentrism which allows people like Leahy to claim that it is acceptable to use animals in whatever way we see fit (as long as we do so humanely!) because they do not share our linguistic, and therefore our cognitive, abilities. Thus the application of ANT and ideas like it to human-animal relationships/divisions may have radical potential (for both animals and social theory). If we eradicate the traditionally conceived divide

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between humans and other animals by no longer interpreting it anthropocentrically we, at the very least, eliminate much of the rationale for treating animals as we currently do. Traditional theories presume human superiority, if by nothing else, by privileging human interpretations/constructions of situations. Since giving equal weight to non-human interpretations is not a viable solution (how else could we do it other than by a human interpretation of the nonhumans’ interpretation) then we may need to devise ways of theorizing about the social world which do not depend upon ‘construction’ at all. One such way is to no longer focus on the human ‘actor’ but instead to focus on ‘actant relationships.’ We thus potentially remove the human (the site of the inherent psychologism of modern dualist assumptions) from the equation. This is superficially distasteful to those from a tradition whose entire intellectual history has inadvertently supported notions of human superiority (and here I speak epistemologically and ontologically even though this clearly has a knock-on pragmatic effect). It is also resisted because it is so radical—it literally forces a re-think of social thought from the ground up. Indeed, it is so radical that the language needed to fully express such an idea is lacking. For instance, it cannot be a ‘theory’ as such based as it is on the changeability of social life/relations—a changeability which denies uniform replicability, certainty and all the other hallmarks of meta-theoretical thinking. Yet it forces us to consider not a relationship between the natural (i.e. animal ‘them’) and the social (i.e. human ‘us’) but a circularity where “subjectivity, corporeality, is no more a property of humans, of individuals, of intentional subjects, than being an outside reality is a property of nature” (Latour 2004a, 23). Surely this, then, leads logically to a re-thinking of issues such as animal liberation and rights. This will involve a re-casting of conceptions of ‘animal rights’ (and human rights for that matter) as it will no longer be a case of assessing ways in which animals differ from, or are similar to, humans. This becomes irrelevant when viewing the world ‘nonanthropocentrically’. Furthermore logically following ideas such as ANT, or those which borrow closely from it, forces us to realize that the world is not solely a human one and thus leads us to rethink our views about animals (and the environment and so on) in entirely new ways. What these ways will be it is impossible to surmise here, and it would be a facetious and premature exercise to do so, but, make no mistake about it, while ANT may not have the answers per se, its

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epistemological foundations at least point us towards beginning to ask the right questions. In such a way ANT has revolutionary potential for the removal of animal oppression and the serious inclusion of animals themselves into our intellectual sphere has revolutionary potential for the future of social (and sociological) thought. References Bauman, Z. 2004. “Zygmunt Bauman: Liquid Sociality.” In The Future of Social Theory, edited by N. Gane, 14-46. London: Continuum. Barnes, B., D., Bloor, and J. Henry. 1996. Scientific Knowledge: A Sociological Analysis, Chicago: University of Chicago Press.. Coulter, J. 1989. Mind in Action. Cambridge: Polity Press. Garfinkel, H. 1967. Studies in Ethnomethodology. New Jersey: Prentice-Hall. Goffman, E. 1963. Behaviour in Public Places: Notes on the Social Organisation of Gatherings. New York: Free Press. Gomart, E., and Hennion, A. 2004. “A sociology of attachment: Music amateurs, drug users.” In Actor Network Theory and After, edited by J. Law and J. Hassard, 220-247. Oxford: Blackwell. Giddens, A. 1984. The Constitution of Society: Outline of the Theory of Structuration. Berkeley: University of California Press. Haraway, D. 1991. “Cyborg Manifesto: Science, Technology, and Socialist-Feminism in the Late Twentieth Century.” In Simians, Cyborgs and Women: The Reinvention of Nature, 149-181. New York: Routledge. Haraway, D. 1992. Primate Visions: Gender, Race and Nature in the World of Modern Science. London: Verso. Irvine, L. 2004. If you Tame me: Understanding our Connection with Animals. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Latour, B. 1993. We Have Never Been Modern. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Latour, B. 2004a. “On recalling ANT.” In Actor Network Theory and After, edited by J. Law and J. Hassard, 15-24. Oxford: Blackwell. Latour, B. 2004b. The Politics of Nature: How to Bring the Sciences into Democracy. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Law, J. 1992. Notes on the theory of the actor network: Ordering, strategy and heterogeneity. Lancaster: Centre for Science Studies, Lancaster University. http://www. lancs.ac.uk/fss/Sociology/papers/law-notes-on-ant.pdf. Law, J. 2004. “After ANT: Complexity, naming and typology.” In Actor Network Theory and After, edited by J. Law and J. Hassard, 1-14. Oxford: Blackwell. Law, J., and J. Hassard. Eds. 2004. Actor Network Theory and After. Oxford: Blackwell. Leahy, M. 1993. Against Liberation: Putting Animals in Perspective. Basingstoke: Taylor and Francis. Lockie, S. 2004. “Social nature: The environmental challenge to mainstream social theory.” In Controversies in Environmental Sociology, edited by R. White, 26-42. London: Cambridge. Murphy, R. 1995. “Sociology as if nature did not matter: An ecological critique.” British Journal of Sociology 46:688-707. Myers, O. 2003. “No longer the lonely species. A post-Mead perspective on animals and Sociology.” International Journal of Sociology and Social Policy 23:46–68.

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Patterson, C. 2002. Eternal Treblinka: Our treatment of Animals and the Holocaust. New York: Lantern Books. Pleasants, N. 2006. “Nonsense on stilts? Wittgenstein, ethics and the lives of animals.” Inquiry 49:314–336. Sanders, C. 1993. “Understanding dogs: Caretakers’ attributions of mindedness in canine-human relationships.” Journal of Contemporary Ethnography 22:205-226. Sanders, C. 1999. Understanding Dogs: Living and Working with Canine Companions. Philadelphia: Temple University Press. Spiegel, M. 1988. The Dreaded comparison: Human and Animal Slavery. London: Heretic Books. Taylor, N. 2004. “‘In it for the animals:’ Moral certainty and animal welfare.” Society and Animals 12:317-339. Taylor, N. 2007a. “‘Never an It’: Intersubjectivity and the creation of animal personhood in animal shelters.” Qualitative Sociology Review 3: Retrieved April, 2007. http://www.qualitativesociologyreview.org /ENG/archive_eng.php. Taylor, N. 2007b. “Human-animal studies: A challenge to social boundaries?” Proteus: A Journal of Ideas 24:1-5. Thomas, K. 1983. Man and the Natural World. New York: Pantheon Books. Urry, J. (2004). “John Urry: Complex Mobilities.” In The future of social theory, edited by N. Gane, 109-124. London: Continuum. Weider, D. 1980. “Behaviouralistic operationalism and the life-world: Chimpanzees and chimpanzee researchers in face to face interaction.” Sociological Inquiry 50:75-103. Woods, M. 1997. “Researching rural conflicts: Hunting, local politics and actornetworks.” Journal of Rural Studies 14:321-340.

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CHAPTER NINE

Theorising Rider-Horse Relations: An Ethnographic Illustration of the Centaur Metaphor in the Spanish Bullfight Kirrilly Thompson When it comes into the plaza, the horse has to be in a state of mind where it thinks for the two of us, the same ideas for both of us. If one of us doubts, we both fail. (rejoneador to author)

Introduction Only a few animals are regularly ridden by humans. Despite the rarity of the riding relationship, the fact that humans ride horses remains arguably the most taken for granted aspect of the human-horse relationship. The riding relationship presents a valuable area of research into the embodied dimensions of human-animal communication because it requires and encourages the harmonisation of human and animal bodies in space and time. The archetypal metaphor for the achievement of harmony between horse and rider is the mythical centaur with the upper body of a human and the lower body of a horse. In this paper, I demonstrate the ways in which the centaur metaphor conveys the transformative and generative nature of the rider-horse relationship. In so doing, I suggest that there is an inherent centaurability in the rider-horse relationship. The centaur metaphor has been used by Victor Turner (1974, 253) as a ‘classical prototype’ of liminal duality, not quite human yet not quite horse. However, liminality in Turner’s sense refers to an ambiguous and dangerous state between two human states. In this context of ritual, the centaur metaphor is essentially transitional and anthropocentric. That is, a human half-way house. However, in this paper I suggest that the centaur metaphor can be used more substantively to refer to a desired or achieved state of something more than Â�human-plus-horse. To discuss these generative and transformative

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dimensions of the human-horse relationship and the centaur metaphor, I engage with a broad literature spanning human-automobile relations, performativity, phenomenology and actor-network theory. Following a theoretical contextualization, I illustrate the centaur metaphor ethnographically by discussing the centaur-in-action in the Spanish bullfight (corrida). I compare the picador who appears in the first phase (tercio) of the bullfight from foot (corrida de toros) with the lesser-known rejoneador1 of the bullfight from horseback (corrida de rejones) to illustrate that although the centaur is the archetypal and somewhat romantic metaphor for a transcendent rider-horse relationship, such as achievement is not a fait accompli of that relationship.2 To some extent, this is because the human-horse is part of a broader dynamic network of humans, animals and technology. Thus, I consider not only the human-horse-bull relationships in the Spanish bullfight, but also the ways in which they are mediated by technology. I therefore also discuss the ways in which saddlery, protective wear, blades and barbs affect the rider-horse relationship in the bullfight from horseback. By comparing two specific humanhorse relations in the Spanish bullfight according to their ‘centaurability’, I denaturalize the romantic centaur metaphor and the taken-for-granted riding relationship. Overall, I explore the ways in which the centaur metaphor can be used to convey the transformative and generative potential of humanhorse riding relationships in general as well as to examine specific rider-horse relations. Whilst I demonstrate that the centaur is not a fait accompli of the riding relationship, I argue that the riding relationship is imbued with an inherent centaurability. The empirical material presented in this paper was generated through 15 months of ethnographic fieldwork in Andalusia beginning in 2000, ongoing research into human-horse relations and the bullfight from horseback, and my own experience as an equestrian over approximately 20 years. Elsewhere, I have used the centaur metaphor to discuss the development of the human-horse relationship through key moments in the history of the bullfight from horseback (Thompson 2007). I have 1 ╇ Female bullfighters from horseback are referred to as rejoneadoras. A female picador would be referred to as a picadora, although picadores are almost exclusively male. 2 ╇ There is another mounted figure involved in the corrida. This is the alguacil who is a mounted official. The alguacil does not face the bull from horseback.

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also used the centaur metaphor to challenge binary interpretations of the bullfight (Thompson accepted 17 March 2010). In this paper, I introduce the centaur as a metaphor which highlights the generative and transformative nature of the rider-horse relationship sui generis. Therefore, whereas others have considered different kinds of metaphoric relations with animals (Belk 1996) and the implications of the metaphor of humans as animals (Goatly 2006), my aim is to consider the theoretical application of the centaur to embody and convey the transformative and generative potential of the riding relationship specifically in the rider-horse relationship.3 Following Dant’s (2004) proposal of the term ‘driver-car’ to refer to the assemblage of driver and car, I use the term ‘rider-horse’ to evoke a sense of the unified being of rider and horse. The counterintuitive order of terms in ‘rider-horse’ also draws attention to the taken-for-grantedness of the role of the horse in the common term ‘horse rider’. As an anthropocentric phrase, ‘horse rider’ obscures the role that the horse plays in constructing the human as a ‘horse-rider’. ‘Rider-horse’, on the other hand, draws attention to the transformation of the rider by the horse and the horse by the rider.4 In this paper, I use the term ‘rider-horse’ to refer to rider and horse as an intercorporeal being, and I use the hyphenated term ‘horse-rider’ when referring specifically to the rider, but emphasizing the role of the horse in the construction of a human as a horse-rider. The Centaur The centaur is a mythological figure typically associated with the Greek Classical period. It has also been linked to earlier Indian and Babylonian culture and its earliest evidence is attributed to the Kassites (Lawrence 1994, 57-58). Classical centaurs were typically male and “possessed dangerously exaggerated masculinity” (Lawrence ╇ In addition to a centaurian relationship between horse and rider, I recognise that a minotaurian relationship could be theorised in the Spanish bullfight between the torero and the bull as well as between the rejoneador/horse and the bull. Indeed, some researchers have noted parallels in bull-breeding practices and Andalusian human marriage patterns (Mitchell 1991: 88) and the selection processes of bulls and toreros (Mitchell 1991: 91) which would suggest close cultural human-bull relations. Douglass has interpreted the bull as a male symbol analogous to the male in malefemale relations (1984). Whilst the minotaurian relationship in the Spanish bullfight is a fascinating and fruitful area of research, in this paper I am specifically interested in the intercorporeality of the rider-horse relationship. 4 ╇Whilst the primacy of the word ‘rider’ might be anthropocentric, the order ‘rider-horse’ serves the main purpose of exposing the taken-for-grantedness of the term ‘horse-rider’. 3

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1994, 63).5 Graves (1986, 162) suggests that the centaurs were probably “a primitive population of cowmen, living in Thessaly, who, like American cowboys, rounded up cattle from horseback”. According to Lawrence, The usual Classical etymology is from centauroi, “those who spear bulls”… Other suggestions for its origin range from the Greek word meaning hunt or pursue, to the word for goad or spear, phallus, or hindquarters…and from the word for “poke” to “the breezes”… Another view holds that centaur is related to the Greek kentron, a spur (Lawrence 1994, 60).

The term ‘centaur’ is etymologically intertwined with bulls and the instruments used to spear (penetrate) them. It resonates with my use of the Spanish bullfight as a case study for exploring the centaur metaphor in practice. Centaurs pervade equestrian literature, iconography, expression and performance. It is no surprise that the centaur metaphor is also used to describe the human-animal relations between riders and horses in bullfighting from horseback. The term ‘centauro’ is used in Andalusia to describe highly refined rider-horse relations. ‘ComÂ� penetración’ is the term used to describe the nature of that relationship, translating literally as ‘inter-penetration’ and describes a relationship based on mutual understanding and influence.6 Whilst hybrid beings and human-animal fusions have had pejorative connotations at particular socio-historical moments (see, for example Murrin 1998), attaining a centaurian, harmonious relationship with one’s horse is the holy grail for many horse-riders. The centaur metaphor is commonly used to symbolize the idea of horse and rider moving together ‘as one’, as if they shared a single body and mind. As such, the centaur metaphor describes multiple levels of hybridity; it is a hybrid being based on a philosophy of hybridization. In this regard, the centaur fulfills the metaphorical function of conveying complex feelings in a way which can be immediately understood (Fernandez 1971). Whilst the term ‘hybrid’ has been used as a metaphor for heterogeneity broadly (Kapchan and Strong 1999), the centaur is proposed here as a metaphor for a par5 ╇ However, female centaurs abound in popular culture, especially within science fiction and fantasy cartooning. The imagery is often highly sexualized, suggesting bestial fantasies. 6 ╇See Marvin (1994) for a discussion of compenetración between the footed bullfighter and the bull.

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ticular kind of hybrid, that formed between and beyond a rider and a horse. The centaur metaphor conveys the fundamental theme of humananimal studies: the nature of the human-animal boundary. As noted by Haraway ‘most of the transformative things in life happen in contact zones’ (2007, 219). This relates to the multidisciplinarity of human-animal studies as well as everyday human-animal relations. In relation to the centaur, Lawrence (1994, 62) notes that “[f]or the Greeks, centaurs existed at the threshold of difference—representing speculation about sexual, cultural and species-related boundaries”. However, the usefulness of the centaur metaphor is also founded upon a degree of sameness (discussed below in relation to isopraxis). Human and horse may represent different species, but they are both animals who align for practical and aesthetic reasons in various ways. The centaur therefore probes and transcends ‘the animal question’ by illustrating human-animal similarities and differences as well as alternatives. Human-Car Relationships and Human-Horse Mobility Before I describe the most significant ways in which the human-horse relationship differs from other forms of human-animal interactions, some discussion is warranted on the mobility afforded by humanhorse relations. Human-horse relations involve a particular kind of mutual-mobility that is central to the centaur-in-practice. To emphasize the relationship between mobility and embodiment in humanhorse relations, I compare the rider-horse relationship with driver-car relationships. Theories of human-car relationships provide a context for refining appropriate terminology to describe the rider-horse relationship and the significant role of movement. The automotive industry has long drawn from horse imagery, symbolism and metaphor to evoke a sense of speed, strength, power and grace. Literally, horse terms and symbols are used to name and badge cars. Figuratively, car drivers (and passengers) are offered the experience of moving effortlessly and enjoyably through the environment via their mechanical horses (and railway drivers and passengers through iron horses). Hediger describes the human-car relationship as a “centaur-like fusion” (cited Sebeok 1988, 70). Indeed, the Mazda car company based their design of the Miata on the Japanese concept of jinba ittai which is used to describe horse and rider as one, the central theme of the centaur.

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Dant’s (2004) discussion of terminology to describe the driver-car unit highlights the major differences between rider-horse and drivercar relations. Dant (2004, 62) terms the driver-car unit an assemblage rather than a ‘hybrid’ as it is an impermanent union.7 Specific riderhorse relationships may be impermanent in the short-term when riders dismount (or are ‘unseated’ by the horse) or in the long-term where a rider and horse may form a relation with a number of horses and riders over a lifetime. However, taking into account Game’s (2001, 1) suggestion that “we are always already part horse, and horses, part human”, there are pre-existing degrees of hybridity across and beyond moments of temporal and physical rider-horse union. A horse is identified as a ‘riding horse’ even if it may not have been ridden for an extended period of time, and a person may identify as a horse-rider without having ridden for years. This represents a latent and inherent centaurability across humans and horses that may or may not be accessed or realised. For these reasons, the term ‘hybrid’ conveys the transformative and generative potential of the rider-horse relationship. Birke & Michael (1997) suggest two benefits of the hybrid concept that relate to human-animal studies and centaurian human-horse relations. First, “the notion of a hybrid implies boundary-crossing and mixing—if not literally, then certainly at a conceptual level” and second, “[h]ybrids open up a space … to think about relationality” (1997, 13). The hybrid-ability of rider-horse relations is eloquently illustrated by the centaur metaphor. By considering the centaurability of riderhorse relations rather than their permanence or impermanence, the centaur metaphor enables a nuanced discussion of particular humanhorse relationships, as demonstrated below in relation to the Spanish bullfight. Whilst Dant’s discussion of driver-car relationships contextualises the terminology for human-horse relations, Sheller’s (2004) exploration of the emotional and phenomenological aspects of the driver-car

7 ╇Neither does Dant find the term ‘cyborg’ appropriate (at least as it is used by Haraway) to describe human-object networks because of its specific meaning within the science of artificial body parts (Dant 1999: 191-194). For an overview of terms used to express hybridity, including ‘conflation’, ‘bricolage’ and ‘syncretism’, see Kapchan and Strong (1999). A hybridity ‘lifecycle’ (combining biological and cultural hybridity) is offered by Stross (1999).

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relationship highlights the significance of movement.8 Movement is critical, not simply as a way of being in, but of interacting with the world. Sheller notes: … the car is deeply entrenched in the ways in which we inhabit the physical world. It not only appeals to an apparently ‘instinctual’ aesthetic and kinaesthetic sense, but it transforms the way we sense the world and the capacities of human bodies to interact with that world through the visual, aural, olfactory, interoceptive and proprioceptive senses.9 We not only feel the car; but we feel through the car and with the car (Sheller 2004, 228).

In terms of human-horse relations and the centaur, and adapting Sheller’s quotation above, we not only feel the horse but we feel through the horse and with the horse. Moreover, the horse not only feels us, but feels through us and with us. However, there is a fundamental difference between the mobility of a car and the mobility of a horse, which is based on the car’s juxtaposition against nature: Horses extend their human riders into the world without enclosing them, something machines seldom do. Through this process people become a part of the equine animal’s forward thrust, reconfirming the human status as part of nature. (Lawrence 1985, 195)

The mobility of the rider-horse relation differs significantly from that of the driver-car relation. As a polysemic symbol of nature and culture (Lawrence 1982), and a means of ‘entering’ or accessing both, riding engenders a unique kind of engagement with the environment. Movement is central to the experience of horse-riding.10 Riding involves the awareness and synchronization of the movements of horse and rider through space, time and terrain. Movement is also a central theme when riders express the joy of riding, often comparing

8 ╇ Both Dant and Sheller orient their conclusions towards the global reliance on fossil-fuelled cars and the need to reduce their impact on global warming whilst at the same time recognising that humans are emotionally involved with their vehicles in ways that are not acknowledged by the rhetoric of environmental sustainability. 9 ╇ Interoceptive senses relate to sensory stimuli originating within the body and proprioceptive senses relate to an awareness of movement and the position of body parts. For an extended discussion of sensory terminology, see Paterson (2009). 10 ╇ In equine assisted therapy, the movement of the horse has therapeutic value.

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it with flying11 or dancing.12 Haraway identifies this relationship between joy and movement in dog training in her comment that: ‘the highs that Cayenne and I experience come from focused, trained, responsive, conjoined movement at speed—from coursing together in mind-body through the patterns for the whole time…’ (2007, 176). Likewise, the rider-horse relation is a dynamic form of shared movement between two living entities that involves and inspires inter-corÂ� poreality, inter-embodiment and the compenetración that underpins the centaur. Its quality of movement, however, is fundamentally distinct from human-dog relations through the riding relationship whereby rider and horse connect corporeally and intimately share spatial and geographical trajectories. Moreover, the mutual gazing available in dog-training is not available in horse-riding. Whilst Haraway notes that the “principal task [of dog and trainer] is to learn to be in the same game, to learn to see each other, to move as someone new of whom neither can be alone” (2007, 176), this ‘trained regard’ or ‘interfacial interface’ is unavailable in the rider-horse relationship. Instead, rider and horse are required to ‘see’ one another, or share vision through bodily feeling and awareness, as discussed below. What Makes the Human-Horse Relation Unique? In terms of mobility, car and horse clearly offer different ontological experiences. I have already discussed the ways in which movement is critical to an intimate, centaurian human-horse relation and the significance of that movement being experienced through a riding relationship. There are a number of other important ways in which the human-horse relation is unique amongst the variety of forms of human-animal interaction. At this stage, it is worth pausing to reconsider these taken-for-granted dimensions of the human-horse relationship that are largely culturally constructed and informed through biological discourse. The human-horse relation differs from other human-animal relations in some fundamentally ambiguous ways. Symbolically, the horse can be considered both wild and tame and apparently never 11 ╇See, for example, Midkiff (2001). There is potential here for another useful metaphor for the kinaesthetics of horse-riding in another classical Greek figure; Pegasus the winged horse. 12 ╇See, for example, Hempfling (2001).

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permanently established in one or the other state (Lawrence 1982), with each generation of horse requiring some degree of ‘domestication’; Horses are frequently constructed as friends, but do not share domestic spaces in the same ways that dogs, cats, birds, fish and other ‘companion animals’ do; The horse is considered ‘livestock’, but it is not always eaten or used for produce such as leather or milk.13 People often describe a deep and enduring bond with horses but because of spatial or financial limitations, competitive or personal ambitions and physical growth, individual human-horse relationships do not always span the lifetime of the horse (as noted by van Dierendonck and Goodwin 2005, 73). In other words, horses are sometimes (reluctantly) replaced for various reasons, whereas ‘pets’ are usually retained regardless of the acquisition of a new animal.14 Moreover, there are few animals as large as horses with whom humans share such close physical and emotional relations. The human-horse relationship is therefore also distinguished from many human-animal relationships by a degree of danger or intimidation and (as constantly reminded by the insurance industry) the risk of serious and multiple injuries (Abu-Zidan and Raob 2003, Paix 1999, Smartt and Chalmers 2009). Horses are potentially dangerous animals and riding is a risky activity which often involves a degree of fear (Burr 2007, 2007). The repercussion of this is that most riders and handlers are conscious of interacting with horses in a ‘safe’ way. Thus, interactions with horses involve (more or less consciously) an awareness of human mortality. Owners, handlers and riders are also aware of their horse’s mortality, as they endeavour to minimize harm to their horses through responsible horse management practices.15 The riding relationship is based on a particular power relationship between the rider and the ridden. In many instances, the horse’s total 13 ╇ An exception is provided by Mongolian culture where mares’ milk is consumed. See Morris (2000) for a brief overview of religious prohibitions on the eating of horse-meat (hypophagy). For a discussion of an American self-enforced prohibition of eating horse meat see Sahlins (1976: 170-178). For a critique of his argument that this prohibition is entirely ‘qualitative’ in nature and irrelevant of “biological, ecological, or economic advantage” (Sahlins 1976: 171), see Ross (1995). 14 ╇ The psychological effects and implications of this for the human-horse relation remain largely unexplored. 15 ╇ The role of mortality-awareness in the human-animal relation is enlightened by Acampora’s concept of corporal symphysis (2006, 1995) to describe the body-incommon that humans and animals share which gives rise to a moral and ethical awareness of the animal other.

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obedience or submission to the rider is ironically the foundation for the horse-rider relationship being construed as a partnership.16 Patton (2003) discusses the ethics of the hierarchical dimension of the riding relationship and suggests that the discourses surrounding ‘gentle’ training methods disguise the coercion involved. There are, of course, significant variations in how riders perceive their relationship with their horse and how that relationship might be understood by an observer or ‘outsider’ (Birke 2008, van Dierendonck and Goodwin 2005, 71). Regardless of the extent to which the rider exerts or is thought to exert control, dominance, coercion or leadership over the horse, or aims to develop a ‘partnership’, it is the rider who is ultimately the instigator of the riding relationship and the one who invests certain ambitions into the riding relationship which they explicitly seek to achieve. The ways in which riders construct their interactions with horses and justify the demands they place on them is a fascinating area for further research in human-horse interactions. Human-horse relations are based principally on body language and physical interaction.17 The degree of body-to-body interaction is intensified in the riding relationship. “No human-animal relationship is more intimate, both mentally and physically, than that between mount and rider, for the two share an interspecies unity of understanding and kinetic communication that is unparalleled” (Lawrence 1994, 66). The riding relationship characterizes only a few humananimal interactions such as those with donkeys, mules, camels and elephants. As Brandt (2004, 301) notes “humans do not ride their dogs or cats and so do not ask them to do complicated physical and mental tasks while astride their backs”. Despite this, the concept of riding a horse remains the most taken-for-granted aspect of humanhorse relations. The riding relationship is based on physical contact between a human and animal body (typically mediated through the technologies listed above which are themselves often constructed from animal products such as leather saddles and bridles). This is the inter-connection of a human and horse body in a way that is profoundly 16 ╇ Following Foucault (1991), it is through resistance that power relations become most visible, manifesting in the body. 17 ╇ It is worth noting that communication between horse and rider also occurs through body language when the horse and human may not be ‘in-touch’ (at all or consistently) such as during clicker training.

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different to a human holding, patting or leading an animal or having an animal ‘sit’ on their lap. In the riding relationship, horse and rider (ideally) share a trajectory through space and time with a common goal, albeit usually decided by the rider. Thus, the riding relationship presents the possibility of transcendence of self and (an)other to generate a hybrid being: the centaur. “There are an infinite number of possible monster forms, but the centaur is one that really works; our bodies know the centaur, we can live the mixing of the centaur” (Game 2001, 3). Riding is the human-horse relation that brings the centaur to life. However, a rider astride a horse does not in and of itself guarantee a centaurian relation. This is made possible through the harmoniÂ� zation of human and animal. Therefore, the riding relationship also involves the potential for dis-harmony. In horse-riding, harmony is an impermanent state; it changes and cycles within seconds, moments, days, weeks and other “equine beats” (Evans and Franklin 2010). Harmony changes across particular combinations of horses and riders according to their training, development and growth (affecting the biomechanics of balance and coordination). The centaurian riding relationship is therefore embodied and based in the harmonization of human and animal bodies. Smith suggests that the impact of animals as metaphors relates to “the ontological thrill of the animal: that is, the sense of a sudden intensification—quickening or thickening—of Being”, noting that “comparable sensations attend” the riding of animals (2004, 5). While horse-riding presents the rider with the ‘ontological thrill of the animal’ (and the horse with the ontological thrill of the human, although some riders are undoubtedly less ‘thrilling’ than others), the riding relationship is more than ‘comparable’ to ‘the ontological thrill of the animal’; it is an example par excellence. Horse-riding offers the rider the ontological thrill of being-horse and of horse-being. In this way, the repercussions of the riding relationship are intimately interÂ�corporeal and transformative. The rider-horse is transformed (or at the very least transformable) into a centaur. In summary, the human-horse relationship is distinguished from other human-animal relationship in various ways. The horse is neither strictly livestock nor companion animal. Its requirements and related expenses can lead to the aforementioned impermanent pairings of rider and horse, whilst its size and strength can result in risk,

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fear and unequal power relations. At the same time, human-horse relations are based on body-to-body communication. This degree of communication is exemplified in the riding relationship which can provide an ‘ontological thrill’ of being more than human and more than horse: that is, of being centaur. The Centaur and Theories of Human-Horse Inter Embodiment The inter-embodied relationship between humans and animals in general and horse and rider in particular has been considered by a handful of authors using various theoretical approaches. I will now introduce the reader to this literature, beginning with an application of Butler’s notion of performativity (1993, 1990, 1999) to animals. Whilst Butler emphasizes the primacy of discourse to performativity, Barad (2003) focuses on ‘matter’ itself. This shift allows for the application of performativity to non-humans such as objects or animals. Using Barad’s reconceptualisation of performativity based in matter, Birke, Bryld & Lykke (2004, 170) suggest that “the notion of performativity can equally be applied to thinking about the intimate choreography of human/animal interrelationships”. In this way, they see “non-human otherness as a doing or becoming, produced and reproduced in specific contexts of human/non-human interaction” (2004, 169). This approach moves a focus from an animal essence to a performance of animal (or likewise, human). Birke, Bryld & Lykke focus their idea of performativity and ‘animaling’ on human-animal hybrids: “If we shift the focus from groups of individuals, to relationships, we can focus on the human/animal as a kind of hybrid, that exists in the spaces between the two, and which—as a kind of hybrid—can maintain boundaries with other similar hybrids” (Birke, et al. 2004, 170). When applied to the centaur, performativity highlights the ways in which the rider-horse relationship is more than ‘doing horse’ or ‘becoming horse’. Rather, the rider-horse relationship provides a context for doing or becoming the hybrid centaur. It is imbued with centaurability. Birke, Bryld & Lykke suggest that long-term relationships with companion animals illustrate Butler’s assertion that “performativity is repetitions consolidated over time” (2004, 175). They identify this aspect of performativity in Game’s (2001) exploration of horse-riding as a form of mutual becoming which occurs over time. Long-term human-horse partnerships involve rehearsal, practice and training.

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This is particularly relevant to the equestrian discipline of dressage that takes its name from the French word for training. ‘Horsetraining’ involves mutual training where the rider is trained by themselves, a coach or instructor as well as by the horse(s), whilst they simultaneously train the horse. Game sees training as a unifying element in the human-horse relation and the centaur: “[I]n living the image of the centaur, we entrain with it. And people and horses entrain together with horse-human rhythms” (Game 2001, 3). By ‘entraining’, Game refers to a mutual tuning-in between horse and rider. She goes on to discuss rhythm as a means for horse and rider coming “to inhabit riding, as a musician inhabits a piece of music, or a writer a text” (2001, 8). Indeed, Wyche (2007) introduces entrainment as a kind of contagious vibration in her discussion of the ways in which music can be used to bring about regular and rhythmic paces in horses. Rhythm, and its influence on breathing and shared breath, is a facilitator and perpetuator of what I have referred to above as ‘harmony’ (between horse and rider). Likewise, within performance studies, “[f]low has been used to describe the transformative state that excellent performers achieve during the course of a performance” (Beeman 1993, 375). The meditative, mutually attentive state of inter/intra-embodiment that can be achieved between horse and rider enhances their centaurability. Thus, horse-training blurs the human-animal boundary. “One way or another, training always involves a mixing of human and horse society” (Game 2001, 4). Thus, the centaur is simultaneously an abstract metaphor, an ideal, a practice, an experience and a work in progress. This is largely because the centaur exists in varying degrees. The comparison of the picador and rejoneador below illustrates two extremes on the centaur spectrum, both from the bullfighting arena. Whilst Birke, Bryld & Lykke offer performativity as a means for discussing ‘becoming centaur’, Game describes riding as an act of “embodying the centaur” (2001, 3). Game illustrates the generative and transformative aspects of horse-riding by recalling how she used her own body to evoke her horse memory of (and therefore ability to) canter, after her horse KP suffered a mysterious paralysis. By enacting the movements of canter with(in) her own human body, she brought about cantering with(in) the animal body of her horse. The process by which Game encouraged KP’s body to canter by cantering with her own body can be understood through the concept

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of ‘isopraxis’.18 Despret introduces the ‘isopraxis phenomenon’ in relation to the human/rider-horse/ridden relationship: Unintentional movement of the rider occurs … when the rider thinks about the movements the horse should perform. The horse feels them and, simultaneously reproduces them. A careful analysis of these unintentional movements made by the human body has shown that these movements, in fact, are exactly the same as the ones the horse performs. The human’s right hand imitates (and anticipates) what the horse’s right front leg will do, the bottom of the back of the rider makes a jerk which is exactly the movement the horse will do to begin to canter, and so on. In other words…talented riders behave and move like horses. They have learned to act in a horse-like fashion, which may explain how horses may be so well attuned to their humans, and how mere thought from one may simultaneously induce the other to move. Human bodies have been transformed by and into a horse’s body. Who influences and who is influenced, in this story, are questions that can no longer receive a clear answer. Both, human and horse, are cause and effect of each other’s movements. Both induce and are induced, affect and are affected. Both embody each other’s mind. (Despret 2004, 115)

Despret’s explanation of isopraxis between rider and horse clearly outlines the kind of hybrid transformation that is conveyed by the centaur metaphor.19 The isopraxis phenomenon also explains the way that Game assisted KP to re-learn how to canter by imitating cantering with her own body while riding. This was essentially an embod-

18 ╇ ‘Isopraxis’ was coined by neuroanatomist Paul MacLean to describe “a nonlearned neurobehavior in which members of a species act in a like manner” (SouÂ� khanov 1993: 135). The term ‘isopraxism’ is attributed to the anthropologist David Givens (2005) in relation to human-to-human behaviour mimicking and human body language. The concept of isopraxis is based on observations of lizards mimicking each other’s behaviour. Praxis is therefore often referred to as a reptilian form of behaviour in the ‘oldest’, part of the human brain. 19 ╇ In terms of Despret’s exploration of isopraxis in relation to horse riding, I clarify that (self-aware) riders move the way they want their horses to move (that is, the ideal according to the equestrian discipline in question). Talented riders do move like horses but others are taught how to move ‘like a horse’. For some riders, being told that they should move the way they want their horse to move is bewildering or counterintuitive. It therefore seems that humans have an innate potential to move like a horse, which may or may not be realised depending on the nature of their riding relationship with their horse. There are many articulations of the horse-rider relationship and riders, as well as horses, often need to be taught how to be and become centaurs. Haraway (2007: 229) uses the concept of isopraxis to discuss human-dog relationships.

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ied, corporeal and kinaesthetic form of communication that generated a centaur hybrid. Birke, Bryld & Lykke relate Game’s experience with KP to HaraÂ� way’s notion of ‘potent transfections’: In such cases of non-humans so closely associated with us, the interrelating of human and non-human is profoundly intimate. Not only may the behaviour of each be finely tuned, but there are almost certainly what Haraway (2003) has called ‘potent transfections’—literal transfer of DNA between the two. Together, dog-and-human (say) or horse-and-rider constitute a different entity, which is deeply enmeshed in complex social and technological networks and their practices… The arbitrary allocation into social/cultural (human) and biological (nonhuman) makes little sense in the light of such transfections. (Birke, et al. 2004, 175)

Where isopraxis explains how Game re-taught KP to canter, the concept of ‘potent transfections’ highlights the repercussions for such intimate human-animal relations. Game’s ‘corporeal generosity’ (Diprose 2002) resulted in the transformation of horse and rider into a centaurian entity. With relation to the idea of a transfer of genetic material, Despret (2004, 122) suggests that mutual human-animal transformation can be called an ‘anthropo-zoo-genetic practice’. Game suggests a latent pre-potency for such human-animal transfections and anthropo-zoogenesis. She proposes: …that we are always already part horse, and horses, part human; there is no such thing as pure horse or pure human. The human body is not simply human. Through interconnectedness, through our participation in the life of the world, humans are always forever mixed, and thus too have what could be described as a capacity for horseness (Game 2001, 1).

Thus, Game points to pre-existing degrees of human and animal self within both horse and human which are activated through riderhorse and human-animal interactions. “In making animals familiar, we humans find the animal in us. And the more horse we become, the stranger horses come to seem in their familiarity” (2001, 11). In these terms, horse-riding is a revolutionary act against the humananimal divide. The application of performativity to animals frees them from essentialist scientific discourses. Through the concept of ‘animaling’, attention can be given to the processes and contexts of ‘becoming’

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(Deleuze and Guattari 2007 [1987]) and becoming with (Haraway 2010). Applied to the rider-horse relationship, performativity highlights the ways in which rider and horse ‘do’ the centaur. The transformative and generative power of this hybridization is symbolized in the centaur metaphor. A complementary, phenomenological approach is offered by Game who asserts that human and horse are predisposed to becoming centaur. In fact, she suggests that human and horse are already centaur. These phenomenological and performative approaches together assert that rider and horse are engaged in being and becoming centaur. Central to this being and becoming is movement, as illustrated in relation to theories of human-car relationships. I draw from these approaches below to compare two different human-horse relations in the Spanish bullfight. Whilst technology is more obvious in human-car relationships, it is nonetheless unavoidable in human-horse relationships. I would like to destabilize the romantic image of the skin to skin centaur by considering its technological mediation. Not only are human-horse relations mediated by the rider’s ‘natural aids’ of voice, leg, seat, body, weight and so forth, they are also mediated through objects and technologies such as “bits, bridles, saddles, boots, stirrups, spurs—all the objects that bring us to life in riding” (Game 2001, 11). The centaur in practice is therefore more than a human-horse hybrid. As I discuss below, it involves relations with technology. Moreover, the role of technology in particular types of human-horse relations has implications for the applicability of the centaur metaphor. That is, technology has the potential to enhance or detract from centaurability, depending upon its broader context of rider, horse, riding style and purpose. Likewise, new technologies will likely lead to new articulations of the centaur, or new centaur identities. The two contrasting human-horse relations in the Spanish bullfight are clearly distinguished by technology. To acknowledge the role of technology in the human-horse relationship and its impact on the centaur metaphor, I draw from actor-network theory. I provide an overview of actor-network theory before applying it to a comparison of the picador and the horse in the first phase of the footed bullfight and the rejoneador and the horse in the mounted bullfight.

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Actor-Network Theory and the Technological Mediation of the Centaur The fundamental principle behind actor-network theory is that humans exist within broader networks of nonhumans. Actor-network theory recognizes that the relationships between humans and nonhumans are both material and semantic: that is, networks comprise objects as well as their meanings. Latour (1991, 110) perceives these relationships between humans and nonhumans as chains of associations. “What makes this theory different from many others is its insistence that nonhuman—technological and ‘natural’—are present in the production of every ‘ordering’ of relations” (Birke and Michael 1997, 6). Therefore, the actor, or ‘actant’, is simultaneously a network of nonhumans such as technical artifacts, institutions, social structures, and so on. Actor-network theory features a ‘principle of symmetry’ which “rejects any a priori distinctions between the human and the nonhuman, agent and object, the social and the natural or the technological” (Birke and Michael 1997, 5). In this regard, actornetwork theory moves beyond dichotomous approaches to humananimal relations. 20 Haraway displays a similar network approach in her comment that: individual animal, human and nonhuman, are themselves entangled assemblages of relatings knotted at many scales and times with other assemblages, organic and not. Individuated critters matter; they are mortal and fleshy knottings, not ultimate units of being. Kinds matter; they are also mortal and fleshy knottings, not typological units of being. Individuals and kinds at whatever scale of time and space are not autopoietic wholes; they are sticky dynamic openings and closures in finite, mortal, world-making, ontological play (Haraway 2007, 88).

Birke & Michael (1997, 5) argue that in actor-network theory, ‘nonhuman’ extends to animals. The inclusion of animal within the realm of nonhuman redresses a critique of actor-network theory made by Dant (2004, 69) who notes that humans and objects are always considered to be mediated by recorded discourse in the form of a report, statement, policy or speech.21 Linguistically-based language is not generally considered to occur between humans and animals, and language is often seen as definitive of humans (Rosman and Rubel 20 ╇ For an introduction to actor-network theory see Latour (2005) and for a Â�critical overview of its history and basic principles, see Dant (2004: 67-71). 21 ╇ This parallels Barad’s extension of Butler’s ‘performativity’ to animals by obviating a dependence on language.

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2001, 7). However, ‘an animal’s “dumbness” is really the measure of our “deafness”’ (Williams 2000, 33). Nonetheless, by focusing on the intercorporeality of human-object-animal networks, language (especially in its written form) loses its primacy. This is particularly pertinent to a material-semiotic analysis of rider-horse relations which, as discussed above, are based on intercorporeal communication. Birke & Michael draw from actor-network theory to present an omnipresent theory of hybridity: “We are always comprising hybrids, temporary or less temporary associations with a vast array of nonhumans” (1997, 6). Whilst an emphasis on the inter-embodiment of human-animal and human-horse interactions blurs the human-animal boundary, another nonhuman boundary is typically being crossed during rider-horse interactions; that of the animate and inanimate (technology). Birke & Michael (1997) explore human-technologyanimal networks, using the example of the human-bridle-horse network: Here, the ‘hybrid’ we might describe consists of human-bridle-horse. Communication between the two living entities takes place partly through the medium of the bridle or halter, and partly kinaesthetically—through movement and its sensing … there is a continuous subtle play of conversation (Birke and Michael 1997, 11).

Thus, the image of the centaur being enacted by rider-horses and used as a metaphor by riders, philosophers and academics, is more than part-horse-plus-part-human. “Among other things, hybrids are conjoint entities: they are not simply one entity sitting alongside another” (Birke and Michael 1997, 16). The centaur of classical mythology is drawn, sculpted and imagined as a ‘natural’ and seamless organic being. Mere mortal horses and riders may very well experience this uninterrupted seamlessness but this is typically mediated through, and transformed by, technology.22 In this sense the 22 ╇ In the broad array of approaches subsumed under the title ‘natural horseÂ� manship’, some riders seek to demonstrate that they have a greater and better level of communication with their horse by riding without bridles, saddles, reins, whips, spurs and so forth and often discuss these ‘gadgets’ disapprovingly. However, according to actor-network theory, they are unable to totally disentangle themselves from an array of other ‘technologies’ ranging from ropes, halters and bare-back saddle pads, through books and videos to clinics, transport and equine therapies. Birke & Michael (1997: 16) extend the definition of technologies by suggesting that ecosystems could be seen as technical artefacts. The ways in which this range of technology is bracketed from ‘traditional’ riding and training aids reveal the ways in which these

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centaur metaphor works on two levels: an uninterrupted, unmediated level of metaphorical and ideological hybrid and a mediated, technologised level of applied hybrid. Both idealized and applied aspects of the centaur metaphor orient rider-horse relationships. As a theory characterized by a material-symbolic method which deals with both objects and their meanings, actor-network theory is particularly suited to an analysis of the humans, animals and Â�technologies involved in the bullfight and the meanings of their interactions. I draw from actor-network theory to discuss the humantechnology-horse-bull networks that feature in the Spanish bullfight and the ways in which the human-animal relationship is mediated. This comparison of two human-technology-horse networks also incorporates the approaches based on performativity and phenomenology discussed above. This combination of approaches addresses the corporeal and technological dimensions of the rider-horse relationship. Comparison of Two Human-Horse-Technology Networks in the Spanish Bullfight To illustrate the centaur metaphor and its technological mediation ethnographically, I now turn to a comparison of the picador and rejoneador rider-technology-horse-bull networks in the Spanish corrida. The rejoneador is commonly likened to a centaur (see for example, Abarquero Durango 1984, 97, Pineda Novo 1988), whereas the picador is not. By comparing the intricacies of these rider-horse networks, I demonstrate the ways in which some rider-horse networks are more centaurian than others. Their centaurability is impacted by the role of the horse in the bullfight, type of horse, riding style and technology (such as saddlery, protection, barbs and pikes). Whilst these elements are equally significant and worthy of attention, I focus on technology to illustrate the technological mediation of the organic bodies of rider and horse. In particular, I compare the effect of Â�technology on the centaurian features discussed above: intercorporeal communication and movement. I also discuss the significance of the suppression of the horse’s senses, or otherwise. The two ethnographic examples illustrate the ways in which technology can affect/effect a centaurian rider-horse relation depending upon other riders and handlers construct ‘natural’ horsemanship. For a more detailed discussion of various discourses in the area of ‘natural horsemanship’ see Birke (2007, 2008).

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elements in the network such as rider, horse, purpose and style. Moreover, this comparison contributes to a greater understanding of the quality of the centaurian relationship through an appreciation that not all rider-horse networks are necessarily centaurian. The picador is the mounted figure most commonly associated with the Spanish bullfight from foot. The picador features in the first of three phases of the bullfight from foot. Their primary role is to weaken or sever the muscles at the base of the bull’s neck to lower its head carriage in preparation for the torero (footed bullfighter). The picador’s name derives from the dagger-tipped lance used for this purpose: the pica. The picador’s horse is referred to as a caballo de picar. It is required to stand still and take the full brunt of a bull’s charge, hence it must weigh from 500 to 650 kilograms (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996, Article 60.3). The breeds of horse favoured for this task are the heavy draught types such as the Percheron or Breton. Interestingly, it is forbidden to use the indigenous Spanish breed of horse known as the Pura Raza Española (pure Spanish race) (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996, Article 60.2). The picadorhorse is relatively immobile during the bullfight, fulfilling a functional role akin to a target for the bull. The protective peto (padded covering surrounding the horse) restricts the horse’s movement through its weight and physical constraint. This is an example of technology hindering a centaurian relationship by precluding corporeal rider-horse communication and movement. The aesthetics of the picador-horse network contrast starkly with the rejoneador-horse network. The rejoneador is a bullfighter from horseback who participates in a bullfight from horseback (corrida de rejones). The rejoneador performs in all three phases of the bullfight from horseback, maneuvering the horse progressively closer to the bull in each stage as the rejones (the barbs and spears after which he takes his name) become shorter. Unlike the picador’s horse, the rejoneador’s horse (caballo de rejones) does not wear protective padding. This is because its role is not to take the force of a bull’s charge but to direct, control and constrain the bull’s energy. For this reason, the horse is often seen as an analogue of the torero’s cape (Arévalo 2001), thereby technologizing the horse. The rejoneador-horse leads the bull in a dance of death around the plaza, enticing the bull’s charge and decorating their narrow escapes and the placing of rejones with passes, voltes and spins. Alta escuela (high school) dressage movements are performed

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throughout the bullfight. Whilst a rejoneador is involved in the training of his horses over time and therefore develops a relationship through repetition (which as discussed above is central to the mutual being and becoming of the centaur), the picador is more likely to be riding a rented horse. As a result, the rejoneador-horse fulfils a primarily artistic role as performer throughout the bullfight from horseback. The breeds of horse favoured in the bullfight from horseback vary in type and combination dependent upon the particularities of each of the three phases of the bullfight in which they perform. English Thoroughbreds are favoured for their speed in the first phase of the bullfight when the bull is most likely to charge and follow the horse, the Arab for its agility and endurance in the second and the indigenous Pura Raza Española for its ‘nobility’ and ability for collection23 in the third when the rider-horse perform pirouettes and other advanced movements in close proximity to the tired bull to entice it to charge and engage. However, other breeds such as the Portuguese Lusitano and various mixed breeds are also used. Besides reflecting cultural values such that the indigenous Spanish horse should not be a target for the bull, regulations over what breeds of horses can be used in particular types of bullfight suggest more symbolic proximity between the rejoneador and horse than the picador and their horse. The ambiance of the bullfight from horseback arises from the tension between the proximity of the bull’s horns to the horse (often penetrating the horse’s tail) and the inherent danger in getting too close. As I argue elsewhere (Thompson 2007), the bullfight from horseback is a performance based on human-animal boundaries, their fluidity, their fragility and their compenetración. However, this artistic, stylized boundary testing preset in the rejoneador-horse-bull network contrasts with the blunt force sustained by the picador’s horse in literal boundary testing. The image of the picador astride their horse is hardly, if ever, likened to a centaur. Instead, the picador’s horse has been compared to an inanimate, but ‘mobile toril’ (Barga Bensusan 2000, 133). A toril is the part of the wooden inner boundary of the plaza that someone 23 ╇ The ability for ‘collection’ refers to the horse’s propensity to coil its loins, bringing its hind legs closer to its front and lifting or ‘rounding’ the horse’s back. This shifts the horse’s centre of balance further back and allows it to easily perform pirouettes and other movements in restricted space. The Spanish term for this is ‘reunión’, illustrating the idea of the hind end of the horse engaging with the front.

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can quickly slip behind to exit the plaza or protect themself from the bull’s horns. In this way, the picador’s horse is ‘technologized’ as a protective barrier between human and bull. This contrasts with the technologizing of the rejoneador’s horse as a supple cape that is embodied by bullfighters to mediate their relations with the bull. That the centaur image applies to the rejoneador but not the picador illustrates very different rider-horse relations in which technology plays a significant role. The picador’s horse is sensually and mentally stifled by technology. Protected and restricted by the peto, its movement is “like a woman with a tight, short skirt” (Barga Bensusan 2000, 131). Its right eye (only) is required to be covered (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996, Article 72.2). Barga Bensusan (2000, 132) cites other informal interventions including the horse’s eyesight being blurred by the application of liquid, balls of paper being inserted into its ears and the administration of tranquilisers. The picador’s horse can sense the bull’s approach (through vibration and smell), but it can rarely see the bull coming and is not required to face it. Thus, the technology in the picador network hinders the horse’s ability to access sensory information from the environment and the rider. In addition, the rider’s right leg is armoured. The restricted body-based communication between picador and horse often results in the scene of a picador kicking the horse while one or two footed assistants pull at its bridle, just to position it at a standstill in the plaza. Instead of working together in harmony (the Greek image of the centaur—human and horse joined as one being), the rider becomes merely a passenger who gives orders and the horse is relegated to the role of a creature to whom orders are given. There is thus no real communication, other than in a superficial sense. The horse may obey, but it is a mechanical kind of obedience, without that spontaneous gaiety we see in horses who truly become one with their riders (Skipper 1999, 190).24

By considering feeling as a form of hearing in the rider-horse relation, Hearne (1987, 111) suggests that riders need to ‘hear’ their horse’s skin to be able to communicate, and “in doing so become 24 ╇Skipper’s comments originate from a discussion of the appropriateness of the idea of ‘training’ a horse to do something at the command of a rider/handler which it can ‘naturally do’. However, her observations illustrate my evaluation of a Â�centaurian relationship in the picador-horse network and the rejoneador-horse network, besides providing an example of the pervasiveness of the centaur metaphor in the equestrian literature.

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comprehensible in their own skins to the horses”. The picador and the picador’s horse are both sensually stifled to an extent that prevents them from hearing each other’s skins, over and above the ‘average’ degree of technology in the rider-horse network such as bridle, saddle, boots and gloves. The stifling effect of the technology which mediates the picador-horse network discourages mutual attunement or compenetración and restricts the seamlessness that characterizes the centaur and the centaurian relationship. This suggests that the centaur is not a fait accompli of the riding relationship. It requires a particular level of sensory feedback between horse and rider. MoreÂ� over, the technology in the picador-horse network restricts movement, thus preventing a mutual attunement based on inter-corporeal movement through time and space. In comparison to the picador’s horse, the rejoneador’s horse is sensually and mentally liberated.25 It is able to move its body without the restriction of a peto. Although some of the rejoneador’s horses’ ‘natural’ instincts such as the flight instinct are suppressed (in the quiebro move, the horse gallops directly towards the bull before a fake-rightgo-left move), its intuition is prized. As one rejoneador explained: Clearly, the horse knows by intuition that [the bull] has horns and that if it gets caught by those horns, it will be killed. The horse intuits this. If the horse didn’t have intuition, it wouldn’t be able to rejonear. But it does have intuition. It knows this when the bull charges at it. For this reason it runs and defends itself.

Indeed, horses that transmit their ‘character’, through their particular quality of movement (elegant or flamboyant, for example) or through expressions of aggression towards the bull such as pinning their ears back or biting at it are highly regarded. In addition to encouraging intuitive expression from the horse, there is a greater degree of sensory communication between the rejoneador and their horse than between the picador and their horse, together with a desire for the rejoneador to involve himself kinesthetically with the horse. This leads to the idea of a transcendent and generative centaurian fusion. 25 ╇ Albeit attuned to the movements and desires of a rider and restricted to some extent through the bridle and saddle. In international level dressage, spurs and double-bridles (where two bits are used in the horse’s mouth) are mandatory. In the ‘traditional’ discourse of this equestrian discipline, the increased use of technology is thought to refine the communication between rider and horse.

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As discussed above, movement is essential to the centaurian relationship in addition to sensual and corporeal freedom. As Sheller (2004, 222) argues that movement is critical to the driver feeling the car, movement is central to the mutual feeling of rider-horse and the centaur in rejoneo. “Motion and emotion, we could say, are kinaesthetically intertwined and produced together through a conjunction of bodies, technologies and cultural practices” (Sheller 2004, 227). As noted above, the picador’s horse is sensually stifled by the technologies involved in its network with the picador. These technologies also restrict its movement. If the picador’s horse is knocked over by the bull it often lays still due to sensory disorientation. Its inability to move freely, or to exercise its own character and intuition, contrasts heavily with the flamboyant horses used by the rejoneadores who graffiti the yellow sand of the plaza with hoof prints, and who are selected for their ability to ‘move’. It is the movement of the rider-horse through space that strengthens the human-animal-object network in rejoneo and heightens the centaurian relationship between them. Therefore, the centaurian relation is facilitated by an intimate physical contact expressed through movement. These two elements of the riding relation can be used to explain why the rider-horse network in rejoneo is often metaphorised as a centaur, whilst that of the picador is not. As illustrated by a comparison of the rider-technology-horse network of the picador and the rejoneador, technology has the potential to help or hinder these fundamental aspects of rider-horse compenetración. Having discussed the technologies that mediate the relationship between horse and rider, I now consider the effect of the technologies that mediate their relationship with another chain of association: the bull. In particular I discuss the ways in which the pica and rejon mediate the rider-horse network in the corrida.26 As noted above, these are the technologies from which the picador and the rejoneador take their names. Each tool is used in a particular way according to riding style and type of horse. In combination, these aesthetic elements produce a particular rider-horse network that invokes or deters a centaurian relationship. First, I compare the pica and the rejon with a focus on their associated riding styles, the features of which represent the biomechanics of the centaur. ╇ This is in addition to my argument that the rejoneador and the rejon are interpenetrated, as are the picador and the pica (Thompson 2007). 26

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The picador uses the pica27 to lance the bull from a standstill, while the rejoneador places an assortment of shorter rejones while the rider-horse is moving.28 As noted by Abarquero Durango (1984, 87) “the lancer waits for the bull, but the rejoneador seeks it out”.29 Waiting for the bull, the picador has time to position his couched pica. The weight and momentum of the charging bull assures deep penetration of the pica’s spearhead (the puya). With the horse bracing against the bull’s charge, the picador can lean all his weight into his armoured leg and against the pica. The picador’s horse’s heavy-set morphology supports its role as little more than a stationary target for the bull. Moreover, footed assistants typically assist the picador to position the horse ready for the bull’s charge, diffusing his communicative relationship with the horse. There is therefore little need or potential for the compenetracion that characterizes the centaur. The most direct communication that the picador has with his horse is primarily between his hands and the horse’s mouth through the bit and bridle. Hence, the picador rides in a style referred to as a la brida (off the bridle), which was associated with the Castilian style of riding heavy-boned North European horses (Lopez Izquierdo 1994, 129). This style is typified by straight-legged knights bracing their bodies for powerful couched lance thrusts during battle charges en masse.30 In the brida style, riders brace against the horse’s movement. Their upper bodies lean backwards against the cantle of the saddle while their straight legs are thrust forwards over the horse’s shoulder. This leaves the rider behind the horse’s centre of balance and movement as their rigid body position creates open joints which are unable to absorb or synchronise with the horse’s movements. The result is a similarly stiff and hollow-backed horse. The brida style of riding lessens physical contact between rider and horse and prevents them from ╇ The pica is the long lance held by the picador. Including the retractable puya tip affixed to its end, the pica is between 2.55 and 2.70m in length. 28 ╇ The rejoneador also occasionally uses a garrocha in the first tercio to entice the bull to charge and pursue. The garrocha does not penetrate the bull. It is a wooden pole of around 2.5m long and 5cm thick which is used in the countryside to control the movements of bulls at liberty, or to knock them over to be able to attend to them. The garrocha is thus an expression of a rural Andalusian identity. There are no official regulations regarding the use of the garrocha in the corrida de rejones. 29 ╇ This is how Abarquero Durango explains the difference between medieval bull lancing with pikes and riders using the shorter rejon in the seventeenth century. 30 ╇ According to Hyland, this position was a consequence of saddle design. She argues that the knight’s straight leg was forced by the “relatively short seats and forward placement of the stirrups” (1994: 7). 27

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sharing a centre of balance. Indeed, the heavy horse’s weight is positioned more or less over its front legs, while the rider leans their body backwards. Whilst the brida style suits the purpose of the picador and the heavy-boned, stationary horse, it disorients the refined flow of communicative seamlessness that characterizes a centaurian relation. Thus, there is a network of human-technology-animal in the picadorpica-horse relationship that affects and is affected by technology, placement of tools, riding style and type of horse. The intricacies of the picador-pica-horse network thus discourage a centaurian relationship between rider-horse. As I illustrate below, the picador network is distinct from the rejoneo network in ways which affect the relevance of the centaur metaphor. The rejones used by the rejoneador are tools distinct from the pica. Various types of rejones are used according to each phase of the corrida de rejones beginning with the rejones de castigo (‘rejones of punishment’)31, before the short and long banderillas32 and the final rejon de muerte (rejon of death)33 that is akin to a sword. There are many ways of placing rejones involving circles, spins, stops and starts. 31 ╇ The rejon de castigo is 160cm in total length. A hollow cylinder (cubillo) of 6cm in length attaches a double-edged blade to the wooden part of the rejon de castigo. The cubillo has a cross bar affixed which is also 6cm long. The blade is 2.5cm wide and 15cm long for novillos or 18cm long for toros (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 67.1). Just back from the cubillo, the wooden stick is whittled down to a finer ‘neck’ that breaks away from the shaft when the barb is pushed into the bull and the rejoneador pushes against it. As the barb breaks away from the rejon, it triggers the unfurling of a coloured flag that has been wrapped around the main handle. The rejones de castigo leave a small barb under the bull’s skin from which colourful streamers dangle. The streamers indicate the rejoneador’s accuracy of placement. A maximum number of three rejones de castigo can be placed in the first phase of the corrida (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 88). 32 ╇ There are two kinds of banderillas: largas and cortas (long and short). The banderillas largas are 80cm in length with a 6cm harpoon at one end (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 63.1). The banderillas cortas have the same harpoon as the long banderillas, but are between 20 and 35cm in length. These 20cm banderillas cortas are often decorated with green and red tissue paper or with artificial flowers to resemble rosas (roses), as they are then referred to. A minimum of two pairs of banderillas must be used by the rejoneador (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 76.1) with a maximum of three pairs of banderillas or three farpas (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 88.5). The farpa is a Portuguese variation of the banderilla. It has the same length as the banderilla larga with a harpoon of 7cm (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 67.2). 33 ╇Whilst the banderillas are barbs, the rejon de muerte is a 1.6m long lance/ sword. It features a double edged blade which is 2.5cm wide. It is 60cm or 65cm long depending on the age of the bull (Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996: Article 67.3). This long and thin blade is sheathed in semi-transparent red tissue paper.

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Light and agile breeds of horses are most suited to these movements, which would be difficult for the picador’s horse to perform. This combination of movement and horse type involves a preferred riding style. The rejoneador rides in a style known as la jineta. Llamas Perdigό argues that “the people of Andalusia have always ridden a la jineta” (1997, 52).34 La jineta is the style of riding with shorter stirrups and the legs bent at the knee to support the weight of the rider, who sits self-supported over the horse’s centre of balance. Whereas the feet of the rider in la brida style are pushed stiffly forwards over the horse’s shoulders, in la jineta they are more or less in line with the rider’s ears, shoulders and hip joint so that the rider’s weight is grounded through their heel and the sole of the foot.35 With the rider’s legs bent around the horse’s sides in this way, the horse can spin and turn agilely without undue risk of unseating the rider. The jineta rider’s joints maintain a neutral integrity but open and close to absorb the movement of the horse. Their balanced seat allows the horse to move freely, coil its loins and round its back as if it were rising to meet the rider and engage the centaur. The jineta leg position affords contact between the rider’s legs and the horse’s sides, allowing horse and rider to ‘hear’ each other’s skin. Touch, as “the most effective human-horse communication of all” (Skipper 1999, 204) is key to the centaurian relationship. Thus, the rejoneador-rejon-horse network is aesthetically and kinesthetically different from the picador-pica-horse network. There is an intimate relationship between the rejoneador, the rejon and the horse that influences the type of horse favoured, the style of riding the horse and the way of placing the rejones, not to mention the potential for movement and intercorporeal communication. The jineta style 34 ╇ Llamas Perdigό argues that the style was inherited from the mysterious Â� Ginetes, a people living in the upper marshlands of Southern Andalusia referred to in Punic works of the 6th century. Also known as Cinetes, Ciretes, Keretes or Kretes, these people “may have given their name to the island of Crete, and taken traditions from Spain to Greece; it is difficult otherwise to explain the legend of the Minotaur in a country where there are no fighting bulls” (Llamas Perdigό 1997: 19). Loch (1990: 41-42, 1986: 32-33) also argues for an Iberian origin to riding a la jineta and Bennett (1998: 115) describes la jineta as “supremely characteristic of Spain”. 35 ╇See Bennett (1998: 114) for a detailed discussion of the bitting and saddlery associated with the brida and jineta styles of riding, including a modification of jineta called estradiota which maintains a balanced body position with less angle at the knee and which characterises the position of most of today’s dressage riders. The intricacies of jineta as a style of military riding on the Iberian Peninsula are described by Gavião Gonzaga (2004: 181-191).

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affords a closer and therefore more centaurian relationship between rejoneador and their horse than between picador and their horse, by facilitating a higher degree of interconnectivity. This compenetración is strengthened and expressed through movement(s). This comparison of the picador-pica-horse network and the rejoneador-rejon-horse network has illustrated not only the ways in which technology is incorporated in the rider-horse network, but the ways in which technology mediates the rider-horse relation. In the rider-horse network, technology affects, and is affected by, the role of the rider-horse, the type of horse and the associated riding style. Whilst the actor-network theory approach to the rider-horse networks of the Spanish bullfight is based somewhat on an omnipresent hybridity, I have integrated elements of the performative and phenomenological approaches to human-horse relations outlined above to emphasize that the centaur emerges from particular practices, processes and performances. The centaur metaphor applies readily to the rejoneador-horse network because it allows for a particular kind of heightened corporeal communication and movement. It is the lack of these features that leave the picador-horse without compenetración, and render the centaur metaphor inapplicable. Whilst being, becoming and doing the immortal centaur rely on intimacy and movement, they necessarily involve mortal technologies (and joys and risks). The ethnographic comparison of two rider-horse networks in the Spanish bullfight clarifies that the term ‘centaur’ is not an unattainable romantic illustration of the rider-horse or the riding relationship, nor is it a fait accompli of horse-riding. The centaur metaphor is generated by a particular kind of rider-horse relationship in which human and animal are interpenetrated physically, sensually and kinesthetically. Therefore, embodying the centaur metaphor is not a result of a human sitting astride a horse; it is a particular state of being-in-relation sitting alongside humans and horses. Conclusion In this article, I have considered various ways of theorizing humanhorse relations which account for and acknowledge the phenomenological basis of the unique riding relationship. Human-car analyses highlight the role of mobility in the experience of intercorporeal and intercommunicative relations such as horse-riding. Performativity

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offers a means for discussing the processes that underpin the riderhorse doing and becoming the centaur, whilst a phenomenological approach acknowledges the importance of human and horse bodiesin-relation. Overarching these constitutive elements, actor-network theory is a final reminder of the omnipresence of a hybridity which encompasses humans, animals and technology. Together, these approaches accommodate the intercorporeality of the riding relationship. They challenge the distinction between rider, technology and horse as well as the romantic naturalization of embodied humanhorse relations. Throughout this article, I have presented the centaur as a metaphor that conveys the idealized and often realized transformative and generative nature of the rider-horse relationship. The centaur metaphor describes a relationship between human and horse which surpasses human-plus-horse, rider-horse or human-horse hybrid. It clearly illustrates the potential for horse and rider to transcend and transform their human-animal boundaries to generate another (way of) being. The centaur is neither human nor horse. It exists in its own right and it has the right to assert its existence. Whereas the metaphorical centaur is a ‘natural’ being, the earthly centaur is mediated through various technologies that become entwined in the relationship between horse and rider, are naturalized and subsumed into the centaur. The centaur metaphor therefore allows for the identification of nuanced differences in the rider-horse relationship, and the network that underpins them. As illustrated by an ethnographic comparison of the rejoneador and picador, the centaur is not a blanket metaphor for all humanhorse or rider-horse relationships. It is not a fait accompli of the Â�riding relationship but one encapsulated in the Spanish term compenetración. Whilst I have presented two contrasting rider-technology-horse networks from the Spanish bullfight as exemplars of what does and does not constitute a centaurian relationship, there exist important differences at the level of individual networks on specific occasions. Whilst the notion of the centaur has been developed in this paper to convey highly refined and intercorporeal rider-horse relationships, further research is required into the applicability of the metaphor to activities such as clicker training involving the absence of sustained physical contact between horse and human. In addition, there is also

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space for a more detailed understanding of how riders feel, experience and convey the centaur, or a centaurian relationship. How riders know when the centaur has been achieved, what they feel they need to do to achieve or maintain it, how they distinguish between coercion and cooperation, how their experience of the horse changes over time and training sessions, and the extent to which the centaur orients human-horse relations are all fertile areas for future research into the human-horse relationship. These research directions will lead to a more comprehensive understanding of the centaur metaphor in theory and practice that is sensitive to technological and epistemological developments. References Abarquero Durango, R. 1984. El Toro, El Caballo Y El Hombre Como Interpretes De La Fiesta Nacional: Control De La Agresividad, Del Dolor Y De La Conducta: Madrid: Consultores Editoriales, S. A. L. Abu-Zidan, F., and S. Raob 2003. “Factors Affecting the Severity of Horse-Related Injuries.” Injury 34: 897-900. Acampora, R. 2006. Corporal Compassion: Animal Ethics and Philosophy of Body. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press. Acampora, R. 1995. “The Problematic Situation of Post-Humanism and the Task of Recreating a Symphysical Ethos.” Between the Species: A Journal of Ethics 11:2532. Arévalo, J. 2001. “Hermoso De Mendoza: “El Caballo Es Un Capote, El Caballo Es Una Muleta.” 6Toros6 Barad, K. 2003. “Posthumanist Performativity: Toward an Understanding of How Matter Comes to Matter.” Signs: Journal of Women in Culture and Society 28:80131. Barga Bensusan, R. 2000. “Una Surgencia: Rejones Por Varas... ¿Vuelta a Los Orígines?” In El Cossío, Volume 13: La Tauromaquia En El Siglo Xxi, edited by J. de Cossío, 128-43. Espasa Calpe: Madrid. Beeman, W. 1993. “The Anthropology of Theater and Spectacle.” Annual Review of Anthropology 22:369-93. Belk, R. 1996. “Metaphoric Relationships with Pets.” Society and Animals 4:121-45. Bennett, D. 1998. Conquerors: The Roots of New World Horsemanship. California: Amigo Publications. Birke, L., and M. Michael. 1997. “Hybrids, Rights and Their Proliferation.” Animal Issues 1:1-19. Birke, L. 2007. “’Learning to Speak Horse’: The Culture of ‘Natural Horsemanship’.” Society and Animals 15:217-39. Birke, L. 2008. “Talking About Horses: Control and Freedom in the World of ‘Natural Horsemanship’.” Society and Animals 16:107-26. Birke, L., M. Bryld, and N. Lykke. 2004. “Animal Performances: An Exploration of Intersections between Feminist Science Studies and Studies of Human/Animal Relationships.” Feminist Theory 5:167-83. Brandt, K. 2004. “A Language of Their Own: An Interactionist Approach to HumanHorse Communication.” Society and Animals 12:299-316.

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Burr, S. 2007. “Riding the Dragon.” Proteus: A Journal of Ideas 24:44-48. Burr, S. 2007. “Women and Horses.” Hoofbeats 18:22-23. Butler, J. 1993. Bodies That Matter: On the Discursive Limits Of ‘Sex’. London: Routledge. Butler, J. 1990. Gender Trouble. Feminism and the Subversion of Identity. London: Routledge. Butler, J. 1999. “Performativity’s Social Magic.” In Bourdieu: A Critical Reader, edited by R. Shusterman, 113 -28. Great Britain: Blackwell Publishers Ltd. Crossley, N. 1995. “Body Techniques, Agency and Intercorporeality: On Goffman’s Relations in Public.” Sociology 29:133-49. Dant, T. 2004. “The Driver-Car.” Theory Culture Society 21:61-79. Dant, T. 1999. Material Culture in the Social World. Buckingham: Open University Press. Deleuze, G. and F. Guattari. 1987. “Becoming-Animal.” In The Animals Reader: The Essential Classic and Contemporary Writings, edited by L. Kalof and A. Fitzgerald, 37-50. Oxford: Berg. Despret, V. 2004. “The Body We Care For: Figures of Anthropo-Zoo-Genesis.” Body and Society 10:111-34. Diprose, R. 2002. Corporeal Generosity: On Giving with Nietzsche, Merleau-Ponty, and Levinas. Albany: State University of New York Press. Douglass, C. 1984. “Toro Muerto, Vaca Es: An Interpretation of the Spanish BullÂ� fight.” American Ethnologist 11:242-58. Evans, R. and A. Franklin. 2010. “Equine Beats: Unique Rhythms (and Floating Harmony) of Horses and Their Riders.” In Geographies of Rhythm: Nature, Place, Mobilities and Bodies, edited by Tim Edensor, 173-88. UK: Ashgate. Fernandez, J. 1971. “Persuasions and Performances: Of the Beast in Every Body... And the Metaphors of Everyman.” In Myth, Symbol, and Culture, edited by C. Geertz, 39-60, USA: W.W. Norton and Company. Foucault, M. 1991. Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison. England: Penguin Books. Game, A. 2001. “Riding: Embodying the Centaur.” Body and Society 7:12. Gavião Gonzaga, P. 2004. A History of the Horse Volume I: The Iberian Horse from Ice Age to Antiquity, London: J. A. Allen. Givens, D. 2005. Love Signals: A Practical Field Guide to the Body Language of Courtship. New York: St. Martin’s Press. Goatly, A. 2006. “Humans, Animals and Metaphors.” Society and Animals 14: 15-37. Graves, R. 1986. New Larousse Encyclopedia of Mythology. London: Hamlyn PubÂ� lishing. Haraway, D. 2010. “When Species Meet: Staying with the Trouble.” Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 28: 53-55. Haraway, D. 2003. The Companion Species Manifesto: Dogs, People, and Significant Otherness. Chicago: Prickly Paradigm Press. Haraway, D. 2007. When Species Meet. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hearne, V. 1978. Adam’s Task: Calling Animals by Name. London: Heinemann. Hempfling, K. 2001. Dancing with Horses: The Art of Body Language. North Pomfret: Trafalgar Square Publishing. Hyland, A. 1994. The Medieval Warhorse: From Byzantium to the Crusades. London: Grange Books. Kapchan, D. and Turner Strong, P. 1999. “Theorizing the Hybrid.” The Journal of American Folklore 112:239-53. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Latour, B. 1991. “Technology Is Society Made Durable.” In A Sociology of Monsters, edited by J. Law, 103-32. London: Routledge. Lawrence, E. 1994. “The Centaur: Its History and Meaning in Human Culture.” Journal of Popular Culture 27:57-68. Lawrence, E. 1985. Hoofbeats and Society: Studies of Human-Horse Interactions. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Lawrence, E. 1982. Rodeo: An Anthropologist Looks at the Wild and the Tame. USA: University of Chicago Press. Llamas Perdigό, J. 1997. This Is the Spanish Horse, Translated by J. Rabagliati. London: J.A. Allen. Loch, S. 1990. Dressage: The Art of Classical Riding. Vermont: Trafalgar Square Publishing. Loch, S. 1986. The Royal Horse of Europe: The Story of the Andalusian and Lusitano. London: J.A. Allen. Lopez Izquierdo, F. 1994. El Rejoneo: Arte De Caballeros. Madrid: Egartorre. Marvin, G. 1994. Bullfight. USA: Basil Blackwell, Inc. Midkiff, M. 2001. She Flies without Wings: How Horses Touch a Woman’s Soul. New York: Delta. Ministerio de Justicia e Interior 1996. “Reglamento De Espectaculos Taurinos.” In Legislaciόn Vigente En Materia Taurina, edited by Uniόn de Criadores de Toros de Lidia, 13-62. Madrid: Boletón Oficial del Estado. Mitchell, T. 1991. Blood Sport: A Social History of Spanish Bullfighting. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press. Morris, D. 2000. Illustrated Horsewatching. Singapore: Ebury Press. Murrin, J. 1998. “‘Things Fearful to Name’: Bestiality in Colonial America.” Pennsylvania History (Special Supplemental Issue) 65:8-43. Paix, B. 1999. “Rider Injury Rates and Emergency Medical Services at Equestrian Events.” British Journal of Sports Medicine 33:46-48. Paterson, M. 2009. “Haptic Geographies: Ethnography, Haptic Knowledges and Sensuous Dispositions.” Progress in Human Geography 33, 766-88. Patton, P. 2003. “Language, Power and the Training of Horses.” In Zoontologies: The Question of the Animal, edited by C.Wolfe, 83-99. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Pineda Novo, D. 1988. Centauros De La Marisma. Sevilla: Gráf. Santa Maria. Rosman, A. and P. Rubel, P. 2001. The Tapestry of Culture: An Introduction to Cultural Anthropology, 7th Ed. New York: McGraw Hill Book Company. Sahlins, M. D. 1976. Culture and Practical Reason. USA: The University of Chicago Press. Sebeok, T. 1988. “‘Animal’ in Biological and Semiotic Perspective.” In What Is an Animal?, edited by T. Ingold, 63-76. London: Unwin Hyman. Sheller, M. 2004. “Automotive Emotions: Feeling the Car.” Theory Culture Society 21:221-42. Skipper, L. 1999. Inside Your Horse’s Mind: A Study of Equine Intelligence and Human Prejudice. London: J. A. Allen. Smartt, P. and Chalmers, D. 2009. “A New Look at Horse-Related Sport and Recreational Injury in New Zealand.” Journal of Science and Medicine in Sport 12: 376-82. Smith, B. 2004. “Animal Relatives, Difficult Relations.” differences: A Journal of Feminist Cultural Studies 15:1-23. Soukhanov, A. 1993. Word Watch: The Stories Behind the Words of Our Lives. New York: Henry Holt and Company. Stross, B. 1999. “The Hybrid Metaphor: From Biology to Culture.” The Journal of American Folklore 112:254-67.

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Thompson, K. (2010). Binaries, Boundaries and Bullfighting: Multiple and alternative human-animal relations in the Spanish mounted bullfight. Anthrozoos: A Multidisciplinary Journal of the Interactions of People & Animals, 23(4), 317336. Thompson, K. 2007. “Le Voyage Du Centaure: La Monte À La Lance En Espagne (Xvie-Xxie Siècles).” In À Cheval! Écuyers, Amazones and Cavaliers Du Xvie Au Xxie Siècle, edited by D. Roche and D. Reytier, 195-209. Paris: Association pour l’Académie d’Art Équestre de Versailles. Thompson, K. 2007. “Performing Human-Animal Relations in Spain: An AnthroÂ� pological Study of the Bullfighting from Horseback in Andalusia.” PhD, University of Adelaide. Turner, V. 1974. Dramas, Fields, and Metaphors: Symbolic Action in Human Society. New York: Cornell University Press. van Dierendonck, M. and D. Goodwin. 2005. “Social Contact in Horses: Implications for Human-Horse Interactions.” In The Human-Animal Relationship: Forever and a Day, edited by F. de Jonge and R. van den Bos, 65-81. Netherlands: Royal Van Gorcum. Williams, D. 2000. “The Right Horse, the Animal Eye—Bartabas and Thêatre Zingaro.” Performance Research 5:29-40. Wyche, S. 2007. Tuning Your Horse: Using Music for Training and Therapy. MarlÂ� borough: The Crowood Press Limited.

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CHAPTER TEN

Ciliated Sense Eva Hayward I have just passed a pod of sculpted White-sided dolphins, hanging some 30 feet in the air. They seem to surge toward the open water, but this is inside the Monterey Bay Aquarium. Just ahead of me is a place called “The Outer Bay.” There is a sign at the entrance. An imperative command: “The strange-seeming drifters are at home in a world very different from our own. Come closer and see.” I enter into a large, circular space with azure walls and marine blue floors. The ceiling is remarkable. My look shifts from the horizontal to the vertical; here, what is above me matters as much as, if not more than, what is in front of me. Swimming around the perimeter of the overhead space, thousands of anchovies flash their scales in the light, making me aware of effulgence and iridescence, and also placing me under water, literally and visually. Presented with another sign: “The sea is as near as we come to another world.”1 I move to my left into a darker space where a sign tells me: “Sixty miles out—you make your first encounter with the ‘Drifters.’” All are alien allusions. All propose that I am entering a different place, a place of difference, a place of first contacts.2 Everything is shadowed in blue light. The ceiling is slotted, forming a wave-like pattern. Recessed into the ceiling are spotlights that project pools of dappling light onto the exhibit floor. The pools ╇ This quote comes from Rachel Carson, The Sea around Us. ╇ The parallel between jellies and aliens is further emphasized by The Monterey Bay Aquarium’s video production, Jellies and Other Ocean Drifters (1996), narrated by Leonard Nimoy, who played the alien Mr. Spock on Star Trek. Through out the narrative, he compares jelly life forms with the unimaginable forms seen during his travels on the ENTERPRISE. “We are on an expedition to investigate a confederation of strange life forms. From earlier observations we know that these creatures live in a habitat so inhospitable to humans that even with protective suits we can venture forth only briefly periods and only to the edge of the habitat.” One might say that aliens have always been here beneath the ocean’s waters. The video is online at http:// www.ocean.com/mplayer/?ResourceID=116&page=0&URL=. 1 2

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appear like water-refracted radiance in oceans where seawater torques the light into complex arrangements and patterns. I read: “Imagine diving into the waters of the outer bay, suspended far from the shore and far above the sea floor…endless blue water surrounds you.” On the right, I notice a small plaque thanking Hewlett-Packard3 for “making the Drifters exhibit possible.” The effects of post-modernity are dramatically registered. This “outer” space is Â�Hewlett-Packard’s “endless blue water”; it is a twenty-first-century technologically Â�genÂ�Â�erated oceanography that promises an aquatic realm full of gleaming biotic diversity. It is a wealth of beauty made possible by the accumulation of wealth, by the global impact of Hewlett-Packard computing. I have been drawn to the Monterey Bay Aquarium (MBA), trying to figure out what are the poetics of the Drifters display, a display of jellyfish, in the Outer Bay exhibit. It is markedly different in feeling from the common habitat exhibits at the aquarium, which attempt to provide the observer with an authentic marine experience—such as the Giant Kelp or the Mid Waters exhibits. These exhibits are familiar; they provide a simulation of the real thing, soliciting the sensation of unmediated encounter with marine worlds (Reed 1981; Hill 1956; Phillips 1964). In their most benign form, they act as sites of ecological hope, maybe even compassion (Clifford 1997; Shepherdson et al. 1998; Norton et al. 1995). However, they also give us what Ralph Acampora calls a “zoöscopic” experience, a totalizing view that disappears meaningful human-animal encounters at the price of reinvigorating anthropocentrism (2005). Many have also shown that these exhibits engage a story of looking with deep roots in “imperialism and the process of nation building… [constituting] a contemporaneous sense of what their observers are by showing them what they are (supposedly) not” (Desmond 1999: 144). The aquarium presents itself as a stage, an unspoiled garden in nature, a hearth for learning human self from animal other, a clarification of the ontological and epistemological disorders of nature and culture (Davis 1995 & 1997; Malamud 1998; Hanson 2002; Hancocks 2001; Mullan and Marvin 3 ╇ The aquarium was a gift to the public by David and Lucile Packard. “The original cost of the aquarium was approximately $55 million.” The David and Lucile Packard Foundation were created in 1964 by David Packard (1912–1996), the cofounder of the Hewlett-Packard Company, and his wife, Lucile Salter Packard (1914– 1987). For more details see http://www.packard.org/home.aspx.

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1999). At their worst, aquariums use captive animals to evoke an anthropocentric sanitary zone, a generative and informative force in the purification of Western civilization (Sorenson 2008). Aquarium exhibits have long histories dating back to at least the nineteenth century in Europe (Barber 1980; Taylor 1993; Hoage and Deiss 1996; Kisling 2001). Victorian glass aquarium exhibits—then called “aqua vivariums”—offered windows that interfaced between human sight and underwater scenes, allowing observers to focus on creatures living in a medium far more viscous than air.4 The aquarium was a curiosity, a conversation piece intended for the bourgeois and affluent classes, and commended for simple visual pleasure and also for the scientific and religious insights that could be gained (Butler 1858; Barber 1980; Brunner 2003; Stott 2003). The aquarium became a sacred space where cohabited forces of godliness and nature were contained, compartmentalized, and studied. The animals enclosed in these aquariums became metonymic of particularly nonhuman environments, a marine wild that fascinated and disturbed Victorian sensibilities. These early aquariums, Bernd Brunner reminds us, were fraught zones of encounter, an uncanny confrontation with organisms that seemed to blend the boundaries between life/death, plant/animal, heaven/hell (2003). We have to remember that until the eighteenth century the ocean had been “taboo, a place of great fear” (2003: 9). In the imaginary hierarchy of air, land and sea, land is our home, while air and ocean are alien realms with vastly different values and connotations. The air is the realm of higher values and aspirations, closer to heaven, while the waters are low and deep (Farber 1994). The surface of a body of water is truly the interface between our world and another scene (Messier and Batra 2008; Hamilton-Paterson 1998). To survey the wonders beneath the waves we must “stick our heads in.” Water is a cold, dark and hostile realm without air in which our bodies can’t survive very long without technological support. Milton teaches us that “Dark Illimitable Ocean,” is terrifying world “without 4 ╇ The origin story of the “aquarium” is open to debate, but Celeste Olalquiaga in The Artificial Kingdom: A Treasury of the Kitsch Experience (New York: Pantheon Books, 1998) suggested that it begins with European, white, upper class women. In 1832, Madame Jeannette Power “initiated the scientific use of the aquarium with her ‘cages à la Power,’ glass cases lowered into the ocean to study marine animals” (48). Undoubtedly, the proliferation of public and private aquariums results from the discovery that water plant aeration produced healthier and longer-living organisms— this finding goes to M. de Moulins and Anna Thyne in the 1840’s.

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bound … where length, breadth and height, and time and place are lost” (1841: 51). The ocean was a cursed world full of monsters lurking in shadowy fathoms ready to wreck mayhem (Schlee 1973; Stafford 1997; Stott 2000). Brunner writes, “While visitors [of aquariums] were searching for a new experience, they were also afraid of what they might discover. They fought it, not willing to believe or understand what appeared before their eyes” (2003: 8). The aquarium experience is founded on this ambivalence between the pleasure of visualizing (optics) marine worlds and displeasure in making visible (meaning) their inhabitants. In the attempt to recreate aquatic scenes, aquariums generated a phantasmagoria where real organisms fed, reproduced, displayed, swam, and crawled, unresting anthropocentric certainties. P. T. Barnum, who saw the spectacular potential of aquatic organisms and their display technologies, initiated the advent of the aquarium in the United States (Taylor 1993). It was the New York Aquarium (Scheier 2006), followed later by the Waikiki Aquarium (1904) and the John G. Shedd Aquarium (1930) in Chicago that turned aquatic attractions into examples of monumental civic architecture. The New York Aquarium is constructed in Castle Clinton, a former fort established before the War of 1812 to defend Manhattan. The Shedd Aquarium, constructed on the shore of Lake Michigan, marked the beginning of erecting grandiose spaces inspired by oceanic themes to house underwater animals.5 These early aquariums, strategically placed at the borders of land, water, and nation, offered the public a prescribed amount of underwater nature (Corbin 1994). The monumental scale and architectural detail of these buildings demonstrated the power of nation, the ability of culture (nationalism) to maintain dominion over its non-human inhabitants. The animal other, here, is subjected to a politics predicated on differential hierarchies of power. The most prized organisms were “exotics” from non-European environments, fueling ongoing colonialism in the mode of animal husbandry. As these spaces gave entry into inaccessible environments for most observers, they also suggested the extension of biological knowledge, the prowess of U.S. technological achievement, and the expansion of nation and its dominion under the salty waters (McCosker 1999; Sowerby 2009). 5 ╇ For more information: Shedd Aquarium, http://www.sheddaquarium.org/; New York Aquarium, http://www.nyaquarium.com/; Waikiki Aquarium, http:// www.waquarium.org/.

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I am not suggesting that the Monterey Bay Aquarium, and more specifically the Drifters exhibit, do not share in this “civilizing” history—they clearly do (Mangelsdorf 1990). Instead, I want to follow out other resonances at work in these jellyfish displays: differences in display technologies; variations in viewing subjectivity and perception; and, alterations in cross-species encounters. Might jellies literally matter in their displays such that questions about their agency or “actorship” (Latour 2005; Haraway 2008) must be asked? Are aquarium-goers shaped and reshaped by the immersive space of the displays, the movements and corporealities of the non-humans, and the architecture of animal capitalisms (Shunkin 2009)? Do jellies, technologies, and people sometimes exceed the aquarium’s promise of immediacy? How do the various bodies of the display space (organic or inorganic) exist simultaneously as not fixed or immutable, but also differentiated and always already constitutive, always “dynamically enacted,” and already “materially configured” (Barad 2007)? To answer these questions, I turn my attention to the materiality of sensation, display technologies, and the animals themselves. Studying the refraction of water and aquarium walls, the diffraction patterns of hermaphroditic comb jellies, and the sensuousness of immersion, I want to proffer that the rhetoric of domination is not the only discourse at work in aquarium displays, or at least in the Drifters display. Perhaps, what is at play in this gelatinous zone is a “return of the repressed,” a return of the monstrous oceanic but updated for a techno-scientific post-modernity and anticipating a sci-fi futurity. Then I see them, seduced into the eye machines (Stafford and Terpak 2001). Their strange, supple bodies glow, endlessly malleable—even my own language turns poetic rather that descriptive, returning the intelligibility of my discourse back to carnal foundations.6 The way my own language tries to translate their movements and forms into verb and adjective reminds me of Mark Doty’s beautiful poem about jellies, titled “Difference.” With the play of metaphor, his jellies become “balloon, flower, / heart, condom, opera, / lampshade, parasol, ballet” (1993: 54). He asks “What can words do / but link 6 ╇ In her article, Translating Cuttlefish: Underwater Lifewritings, Clare Brant writes about the translation of going underwater into words. She writes, “Genre boundaries are fluid, in life writing and in the sea … . It is as if the literal pressure of going underwater puts entity under pressure. Bodies change underwater; senses alter; minds have different thoughts” (2009:114).

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what we know / to what we don’t, / and so form a shape?” (53). Language becomes something rich and strange. Here, luminous domes undulate through artificially illuminated water. Stinging tentacles and translucent, “ruffled limbs” sustain sensuous and continuous movement (Wrobel 2000). These are members of the phylum Cnidaria. Printed labels give information on genus and morphology: “Purple-striped jelly, Pelagia: Ruffled mouth-arms surround the jelly’s mouth and stream behind with its yard-long tentacles. The dimples on the jelly’s bell hide its sensors for gravity and light.” I am reminded that “jellyfish are not really fish at all”—a corrective to long-extinct classification that remains in popular terminology—“they are invertebrates.” There is more, but I move on because the larger exhibit draws me in. It is breathtaking. Circular, grand, and gorgeous, the exhibit is cavernous and surprisingly dark. The space holds several stunning tanks, all round or oval; curves and circles define this space. Here, the circularity of the architecture intimates the globular, the planetary, or the encompassing associations with the ocean. Echoing the curved space, new-age sounds ascend: soft whirls, vibrations, fluted notes, splashing water, all produced by synthesizers, all digitally fluid.7 The sound is piped-in with all surround effects—I feel immersed in the aquatic space. John Huling8 produces these sounds: “Jelly Music”(1996). The wavering murmurs and bubbled soundings of Huling’s music suggest ceaseless flux, resonance, and immersion. The music is a compilation of pan flutes and the sound of ocean waves, distant whale songs and coastal tidal pools as background sound. These sonifications exaggerate patterns and relationships that might not be clearly seen, but are readily perceivable with the ears (Helmreich 2007). Each tone entices and enchants, perhaps even soothes. Oceans are vast entities of unprecedented complexity; here, sound bridges the space: trans-ing, transforming the visual space into a layered acoustic, virtual, aquatic sensorium. Surrounded, I am sounded-out, touched.

7 ╇ I’m reminded here of Tara Rodgers provocative work on the fluidity of sound. “There has been a long-standing association of water and sound in observational acoustics from antiquity through Chaucer to Helmholtz and beyond, with the sound of a stone hitting water producing a visual counterpart, which was then mapped back onto the invisible movements of sound waves” (under review: 246). 8 ╇ John Huling’s website: Http://www.johnhuling.com/.

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Lead aquarist at the Monterey Bay Aquarium, David C. Powell, a key figure in designing the Drifters exhibit, articulates the mission statement of the aquarium: “The plan, an ambitious one to be sure, was to exhibit all the environments and microhabitats of Monterey Bay… . It would be the first major aquarium in the United States to focus exclusively and in depth on local species displayed in natural communities” (2001: 185). Opened in 1984, MBA relies on its neighboring bay environment to produce realistic displays, giving the aquarium goer a virtual look into the near shore and offshore waters. Seawater is pumped directly from the bay into the exhibits. While some of the presentations do have similarities with the bay environment, the observer discovers that the aquarium’s rendition is surprisingly clearer and healthier than what would be seen in the bay. Between the absent storm weather, seasonal changes, and seawater pollution, the MBA’s exhibits are more idealizations and, in the case of sea otters, acts of conservation (Clifford 1997). The differences between what gets to count as nature and what is artificial is different enough that to describe the exhibits as simulations of the “natural” would be misleading. The project, here, would seem to be about epistemology and profit; that is, the aquarium goer is entertained into caring about environmental ethics and marine biology. Enacting a moral imperative to protect local ecosystems, the aquarium is a savior. The parochial becomes the new cosmopolitan; the local stands over the global in an effort to pay attention to one’s own. The observer is plunged, at a symbolic-immersive level, into the local nature, extending the reach of culture into the local (and therefore authentic) benthic and pelagic zones. The technology, artistry, and biology that produces the Drifters display emerges from many transnational and transÂ�disciplinary exchanges. The United States, Japan, and Germany provided marine biologists and display technicians and deÂ�Â�signers: Freya Sommer (marine biologist)9, William Hamner (UCLA marine biologist), 9 ╇ Freya Sommer, an aquarist who specialized in jellies, was instrumental in making jellies a year-round exhibit. Jellies are part of the plankton, drifting with the currents. Most medusa-type jellies have an unusual, two-stage life cycle. The familiar swimming medusa is either male or female and produces sperm or eggs that combine to produce thousands of microscopic larvae. If these larvae find a suitable surface to attach them to, they develop into tiny sea anemone-like polyps. Each polyp buds off additional polyps, eventually giving rise to a clonal assemblage of several hundred individuals. When conditions are just right, a polyp will change form and take on the appearance of a stack of little saucers. Each saucer (or ephyra) then splits

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Yoshitaka Abe (aquarist and curator), John Christiansen (designer), David Powell (aquarist and designer), an ocean scientist from Woods Hole Oceanographic Laboratory, and, of course, local populations of the jellies themselves. Yoshitaka Abe, curator of the Ueno Aquarium in Tokyo, and William Hamner, marine biologist, were instrumental in developing the tank technologies. Abe had succeeded in designing a tank that would hold both the sexually reproducing adults and the asexual polyps. He shared his schematics with the MBA—the results were quite successful. However, the aesthetics still lacked refinement. Enter William Hamner. Working from an earlier German design called a “Planktonkreisel” that had been developed to study planktonic animals in a research laboratory, Hamner designed and built a small tank for keeping planktonic animals on shipboard, called a Kreisel tank.10 The success of Hamner’s design was in creating circular currents that kept the delicate bodies of jellies safely away from the overflow screen or the suction of the pumps. Powell considers how Hamner’s design could be improved for display purposes, he writes: “At this point it struck me that this basic design could be modified to create an exhibit tank that looked, so to speak, as if it wasn’t there” (2001: 260). Powell imagined an environment that simulated jellies drifting in the open waters: “The tank would have a rear-illuminated translucent blue back, to simulate the blue of the vast ocean, and we could take advantage of the angles of refraction of light passing between air and water to make the side, top, and bottom walls of the tank disappear” (2001:260). Both acrylic walls (back and front) are transparent, but one is colored and the other is not. Light moves through the blue acrylic, bending white to ocean blue, then passes through seawater kept at a specific temperature and then through the outer, transparent wall.11 The result is a off and swims away, growing and developing into a medusa. Sommer needed to be able to assist the reproductive cycle of different species of jellies to insure a constant population of jellies—availability of jellies is unpredictable. Certain species were already relatively easy to cultivate, e.g., moon jellies (Aurelia aurita). But, the purplestriped jellies (Pelagia colorata) and the sea nettles (Chrysaora fuscescens) required scientific breakthroughs to understand their previously unknown life cycle. Powell 261-262. 10 ╇To see the design of a planktonkreisel: Http://www.mbari.org/midwater/tank/ tank.htm. 11 ╇ “Organic glass” was a collaborative invention of Otto Röhm, chemist, and Otto Has, business man. Their early work attempted to address the odorous process of tanning. Using a synthetic substitute, rather than the older practice of fermented dog manure, they were able to produce an odorless tanning process. By the 1920’s, the

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change in optical perception: that is, the space changes. As Powell said, taking advantage of refraction allowed the interior space of the aquarium to dissolve. Inside and outside are perceptually collapsed— refraction helps produce the visceral and optical experience of immersion. Refraction, here, while dissolving some spatial distinctions also results in making us profoundly aware of our bodies in that space; that is to say, the light reformulates the space into luminous corporeality (Vasseleu 1998). Light in the Drifters exhibit is something that touches the body—a material photology—rather than an immaterial one. Light envelopes, by passing from the back of the aquarium to the viewing area, us; the felt result for the people, if not the jellies, is illuminated closeness. It seems that the Drifters exhibit exceeds its strategies of simulation. It certainly attempts to re-present an underwater experience, but at all times it highlights the very apparatuses that produce the experience of immersion. The aqua-optics—optics of water—of the display are compelling, but not equivalent to the physics of underwater viewing where the human eye loses focus at short distances. The new age sounds are anything but reminiscent of a diving experience where sound is experienced not with ears because eardrums are similarly dense to seawater to provide impedance, but with our bones (Helmreich 2007). And, the radiant colors of the jellies are far from the translucent, pellucid, and nearly invisible qualities they have in open waters. The Drifters exhibit, an immersion into ocean waters through sophisticated display technologies, constructs an interface, maintaining and blurring the distinction between being immersed in water and being immersed in built natures and display apparatuses. And just for a moment, immersed in this liquid-light and aurally wet space, in my flesh, I imagine myself breathing in water. I am moved deeply and touched throughout; my bodily senses and my sense of my body stir. Sensitized, I am in a primal time, when my own gill arches ache and then breathe. It is not an act of regression, not a womb-wish, but a recollection of evolutionary lifelines, of our own fishier days, or perhaps a sci-fi evolutionary future of new bodily sensations we are yet to feel, an embodiment we are yet to be. The space has a phylogenetic register, for it represents sub-marine realms team had begun to diversify their product line, working with acrylic-acid. By 1936 they had produced “glass,” more commonly know as Plexiglas. By the 1960’s acrylic became a mainstay for aquarist. Marine Land of Florida would be the first to employ it. See Taylor for more details.

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and aqua-spheres that are evocative of primal states, both ontogenetic and evolutionary, and of “future primal” states (Gaian fulfillment?) of the “critters” we might become.12 Although the perimeter of the tanks is circular, the front transparent wall is flat. The back, seemingly opaque wall is indeterminate. The acrylic of these tanks produces an osmotic—movement of fluid through semi-permeable partitions to equalize pressure across the membrane—space; that is, the liquid interior of the tank and the airy darkness in front of glass meld into each other, equalizing the pressures exerted by each interior’s inhabitants. Through diffuse backlighting and the water’s own distortion of light, I cannot see where the back wall begins or ends. Consequently, the tanks appear to have no depth. The jellies seem to occupy the same space as me, rather than the familiar animal display space of over-there. What is remarkable about the shape of this jellyfish display is that the luminosity that passes through the wall is not unidirectional. This display does not easily define who is looking at whom, suggesting that we, not unlike the jellies, are on display, under the microscopic view of the display. The distinction between inside and outside is, if not materially, at least symbolically blurred. More importantly, inner and outer are sensually blurred. There is no primordial division, but continuity between my physiological and affective responses of “here” and “there”—this should not be read hierarchically, my embodiment is of the display space, at once the space’s subject, its substance, and its partner. I, an oversized observer, am undulating with the drifters, both “here and “there,” both to sense and to be sensible, both “subject” and “object” of the display. The luminescent back walls of the tank and the dark exhibit space erase my reflection from the acrylic. Even the distance that reflectivity might produce becomes transparent and unfixed. In addition to the backlighting there is side lighting that illuminates the mostly 12 ╇ In his perspicacious essay, “Life@Sea: Networking Marine Biodiversity into Biotech Futures,” Stefan Helmreich, offers insights into the production of “gaiasociality” in marine discourses. He suggests that salinity rather than sexuality mobilizes a connectedness with the ocean, allowing for sentimental yearnings for the oceanic and our watery origins. He sees this discursive move as providing a link between the well-being of the ocean and the well-being of earth’s organisms; “Water becomes a fluid substance underwriting human kinship with the planet” (228). He is concerned with how this intimacy has enabled marine bioprospecting and politics around marine biodiversity.

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translucent animals. These lights give the jellies a spectacular glow; they are, corporeally, light shows, a show that my hominid eyes, and all their attending flesh, are part of. Deep-sea diving? Immersion? These tropes have puzzled my thinking about the Drifters exhibit and its production of subjects and objects. Yes, the exhibit attempts to authenticate itself as a simulated dive. The exhibit uses the fluidity of the aquarium apparatus and its illumination to produce a sense of submersion. Walking air-breathers feel plunged into dark fathoms without the safety of air tanks. In the immersion of the Drifters display the apparatus of seeing is tempered by multiple sensory energies: sound, vision, hapticity, movement, and proximity. Immersion conveys the experience of being totally inside a world, a state of mind, cultural and historical forms, and intellectual rumination. Immersion is used as a trope of engagement associated with a variety of media, narrative and non-narrative. Roland Barthes’ description of leaving a darkened movie-theater into the daylight is the well-known evocation of the transitional experience in the levels and foci of consciousness (1989). This state of absorption is temÂ� porary and partial. Disavowal, or “I know it’s not real, but neverÂ� theless …” is the formula for the splitting of belief in the unreality and reality scenes. Thus, even though our actual surroundings might be occluded or apparently “frameless,” we do not mistake virtuality for reality. Nor is the engagement of our bodies and psyches in immersive experiences ever total—diving alone requires technological support around the body. Immersion is then not unreality or reality; rather it is awareness divided between being conscious enough to engage an interface and the wonder and horror of the deep. Immersion is a more a somatic trope than the metaphysics of identification, producing co-habitation rather than identification. It is a sensory experience that requires the whole body, one with all its grappling hooks. A visual-hapticity that relies on proximity rather than distance; look but don’t touch doesn’t work here. The moving and touching body becomes a visual apparatus, or the visual apparatus is the touching body. Immersion cannot happen without the body, nor a purely symbolic space or a spiritual realm, an amniotic ocean where one might be washed in symbols and emerge reborn. Our bodies, then, become more porous or more liquid. Bodily territories are not eroded, not bad boundaries, but are figuratively osmotic, allowing for Â�permeation.

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The virtual dive suggested by the exhibit is accomplished only by immersing the observer sensually into a heavily mediated space. The display technologies of the Drifters room purposefully pull at the foundations of familiar order and space, shifting and configuring the relationship between the observer, water, and jellies.13 Here, the jellies are at the center of this deep engagement. The contracting radial muscles and pulsing bells of scyphozoans invite the visitor into an immersive state. The repetitive, suspended movements of the jellies absorb our attention.14 Their physiology enables the observer to be pulled into this semiotic fluid, this immersive state. There is an undeniable eroticism in the continuous pulse of these medusea. The medusa’s—the name medusa originates from their fancied resemblance to the snaky tresses of the mythical gorgon, Medusa—is the sexually reproductive stage of these jellies, own capacities, lifeways, seem translated into a kind of profligacy of sensual movement for aquarium-goers. Undulation, pulse, pause, throb are felt as a provocation that is also refractory. First of all, refraction shares the same etymology as refractory, Latin, to break up. Refractory defines behaviors and materials that are obstinate, unresponsive, and resistant. Evoking these terms simultaneously refocuses matter’s stubborn, even blunt, capacity for demarcating externality and internality. For example, light reveals its physical status as substance at the surface boundary of other objects. Afterall, matter owes a debt to its own means of revelation, light. Although radically in-formed by the experience of encounter, matter seems obdurate and opaque, decentering and undoing the mastery and privilege of light and vision. Object and light do not conflate, but meet in the sharing of the world. Indeed, refracted light makes literal sense through grounded encounter, making sense sensible. Refraction and refractory also share origins with “refractory period”: (OED) “the period that follows effective stimulation, during which excitable tissue fails to respond to a stimulus of threshold intensity.” Associated 13 ╇ This kind of “among the jellies” reminds me of Dorothy Cross’ artwork with jellyfish, particularly her film Jellyfish Lake. The film is a very loose meditation on memory, the unknown, and embodied encounter, which takes place where species (jellyfish and human) territories meet and overlap. 14 ╇ In her Notes on Thought and Vision, Hilda Doolittle describes a higher level of consciousness and erotic creativity through the figure of a jellyfish. The image she gives is of a jellyfish sitting on her head with feelers extending into the world and connecting with the world. Jellyfish consciousness was a way of perceiving through gendered, embodied experiences.

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with sexual pleasure, the refractory period as expiration suggests the inertia of the entropic and the return toward the inanimate. Stillness that falls after excitation carries the residue of sensate experience. Sense is carnal; senses are refractory. Evoking the early definition of refraction/refractory, the ontological status of refracted light is an irreducible nexus of en-acted, active, and non-active properties (though, of course, stillness is another in-acted modality). We do not identify; instead, we sensually cohabit with illuminated jellies. The Drifters exhibit creates an environment of intense involvement, where familiar orderings are transposed, altered, and refigured. Yet, with virtual gills, somehow gotten through the visual/acoustic/ haptic apparatus of the display, we breathe water and are not smothered by its filling our lungs. Through the display apparatus, the amphibious observer is entangled in sensibility, and able to move with and encounter the jellies on display. Nigel Rothfels has noted the attempt by zoo designers to re-narrate and mask the captivity of animals (216). Immersion, in his sense, functions as an illusion of freedom and mobility for both the observer and the animal. Transparency allows for the sensation of immersion, while always erasing its own power of confinement. Containment and control are eroded and replaced with patron comfort and pleasure. As in the exhibits Rothfels critiques, immersion does function in the Drifters exhibit as a pathway through which imagined closeness is achieved. However, the aquatics and brilliance of the Drifters room necessarily foreplace the display apparatus. It is as if the display immerses us in the apparatus as much as in the virtual “outer bay.” The necessity of transparent acrylic to display marine creatures is not hidden, but rather amplified. Light floods through the display, making what is usually diaphanous appear overdone, gorgeous, aglow. Transparencies, here, transfigure the light, exposing its vulnerability to mediation, making it something in the world rather than an extraterrestrial, transcendent energy. We dive into blue-material-discursivity: transnational research exchanges, local marine environments, bio-tourism, Hewlett-Packard computer technologies, and the artful presentation of marine science displays. Refraction through transparencies crisscrosses the observer into the very substantive architecture of light and space. The perceptual experience does not produce a casual, objective observer, but an incarnate, fleshy encounter. To enter the exhibit is to inhabit, if for only a moment, deep histories and bodily functions not transcendental positions.

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Those bright, red tentacles are full of sting—“very painful” reads the label—glide and tangle, loop and sink. The shocking orange bells of twenty individuals, gelatinous masses, are vividly contrasted by the ultramarine of the lighted water. The profligate color is shocking. The nettles’ bodies are translucent, yet thick. The size of dinner plates, they drift, and then swim in rhythmic contractions. They appear as all verbs instead of noun, or nouns becoming verbs in an anthimeric enactment. They contract, expel water, propel themselves in the opposite direction. Sea nettles are part of the class Scyphozoa, the order SemaeoÂ� stomeae, the ever common and conspicuous typical jellyfishes with their large size and abundance, “playing an important role in near shore, oceanic, and deep-sea ecosystems, serving as predators and sources of food for other organisms.” Their tentacles, packed with nematocysts—stinging cells—that can deliver a nasty wound, seem all knotted together. I worry that their confines are over-crowded, causing snares in their tentacles. But the panel reassures me, informing me about dense jelly blooms in which hundreds of thousands, packed on top of each other, take over beaches and bays. Although constrained by space, the jellies fare better in the constant, gentle flow of the aquarium rather than in the slashing surf where fragile, gelatinous bodies tend to be torn and ripped by the rowdy waves. Though obviously miniscule in comparison to the open waters, the tank is well over twenty feet long and approximately ten feet high. The tank dominates the exhibit space; everything seems to flow toward it. It is no accident that I don’t pull myself away from it or them. I can’t help but overhear the whisperings of other patrons. “They look like hot glass.” “Gorgeous.” “I think they are disgusting.” One child calls them pumpkins. The child’s caretaker says, “But they could hurt you.” She is right, and yet I press close to the acrylic, feeling its cold touch—water controlled by thermo-regulators—almost disbelieving the pane’s presence, and the predatory tentacles pass delicately across my fingers and eyes. I am not stung, but my tactile foresight knows better. While jellies drift through each section of this paper, I want to dive deeper into their role in the Drifters exhibit. I want to think seriously about their presence; their stories; their biology. How are they actors? In their artificial world, what part do they play no longer adrift in ocean flows, but in socio-economic currents and riptides, as well as

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technologically sophisticated displays? The jellies are potent predators in their own habitat, always eating, always moving (Kaplan 2006). They are also major actors in their ecosystems. They are quick adjusters to polluted waters: Mnemiopsis in the Gulf of Maine, big magenta-colored Pelagia in the French Riviera, and sea nettles in the Chesapeake Bay. “No one knows for sure, but jellyfish blooms may occur in part because we overload a body of water with fertilizers and sewage. This leads to an increase in the planktonic plants and animals on which jellyfishes feed and creates a low-oxygen environment in which fish die but jellies thrive” (Coniff 2000: 98). These same drifters, well adapted to change, have driven tourists from beaches and bays. In Japan, jellyfishes have clogged seawater intake pipes and forced a nuclear power plant to throttle down (97). This is some sort of planetary power. But my question is: How do these actors matter in the glittering display of the Drifters exhibit? Retooled and intended by the technologies of the display, how have these stinging, gelatinous blobs come to have such appeal? Powell writes: “In the case of the jellies, I knew that the beauty and grace of these gently pulsing animals would produce a strong emotional response in visitors, and their fascinating life cycles and anatomy would satisfy visitors’ intellectual needs” (2001: 263). He was certainly right. The Monterey Bay Aquarium spent half a million dollars advertising the exhibit. In the first year, the exhibit generated an annual attendance of 1.6 million visitors or higher. Jellies proved profitable for the non-profit institution, and they need to be; a small Kreisel tank costs an aquarium $500,000 to manufacture. If this isn’t non-profit bio-capitalism, then I don’t know what is. Again, jellies are at the center of the story. How do we account for their improbable presence in the apparatuses of immersion, refraction, and transparency? In this immersive environment—where boundaries are not so much leaky as they are transilluminated—what interchange takes place between jellies and patrons? Who is stung? Describing the Drifters display at MBA, Jane Desmond writes: “These jellies are so abstractly beautiful in shape and movement they are nearly aestheticized right out of the category of animal” (1998: 168). She continues: “They become surrealistic white shapes, odd mixtures of volume and line continually changing against an ebony background, ebbing and flowing without sharp punctuation…” (168). She goes on to suggest, “[W]hile we enjoy the jellies as beautiful objects (living objects), we do not identify with them as sentient

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beings” (168). Desmond proposes that the beautification of the Drifters makes cross-species identification impossible. She holds out hope that identification, seeing familiarity in other organisms, is a map for empathy and critical engagement. Identification, for Desmond, appears to be a counter to the objectification of radically different organisms. The “transmutation of non-identification into aestheticization” allows the observer to gawk and marvel at dissimilarity, making difference a marketable feature (168). She urges us to see how “The intimate exhibits position us as separate from, but powerful over, the objectified physical oddities on the other side of the glass” (181). This argument suggests that the tank’s work is to create idealized visual pathway into the world of the jellies. The tank is a presence, a dominating instrument that expands the observer’s eye through the subjugation of non-humans. Desmond’s argument speaks against a liberal humanism that wants to save, preserve, and conserve vanishing “wildlife,” while ignoring the exploitation and concomitant idealization of nature. Through this double move, stewardship of nature can be sold for a “moral” price. Animals function, then, by embodying nature, that which is imagined as radically different from culture. The MBA is a boundary object—existing at the border of nature and culture—that function as public spectacle, public enlightenment, and conquest of the animal other. Desmond’s argument proposes that the jellies stand-in for what observers are not, a bodily product of natural processes. In some ways I think Desmond is right. Current ongoing cruelty toward animals, species extinction, and ecological devastation offer good evidence for her case. There is no question that the jellies in the Drifters exhibit are marketable figures that embody all kinds of movements in capital. Jellies are produced as profoundly different— even “alien”—from observers, and this difference is fashioned as markedly beautiful. Certainly the immersivity of the exhibit bends toward spectrality, motion, and simulation. Nonetheless, I wonder if there are modes of captivity that do not rely on total domination as the only modality of power at stake? And if power is more discursive than anthropocentric; might the anthropocentric project of identification or reflectivity—that animals are really reflections of ourselves—be the wrong framework not only to think about immersion, but also cross-species encounters? Do the display lights that seem to be one vast conjugation of the verb “to glow” shine new meanings of interchange between jellies and visitors? This line of questioning may

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appear as apolitical utopianism, but I am trying to imagine seriously how acts of benign to deadly commoditization have produced the jellies as actors. These gelatinous beings have survived the incredibly over-fished, over-polluted, and otherwise misused Monterey Bay. They have moved from pest to starring roles in their local ecology, refiguring and refigured by Bay economies. They are destroyed, transformed, and conserved by various actions and ambitions of Homo sapiens; they are not just symbols. We—humans and jellies— are linked in ongoing nature-cultures. I read about the “egg yolk jelly” or “fried egg jelly,” Phacellophora camtshatica, and its symbionts, juvenile crabs and amphipods. The panel describes the yellow, central gonadal mass, resembling an egg yolk. I learn that these jellies have a mild sting and feed on gelatinous zooplankton, especially other medusas. They are drifters, spending most of their time motionless with their tentacles extended over ten feet, netting the waters for food. Nearby are iridescent lobed comb jellies, the ctenophores. Almost transparent, they move through the lit water with slow, continuous grace. We are taught that these jellies belong to their own “phylum, Ctenophora, sharing only resemblances—modes of predation, translucency, and gelatinous consistency—with the medusa-generating jellies of most pelagic— always in the water column—cnidarians.” Most ctenophores are hermaphroditic, and many are able to selffertilize (Buchsbaum and Milne1966). I can’t help but feel some kinship with these inverts: me a transwoman, them hermaphrodites. Queer in decidedly different ways, but equally manifestations of life’s inventiveness. (Hird 2006). But perhaps in another register, we share an ontology in the ways technoscientific practices have transposed and transcoded our bodies. For Donna Haraway’s trans “cross a culturally salient line between nature and artifice, and they greatly increase the density of all kinds of other traffic on the bridge between what counts as nature and culture” (1997: 56). We, the ctenophores and I, must certainly share in an aesthetic sociality of transness at the very least. Panels explain how light passing around the cilia of this jelly scatters into exuberant color, making them look like “alien vessels.” “Alien,” again, proclaims the fantastic form of the jellies.� Alien also has roots in the foreign, the “other,” that which is not familiar. What seems to me more important than the “foreignness” of “alienness” of the ctenophores is that the space (technology and architecture) and

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organisms touch my body, producing reflexive, rather than reflective, comprehension through my body. My body knows that I am not in the kingdom of vertebrates, with all their supposedly predictable binaries. Their light show is not only for human observers, but plays important role in their interactions with each other and other Â�critters. You and I are only one species among many who find ctenophores “distracting.” I want to turn to the diffractions of ctenophores to think about the ways this display space, intentionally or not, refracts discourses of captivity and visuality. Working through an ethics of difference, Donna Haraway turns to diffraction as a metaphor for talking about “a history of interaction, interference, reinforcement, difference” (1997: 273). She writes: “Reflexivity has been much recommended as a critical practice, but my suspicion is that reflexivity, like reflection, only displaces the same elsewhere, setting up worries about copy, and original and the search for the authentic and really real” (273). Reflexivity, for Haraway, is a trope that produces unproductive oppositions between the literal and the figural. She makes a radical departure from traditions of representation toward a “material-semiotics” that favors contiguity between virtuality and reality predicated on an attention to materiality. Diffraction, she contends, is an “optical metaphor for the effort to make a difference in the world” (273). In a technical sense, diffraction is the spreading out of light waves as they pass through a small opening or around a boundary. DifÂ� fraction arises when two waveforms interfere with one another, or in the patches of smooth water and choppy little crests in a tide race when waves cross one another. Depending on the phase differences and the amplitude of the light waves, elements of composite light—or white light—are reinforced, weakened, or eliminated by each other alternately. So this is the point of diffraction: its patterns are not the same as whatever it was that produced them. The consequences of these interference patterns is changing color, a phenomenon that is a common occurrence in structures produced by living organisms: feathers, the scales of butterfly wings and fishes, and beetle carapaces (Simon 1971). Linking the physics of diffraction with a tropic emphasis on difÂ� ference, for Haraway diffraction is about “heterogeneous history, not about originals” (273). She deploys diffraction to think about a “critical difference within.” It is a practice for situating the human and non-human in enfoldments that matter, a trope for ethics and

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Â� history, an enactment of materiality, an optics that “does not map where differences appear, but rather maps where the effects of differences appear” (Haraway 1997: 300). Diffraction, returned to its etymological roots, is the action of turning, or state of being turned, away from a straight line or regular path; the bending of a ray of light, at the edge of a body, into a geometrical shadow; the modification of the form of a word to express the different grammatical relations into which it may enter. To diffract, is to put concerns, entities, relationships, and actions into process. But like any verb, to diffract is appended with consequences, responsibilities, and possibilities. “Diffraction is a mapping of interference, not of replication, reflection, or reproduction. A diffraction pattern does not map where differences appear, but rather maps where the effects of differences appear” (300). What often appear as separate entities (or separate sets of concerns) are constitutive? She argues that the co-constituted nature of distinct entities is not static; they exist in a state of ongoing, differential becoming. Subjects and objects are specific parts of the world’s ongoing figuration and dynamic structuration. Haraway urges us to consider how experience is made through enduring and different histories of encounter with these encounters interfering with one another, producing altered and indefinite arrangements of knowledge, perception, and experience. Ctenophores with their diffracting cilia and fluible mesoglea are living, respiring, metamorphosing diffraction patterns—their own materiality is diffracting, a constant state of transposing, metaÂ� morphosing, and troping. And here the emphasis is on the pleasure of dis/orientation, of knowing what is occurring in the states of doing and being. The genuine, reflective theory, mediating distances, Â�seeking what has already been discovered by the self laboring in history, bends around the cilia where things are living, where surfaces are dynamic, where differences are about relatings. It is more and more difficult to ignore what has always been true—that the material and the semiotic do not pre-exist their involvement (Haraway 1997). Meaning, matter, and action live together (living together); they are symbiotic. Such an intra-thriving of text and tissue brings a repositioning of the human-animal-machine and the non-human-animalmachine. Making sense through senses—for the ctenophores and me—is produced through a distributed sensorium (King 2009). Relays of perception that are always already co-shaped (e.g. the sense of touch

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is at work in seeing) are also distributed across species zones. Sense perception does not belong in isolation in contrast to umwelt, nonsharing but overlapping perceptual worlds (Agamben 2004). I suggest that sensations are produced through relationships, that literally sensing is a distributed process. I call this form of distributed sense, sensation, and sensorium “ciliated sense” to honor the cross-species relays that matter in this display of jellies. Ciliated sense is a sensuousness made by the convergence and synaesthetic force of perceiving and feeling, processing and mattering, knowing and being. Ciliated sense is about undoing structuring lacks or primordial division through transposing of senses. The architecture of containment, the temperature of water, immersion and kinesthesia, visuality and visibility, and numerous haptic registers: ciliated sense is distributed sensation, diffracting and locomoting ctenophores make light about motion and touch for their own lifeways, their own capacities, and for me, their movements make light material, corporeal, and spatial. To further contextualize ciliated sensing, I want to turn to Karen Barad’s questions about ethical mattering and prepositional agency. Working with Haraway’s trope, Barad brilliantly extends the analysis of diffraction to think about brittlestars, differential becomings, and ethics (2007). For Barad, diffraction is a metaphor for different modes of relating and encountering, for patterns and contingencies, for theorizing and living in a technoscientific world of cohabitations, copresences, and coevolutions. Her articulation of the diffracting lifeways of brittlestars foregrounds the necessarily fragmentary and partial relation between the perception of an event and the event itself. Brittlestars embody a sense of becoming that is predicated on differential materializations. She writes “The ongoing reconfigurings of its [brittlestar’s] bodily boundaries and connectivity are products of iterative causal intra-actions—material-discursive practices—through which the agential cut between ‘self’ and ‘other’ … is differentially enacted” (2007: 376). Space is an iterative “intra-active” encounter, and bodies (such as brittlestars) are also co-constituted performances of that dynamic spatiotemporailty. Barad suggests, “Bodies are not situated in the world; they are part of the world” (376). The prepositional shift of “in” to “of” emphasizes the way bodies do not preexist their environments; ecosystems constitute becoming in the flesh. About the ctenophores in the Drifters display, the technologies of display, and their human attendants and visitors we might say, following Barad, that they co-constitute each other through a variety

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of “intra-actions.” But, can I say that captivity, then, is diffracted? Do these relays of inter- and intra-action constitute a cross-species ethics? Barad answers these questions in saying: “Ethics is about mattering, about taking account of the entangled materialization of which we are part, including new configurations, new subjectivities, new possibilities … “ (2007: 384). Attending to the enmeshment of space, light, medium, and embodiment of the Drifters room is an ethical matter. The mis/use of ctenophores and question of power is part of a materialist ethics of concrescence. And indeed, the terms of power and even domination in this context seem less precise, less critical when an ethics of mattering is accounted for. It is an ethics of mattering—partly intentional, partly relational, partly unconscious—that the iridescing comb jellies and aquarium’s heterogeneous zones of encounter are generating. Their bodies in relation to techno and human agents record and are records of all the interactions within the Drifters display that I have attempted to outline. They document the lights that produce immersion, that produce transparency and refraction. They are eyeless witnesses of a history of interaction; they do not look back. The ctenophores in the Drifters exhibit form a space enfolded into enactments and encounters, transfiguring the labor and capacities of humans and non-humans and animals and non-animals. Ctenophore iridescence is about understanding the ambivalent, powerful, and elusive ways that ecology is composed through histories of interaction, relationality, interconnection, and materiality. Theirs is not a calculus of speech acts, subaltern or agential; it is a relational matter—it is not simply about whom has agency as if it were a substance to be owned. As an aquarium-goer my attention/resources/etc are solicited by the ctenophores in the display, a display that instrumentalizes the jellies diffracting cilia, cilia that moves the jelly, jellies that diffract light and solicit my senses. These specific organisms in this specific ecology make me adapt to them just as my entrance fee ensures that their lifeways become one of the substrates of biocapitalism. That is to say, these displayed jellies make impositions on humans and machines (such as aquariums and pumps) just as machines and peoples make incredible demands on them (Haraway 2008). Yes, these jellies are imagined, destroyed, and loved through our interactions with them. But, there needs to be some recognition of the jellies’ participation in worldhood. Animal displays are not Â�simply about seeing the human reflected back upon us. This reflectivity—full

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of stories about representation and identification—continues to miss and imagine how animals are part of complex interference patterns of reactions and effects. Iridescence is about understanding the ambivalent, powerful, and elusive ways that the jellies take part in these histories of interaction. This does not suggest that the jellies embody some active or inherent intentions. I am suggesting that participation is a relational act, the overall effect of convergence. The jellies and the aquarium-goers are both immersed in environment—differently, of course: one can leave; the other lives and dies there. The lifeways of the jellies have become embedded in the aquarium: reproduction (sexual and asexual), predation, and drifting all takes place within the acrylic walls of the aquarium. They are watched over, they are protected, they are fed, and their human stewards sometimes destroy them. The display is not just an uncritical prophylactic that only over-stimulates the senses; it is not a substitute or representation of some real experience. When we are immersed as observers, as aquarium goers, we are not only immersed in virtuality; we are immersed in deep marine techno-science worlds. We become part of the histories of fluiluminality that the ciliary combs of ctenophores trace. Encounter is not on any one set of terms, jellies’ or humans’, but on a set of contingent terms. So, yes, these are captive beings—what they “know” about their captivity one cannot be sure of—their captivity makes local economies work. Whether we decide captivity for these invertebrates is ethical or not, what is at play in this display is more than just a politics of domination. Light, space, perception, and bodily (human and non/human) and technological sensoriums are brought into conjunction in ways that matter, that make meaningful relationaility. Drifters display, rightly or wrongly, makes material the distributed qualities of sensation. We both, with our fleshy differences, are affected by the exhibit, by its constraints, its possibilities, its convergences. We have, hopefully, a future together, sharing in a local ecosystem that is under intense commercial and environmental pressures. We are both interferences in the histories—past and present—that define the Monterey Bay Aquarium and its local and global communities. As I leave the “Drifters” display, I turn to my left and am confronted with another view of the “Outer Bay.” However, here, tunas, sunfishes, mackerels, and sharks worry the waters of a tremendous aquarium. Not only have the inhabitants changed in this other “Outer Bay”—no dreamy, stinging drifters here—but also has the

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Â� environment. And, above all, the scale has changed dramatically back to that of fellow large vertebrates. The difference between fish and mammal is swamped by the fellowship of scale. There are no new-age sounds, and there are no special effects. Here, there is no doubt that I am looking at the top of the food chain. I am back in vertebrate space. The lights from above this aquarium that radiate through the water are beautiful, but not of the same quality as the “Drifters” exhibit. Here, the space is understandable. These predators have armament not too different from my own—not nematocysts and nerve toxins. I know what position I am in—you are looking at large fishes that move from the back of the tank to the front. The aquarium is full of depth—the tiger sharks awe me when they emerge from the back shadows and glide across the front wall of transparency. It is beautiful—they are beautiful—and yet, I begin to miss the sensuous and submersive space I just left. Acknowledgments I want to thank Donna Haraway, Vicki Pearse, and Jennifer Gonzalez for reading and commenting on early drafts of this essay. I presented a version of this essay—focused on diffraction, hermaphroditism, prepositional knowledge, and differential becoming—at the Society for Literature, Science and the Arts annual Conference, 2004, Duke University. I want to thank Katie King, Karen Barad, and Nigel Rothfels for their engagement with my work at that conference. References Acampora, R. 2005. “Zoo and Eyes: Contesting Captivity and Seeking Successor Practices.” Society and Animals 13:69-88. Agamben, G. 2004. The Open: Man and Animal. Translated by K. Attell. Stanford: Stanford University Press. Barber, L. 1980. The Heyday of Natural History: 1820-1870. New York: Doubleday and Company INC. Barad, K. 2007. Meeting the Universe Halfway: Quantum Physics and the Entanglement of Matter and Meaning. Durham: Duke University Press. Barthes, R. 1989. The Rustle of Language. [Richard Howard, Trans.] California: University of California Press. Berger, J. 1980. About Looking. New York: Pantheon Books. Brant, C. 2009. “Translating Cuttlefish: Underwater Lifewritings,” Biography, 32:1. 114-127. Brunner, B. 2003. The Ocean at Home: An Illustrated History of the Aquarium. New York: Princeton Architectural Press.

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Buchsbaum, R. and L. Milne. 1966. The Lower Animals: Living Invertebrates of the World. New York: Doubleday and Company. Butler, H. 1858. The Family Aquarium; or, Aqua Vivarium: A New Pleasure for the Domestic Circle: Being a Familiar and Complete Instructor upon the Subject of the Construction, Fitting-Up, Stocking, and Maintenance of the Fluvial and Marina Aquaria, or “River and Ocean Gardens. New York: Dick and Fitzgerald. Carson, R. 1979. The Sea around Us. New York: Oxford University Press. Clifford, J. 1997. Routes: Travel and Translation in the Late Twentieth Century. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. Coniff, R. 2000. “Jelly Bellies.” National Geographic. June. Connors, J. and N. Deans. 2002. Jellies: Living Arts. Monterey: Monterey Bay Aquarium Foundation. Corbin, A. 1994. Lure of the Sea: The Discovery of the Seaside in the Western World. Berkeley: University of California Press. Cross, D. 2005. Dorothy Cross. Irish Museum of Modern Art: Charta Art Books. Davis, S. 1995. “Touch the Magic.” In Uncommon Ground: Toward Reinventing Nature, edited by W. Cronen, 205-217. New York: W.W. Norton. Davis, S. 1997. Spectacular Nature: Corporate Culture and the Sea World. Berkeley: University of California Press. Desmond, J. 1999. Staging Tourism: Bodies on Display From Waikiki to Sea World. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Doty, M. 1993. “Difference.” In My Alexandria: Poems by Mark Doty, 52-54. Urbana: University of Illinois Press. Farber, T. 1994. On Water. Hopewell, NJ: Ecco Press. Hamilton-Paterson, J. 1998. “The Cultural Impact of Oceans.” In Sea Changes: The Seascape in Contemporary Photography, edited by T. Sacks. New York: Distributed Arts Publishers. Hancocks, D. 2001. A Different Nature: The Paradoxical World of Zoos and Their Uncertain Future. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hanson, E. 2002. Animal Attractions: Nature on Display in American Zoos. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Haraway, D. 1997. Modest_Witness@Second_Millennium. FemaleMan©_Meets_ OncoMouse™. New York: Routledge Press. Haraway, D. 2008. When Species Meet. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Hayward, E. 2005. “Enfolded Vision: Refracting the Love Life of the Octopus.” Octopus: A Visual Studies Journal 1:29-44. Helmreich, S. 2003. “Life@Sea: Networking Marine Biodiversity into Biotech Futures.” In Remarking Life and Death: Toward an Anthropology of the BioÂ� sciences, edited by S. Franklin, and M. Lock. Santa Fe: School of American Research Press. Helmreich, S. 2007. “An anthropologist underwater: Immersive soundscapes, submarine cyborgs, and transductive ethnography.” American Ethnologist 34:621641. Helmreich, S. 2008. Alien Ocean: Anthropological Voyages in Microbial Seas. Berkeley: University of California Press. Hill, R. 1956. Window in the Sea. New York: Rinehart and Company, Inc. Hird, M. 2006. “Animal Transex.” Australian Feminist Studies 21: 35-50. Hoage, R., and W. Deiss. 1996. New Worlds, New Animals: From Menagerie to Zoological Park in the Nineteenth Century. Baltimore: John Hopkins University Press. Huling, J. 1996. Jellyfish Music. Audio CD. Red Feather.

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Ihde, D., and E. Selinger, E. 2004. “Merleau-Ponty and Epistemology Engines.” Human Studies 27: 361-376. Kaplan, E. 2006. Sensuous Seas: Tales of a Marine Biologist. Princeton: Princeton University Press. King, K. 2009. “Tranimal: my distributed animality.” Paper presentation. Society for Literature, Science, and the Arts (SLSA) Annual Conference, Atlanta, 7 November. Http://sltranimal.blogspot.com/. Kisling, V. 2001. Zoo and Aquarium History: Ancient Animal Collections to Zoological Gardens. Boca Raton: CRC Press. Latour, B. 2005. Reassembling the Social: An Introduction to Actor-Network-Theory. Oxford: Oxford University press. Malamud, R. 1998. Reading Zoos: Representations of Animals and Captivity. New York: New York University Press. Mangelsdorf, T. 1990. History of Stenbeck’s Cannery Row. Lafayette, CA: Great West Books McCosker, J. 1999. The History of the Steinhart Aquarium: A Very Fishy Tale. New York: Donning Company Publishers. Messier, V., and N. Batra. 2008. This Watery World: Humans and the Sea. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. Milton, J. 1841. Paradise Lost. London: Samuel Holdsworth, Amen Corner, PaterÂ� noster Row. Mullan, B. and G. Marvin. 1999. Zoo Culture: The Book About Watching People Watch Animals. Chicago: University of Illinois Press. Norton, B., M. Hutchins, E. Stevens, and T. Maple. 1995. Ethics on the Ark: Zoos, Animal Welfare, and Wildlife Conservation. Washington: Smithsonian Institute Press. Olalquiaga, C. 1998. The Artificial Kingdom: A Treasury of the Kitsch Experience. New York: Pantheon Books. Phillips, C. 1964. The Captive Sea. New York: Chilton Books. Powell, D. 2001. A Fascination for Fish: Adventures of an Underwater Pioneer. Berkeley: University of California Press. Reed, D. 1981. Notes from an Underwater Zoo. New York: The Dial Press. Rodgers, T. (forthcoming) “Toward a Feminist Epistemology of Sound: Refiguring Waves in Audio-Technological Discourses.” Feminist Studies. Rothfels, N. 2002. “Immersed with Animals.” In Representing Animals, edited by N. Rothfels. Bloomington: Indiana University Press. Scheier, J. 2006. New York City Zoos and Aquarium. Mount Pleasant, SC: Arcadia Publishing Schlee, S. 1973. The Edge of an Unfamiliar World: A History of Oceanography. New York: E.P. Dutton and Co. Shepherson, D., J. Mellen, and M. Hutchins. 1998. Second Nature: Environmental Enrichment for Captive Animals. Washington: Smithsonian Institute Press. Shukin, N. 2009. Animal Capital: Rendering Life in Biopolitical Times. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press. Simon, H. 1971. The Splendor of Iridescence: Structural Colors in the Animal World. New York: Dodd, Mead and Company. Stafford, B. 1997. Good Looking: Essay on the Virtue of Images. Cambridge: MIT Press. Stafford, B., and F. Terpak. 2001. Devices of Wonder: From the World in a Box to Images on a Screen. Getty Publications.

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Sorenson, J. 2008. “Monsters: The Case of Marineland.” In Animal Subjects: An Ethical Reader in a Posthuman World, edited by J. Castricano. Ontario: Wilfrid Laurier University Press. Sowerby, G. 2009. Popular History of the Aquarium. Charleston, SC: Bibliobazaar Publishing. Stott, R. 2000. “Through the Glass Darkly: Aquarium Colonies and NineteenthCentury Narratives of Marine Monstrosity.” Gothic Studies 2:305-27. Stott, R. 2003. Theatres of Glass: The Woman who Brought the Sea to the City. London: Short Books. Taylor, L. 1993. Aquariums: Windows to Nature. New York: Prentice Hall General Reference. Vasseleu, C. 1998. Textures of Light: Vision and Touch In Irigaray, Levinas and Merleau-Ponty. New York: Routledge Press. Wrobel, D. 1999. “Life as a Jelly.” Ocean Realm Autumn:64-69. Wrobel, D., and C. Mills. 1998. Pacific Coast Pelagic Invertebrates: A Guide to the Common Gelatinous Animals. Monterey: Sea Challengers and Monterey Bay Aquarium Publications.

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CONCLUDING REMARKS

From Theory to Action: An Ethologist’s Perspective Jonathan Balcombe When I began reading the chapters in this book, I was in a busy airport. I was wearing a tee-shirt someone had recently sent me following a conference organized by the North American Vegetarian Society. The shirt features a cow, above which (or I should say, “above whom”) are the bold letters: SOMEONE, NOT SOMETHING. The message—that animals are unique, conscious individuals—seems straightforward enough. But then, as a biologist and long-time vegan steeped in animal ethics, I am well attuned to the idea that an animal has a biography and not merely a biology. Ordinary folks are not so attuned. Would they divine my shirt’s meaning? And if they did, would they agree? Questions like these resonate deeply with Human-Animal Studies (HAS), which seeks to develop humanity’s collective awareness, understanding and consideration of other animals. In my brief conclusion to this volume I will broach some of the barriers to this noble mission with reference to certain concepts that figure large in the previous chapters. I think it crucial that HAS scholars confront these barriers in the advancement of both their discipline and the animal cause. Mainly, I will use examples from ethology studies to reinforce my points. As a strong believer in the value of interdisciplinary discourse, I hope that my perspective as an ethologist (one who studies animal behavior) will be useful. Any field that grapples with animal ethics can benefit from a stronger nexus with ethology (and vice versa), especially in the current era when ethology is bringing to light animal capacities that would once have been thought the stuff of fantasy.

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With our richly developed cultures—our technologies, our arts and literature, our economic theories, our wars and crises, and our urban centers that diminish contact with the natural world—is it any wonder that we are anthropocentric? Paradoxically, HAS itself is inherently anthropocentric. All scholarly disciplines—indeed, all human activities—are at least passively anthropocentric, because we are anthropoid apes. Where we go astray is in thinking that ours is the only viewpoint. The more harmful, active anthropocentrism, sees the human condition as the only condition, or at least the only condition that matters. Reining in our anthropocentrism requires recognizing that other species perceive their worlds in their own unique ways. They have— to use a term coined by the early 20th Century German ethologist Jakob von Uexküll—their own umwelts. Anthropocentrism blinkers us from considering that other animals also have their own perspectives. That is to say, there is a diversity of other –centrisms. I don’t doubt that tigers are naturally tigercentric, which may explain Philip Armstrong’s opening line: I’m looking at a tiger, but she’s not looking at me. If you’ve ever witnessed a throng of people amongst whom there are just two dogs whose attention is riveted on one another, then you’ll have seen an example of dogcentrism. I’m always bemused by this because it indicates that from a dog’s perspective, a dog is more interesting than a human. By presenting tigers and dogs to illustrate my point, I might be fairly accused of mammal-centrism, so let me say that any conscious animal passively engages in its own brand of -centrism. Some may cavil that I am endowing animals with inappropriate levels of subjectivity by assigning to them their own centrisms. But there are now good scientific grounds for ascribing this sort of subjectivity to animals. Evidence is mounting that awareness of self and others occurs in a variety of taxa. In 2008, magpies were added to great apes, dolphins and elephants on a list of species that have passed the “mirror self-recognition” (MSR) test (Prior et al 2008). MSR involves the capacity to recognize one’s reflection in a mirror as being oneself and not another individual. MSR is a stringent criterion for self-awareness, so we cannot equate failure at MSR as absence of self-awareness. Rats, for instance, have not been shown to possess MSR, but they have been shown to have metacognition; that is, a rat is aware of

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what she knows and what she does not know. Trained rats will readily push one of two levers to indicate the correct response to a simple discrimination task, for which they are given a reward (food pellets). But when presented stimuli (usually a pair of tones of different duration) are very similar, rats will elect to take the next test (for a small reward) rather than risk getting the wrong answer (no reward). Thus, rats are capable of judging whether they have enough information to pass a test; they are aware of what they know and don’t know (Foote & Crystal 2007). This “uncertainty monitoring” method has also been successfully applied to humans, dolphins and monkeys (Smith et al 2004; Smith & Washburn 2005). As I read Hayward’s enchanting descriptions of jellyfish, I inadvertently stumbled on another human-generated –centrism: predatorcentrism. The Outer Bay portion of the Monterey Bay Aquarium exhibit Hayward describes, which features tunas, mackerels and sharks, is seen as depicting the top of the food-chain. But is it? By thinking so, we may fall prey (so to speak) to predator-centrism, for we fail to consider the myriad parasites which dwell on or in the bodies of tunas and sharks, drawing a living from their tissues. By some estimates, there are more parasites on Earth—both in numbers and diversity—than there are followers of any other life strategy (Price 1980). Not surprisingly, several parasitic species specialize on humans. An expert in parasitism told me recently that while there may be some humans in our hygiene obsessed society who escape parasites, it is probably not many. This is a delicious affront to our human-centeredness. But let’s not descend into the Hobbesian trap of thinking wild nature to be a grim place of unmitigated brutality, death and suffering. As I have argued elsewhere, sentient animals evolved as pleasureseekers (Balcombe 2006); food, play, companionship, touch, and affection are among many sources of good feelings they may experience during their time on Earth. It is also short-sighted to conclude that life is not worth living for the many who fall early by the wayside. It is tragic when a child dies of leukemia, but would we then say that it would have been better had the child not lived at all? The chick in the nest who falls prey to a marauding rat snake still enjoyed meals and felt the warmth of a brooding mother (Balcombe 2010). Nature is more sanguine and less competitive than popular portrayals lead us to believe. Consider the prevalence of mutualisms in our lives. These occur at the macro-level, where cooperation may

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benefit individuals more than conflict and competition (Dugatkin 1997). Mutualisms also exist at the micro-level. You may be surprised to learn that most of “you” is not you. Some 90 percent of all the cells in our bodies are bacteria. Our guts alone contain trillions of bacteria of hundreds of different species. These bacterial symbionts help us to assimilate food as they feed themselves. Even our own cells are hives of cooperating organisms; mitochondria, which function as cells’ energy-producing centers, have their own DNA. In the face of such integrated nature, active anthropocentrism appears increasingly misguided. We are, from nature’s perspective, just another cog in the wheel of life. Selling them Short In several places in this volume I found underestimations of animals’ known capacities. This is understandable because many of the compelling findings in ethology—like those of other disciplines—remain mostly confined to the relative obscurity of scholarly journals. Now that science has shed a layer of armor that for most of the 20th century shunned discussion of animal thinking and feeling, there is a rapid expansion of inquiry into animal cognition, emotion and experience. It is still commonly believed, for instance, that only humans have culture. In fact, many other species are now known to have culture— as defined by practices idiosyncratic to populations, and are not genetically inherited but passed on behaviorally such as by learning and/or teaching. A recent review of 151 combined years of chimpanzee field studies revealed cultural variations in thirty-nine different behavior patterns or traditions, including tool use, grooming, greetings, and courtship behaviors (Whiten et al 1999). Orangutan researchers have documented 19 clearly defined cultural traditions, with five more tentatively identified (van Schaik et al. 2003). Other examples include dialects in orcas and prairie dogs; the use of unique call labels (names) to refer to other individuals within dolphin pods; and tool manufacture and tool-kit use in great apes, monkeys and New Caledonian crows (Chappell & Kacelnik 2002; Janik et al 2006; Slobodchikoff & Coast 1980; Trivedi 2004). Even fishes—a hugely diverse group of animals we are prone to naïvely dismissing as simple and ‘primitive’, show culture—including monitoring the social prestige of others, cooperating in a variety of ways during foraging, navigation, reproduction and predator avoidance (see Brown et al 2006).

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I am not arguing that non-human culture is anywhere as sophisticated or multifarious as our own. But culture represents another case study in what Darwin famously recognized: that we differ from them in degree and not in kind. We must be wary of cultural elitism, as well as what as Taylor and Signal call cultural dictatorship. Similarly, we are not alone in the ability to use language. As we are reminded in Kirilly Thompson’s essay, “An animal’s ‘dumbness’ is really the measure of our ‘deafness’” (Williams cited in Thompson, this volume). As we become less deaf to animal experience, we discover more examples of their ability to communicate. The dancelanguage honeybees use to communicate distance, direction and quality of a food-source to other bees is perhaps the purest form of symbolic language described in nature. Monkeys, prairie dogs and chickens each have a vocabulary of semantic calls to represent specific predator types. For example, prairie dogs’ alarm calls convey specific information about an approaching foe, including species, size, shape, and even color. When hawks or humans come into view, prairie dogs run to their burrow entrances and dive inside; if the enemy is a coyote, they remain above-ground, watching vigilantly from a burrow entrance, or if a dog, they may just stand erect where they are foraging. If presented with only tape-recordings of an alarm call in the absence of any actual predator, the rodents respond in kind, demonstrating that they understand the meanings of these different calls (Slobodchikoff et al 1991). Such has been the persecution by these rodents’ distant primate cousins that some colonies even have a call for “man carrying gun” (Fredericksen & Slobodchikoff 2007). Contrary to common belief, we are also not the only species to communicate gesturally. Chimpanzees communicate with a diversity of hand gestures and body postures (Liebal et al 2004; Pika & Mitani 2006), and dogs and cats have been shown to understand the meaning of some human gestures, including the pointing gesture (Miklósi et al. 2005, Kaminski 2009). Several species of frogs engage in a form of gestural communication. Having evolved near noisy waterfalls, vocal signals are ineffective; instead, these “semaphoring” frogs move their legs and feet, spreading their toes to flash the pale webbing between (Lindquist & Hetherington 1998). Indeed, that social species have not evolved our uniquely emergent linguistic skills requires that they be all the more attuned to the postures and signals of others. Recall the perceptual acuity of Clever

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Hans, the ‘counting horse’ who detected cues from his master that were so subtle that even the master didn’t know he was making them. The astonishing short-term spatial memory demonstrated by chimpanzees—which far exceeds that of the most proficient human—may derive from the importance to a chimpanzee of knowing who in the social group is where at any given moment (Inoue & Matsuzawa 2007, McRae 2008). Theory and Action Finally, several contributors to this volume express the imperative that theory be coupled to action. I agree. HAS must have an applied dimension, and preferably, an activist component. Academic discourse easily becomes indwelling and insular, with little reverberation in “real world” environments—those airports, shopping malls and supermarkets where we may wonder if people are getting the message. I like the composite word humanimal that graces this book’s title. It achieves semantically what it sets out to achieve philosophically: a dissolving of the separation of us and them—a rift borne of human hubris and cultivated by centuries of religious and cultural reinÂ� forcement. On a planet increasingly crowded with humans, the urgency of fixing this rift is more pressing than ever. Paradoxically, while humankind’s understanding of animals, and concern for their well-being are unprecedented, humans currently harm and kill more animals than at any point in history. The reasons are demographic and cultural: the human population continues to grow, and meat consumption is rising fast in nations whose diets have traditionally been more plant-based, most notably China and India. China’s consumption of meat has doubled in the last decade (Associated Press 2007). Today, China is the world’s most carnivorous nation, accounting for one quarter of global meat consumption (Ehrlich & Ehrlich 2008). These disturbing trends, and their sobering implications for animal ethics, cry out for intervention. HAS must confront the twin evils of human overpopulation and run-away meat consumption, not merely because doing so is pro-animal, but because the survival of our planet as we know it may hinge on them. Frankly, we have neither the time nor the luxury to merely theorize in the face of global threats like climate change, biodiversity loss, and emergent zoonoses.

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Currently, global temperatures are conservatively projected to rise by 4 degrees Celsius by 2099, with possible consequences including mass human migration (away from large bioregions rendered unlivable due to desertification), cities abandoned, and a human population reduced (on nature’s terms, not our own) to one billion by century’s end (Vince 2009). Notwithstanding the urgency of curbing animal consumption, adopting a more respectful, egalitarian relationship to animals is also imperative because doing so is profoundly right and not doing so is profoundly unjust. This has to do with sentience, which is the root of moral systems (if there were no capacity for pain, suffering or pleasure, what moral consequences would there be?). There is no scientific grounding for the assumption—tacit in our treatment of animals—that mammals (at least) are less sensate to pain or less vulnerable to physical and psychological suffering than we are. What proof have we that a needle prick is felt any less acutely by a mouse than a man? What basis for thinking that a monkey—driven to depression and bouts of self-mutilation—is less tormented than a human by prolonged confinement in a barren cage? Evolution also provides no support for the presumption that nonhuman sentience is duller than human sentience. The propagation of mouse genes in future mouse generations—which pain evolved to assist by helping mice avoid situations that threaten to destroy mice and their genes— is no less worthy a project for a morally indifferent nature than is the propagation of human genes. To cavil that “they’re just rodents,” as apologists for vivisection have done, does more to illustrate fickle ethics than to uphold a universal principle of benevolence. Similarly, appeals to the rapacious side of nature—which ensures that, on average, only two adult mice will live to reproduce for every pair of parent mice—provide no grounds for belittling mouse sentience. Sentience is blind to demographics and mortality; pain and suffering are felt by individuals, not populations. Sensitizing people to the importance of animal ethics—enabling them to easily grasp the meaning of my tee-shirt—is one of the core aims of HAS. Theories may help foster understanding, but not by themselves. Theories must connect palpably to the “real world,” the world of airport-goers, the world of carnists (from carnism: a term coined by sociologist Melanie Joy to emphasize that meat-eating is not a necessity, and is no less a choice than is vegetarianism) (Joy 2001). We can achieve only so much for the animals and the earth

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when we pontificate about being more respectful of them between bites of a cheeseburger. The challenge of HAS today is to parlay existing theory into action, and to do our bit to change the tide for animals. References Associated Press. 2007. “Eating Less Meat May Slow Climate Change.” September 13, cited on www.enn.com/pollution/article/23011/print. Balcombe, J. 2006. Pleasurable Kingdom: Animals and the Nature of Feeling Good. London: Macmillan. Balcombe, J. 2010. Second Nature: The Inner Lives of Animals. New York: Palgrave. Brown, C., K. Laland, and J. Krause. Eds. 2006. Fish Cognition and Behavior. Oxford: Blackwell Publishing. Chappell, J. and A. Kacelnik. 2002. “Tool Selectivity in a Non-Primate, the New Caledonian Crow (Corvus moneduloides).” Animal Cognition 5:71-78. Dugatkin, L. 1997. Cooperation Among Animals. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Ehrlich, P. and A. Ehrlich. 2008. The Dominant Animal: Human Evolution and the Environment. Washington D.C.: Island Press. Foote, L. and J. Crystal. 2007. “Metacognition in the Rat.” Current Biology 17:551555 Frederiksen, J. and C. Slobodchikoff. 1991. “Referential Specificity in the Alarm Calls of the Black-tailed Prairie Dog.” Ethology Ecology and Evolution 19:87-99. Janik, V., L. Sayigh, and R. Wells. 2006. “Signature Whistle Shape Conveys Identity Information to Bottlenose Dolphins.” Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences of the United States of America 103:8293-8297. Joy, M. 2001. “From carnivore to carnist: Liberating the language of meat.” Satya 8: 26-27. Kaminski, J. 2009. “Dogs (Canis familiaris) are Adapted to Receive Human ComÂ� munication.” In Neurobiology of “Umwelt”: How Living Beings Perceive the World, edited by A. Berthoz and Y. Christen, 103-107. Berlin: Springer-Verlag. Liebal, K., J. Call, and M. Tomasello, M. 2004. “Use of Gesture Sequences in ChimÂ� panzees.” American Journal of Primatology 64:377-396. Lindquist, E. and T. Hetherington. 1998. “Semaphoring in an Earless Frog: The Origin of a Novel Visual Signal.” Animal Cognition 1:1435-1448. McRae, F. 2008. “I’m the chimpion! Ape Trounces the Best of the Human World in Memory Competition.” Daily Mail, January 26. Miklósi, A., P. Pongrácz, G. Lakatos, J. Topál, and V. Csányi. 2005. “A Comparative Study of the use of Visual Communicative Signals in Interactions Between Dogs (Canis familiaris) and Humans and Cats (Felis catus).” Journal of Comparative Psychology 119:179-186. Pika, S. and J. Mitani. 2006. “Referential Gestural Communication in Wild Chimpanzees, (Pan troglodytes).” Current Biology 16:R191-192. Price, P. 1980. Evolutionary Biology of Parasites. Princeton: Princeton University Press. Prior, H., A. Schwarz and O. Gunturkun. 2008. “Mirror-induced Behavior in the MagÂ�pie (Pica pica): Evidence of Self Recognition.” PLoS Biol 6(8), e202 doi: 10.1371/journal.pbio.0060202.

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Slobodchikoff, C. and R. Coast. 1980. “Dialects in the Alarm Calls of Prairie Dogs.” Behavioral Ecology and Sociobiology 7:49-53. Slobodchikoff, C., J. Kiriazis, C. Fischer and E. Creef. 1991. “Semantic Information Distinguishing Individual Predators in the Alarm Calls of Gunnison’s Prairie Dogs.” Animal Behaviour 42:713-719. Smith, J., W. Shields and D. Washburn. 2004. “The Comparative Psychology of Uncertainty Monitoring and Metacognition.” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 26:317-373. Smith, J. and D. Washburn. 2005. “Uncertainty Monitoring and Metacognition by Animals.” Current Directions in Psychological Science 14:19-24. Trivedi, B. 2004. “Chimps Shown Using not Just a Tool But a “Tool Kit”.” National Geographic News, October 6. van Schaik, C., M. Ancrenaz, G. Borgen, B. Galdikas, C. Knott, I. Singleton, A. Suzuki, S. Utami, and M. Merrill. 2003. “Orangutan Cultures and the Evolution of Material Culture.” Science 299:102-105. Vince, G. 2009. “Earth 2099: How to Survive the Coming Century.” NewScientist, February 25. Whiten, A., J. Goodall, W. McGrew, T. Nishida, V. Reynolds, Y. Sugiyama, C. Tutin, R. Wrangham and C. Boesch. 1999. “Culture in chimpanzees.” Nature 399:682685.

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Index Animals Actors, as,╇ 12, 15, 132, 142, 149, 151, 154, 156, 159, 161-2, 164, 167, 170-2, 207-11, 213-14, 259, 268-9 Agency of,╇ 5, 13-14, 23, 150, 171, 177, 182, 207, 210, 259, 275 Circus,╇ 12, 39-40, 43, 82, 97, 129, 151, 154-6, 158, 163, 165-6, 169, 171, 192 Domestication of,╇ 27-8, 31, 48-9, 109, 229; domesticated, 15, 28-9, 32, 34, 38, 91, 109, 150, 176-7, 189 Entertainment, as,╇ 28, 30-31, 35, 38-40, 42, 47-8, 50, 73, 79, 87, 92, 95, 97, 103, 150-2, 155-6, 167, 17071 Gaze of,╇ 13, 175-8, 183-4, 187-9, 19196 Materiality and,╇ 164, 195, 259, 272-3, 275 Presentation of,╇ 158 Representation of,╇ 149, 151, 156, 158, 171 Research on,╇ 14, 30-1, 45-6, 50, 69, 72, 74, 97, 195, 221-3, 230, 249-50, 262, 284 Slavery of,╇ 8-9, 30, 36, 38, 50-1, 87-9, 91-3, 95-8, 100, 102-4 Social sciences and,╇ 1, 59, 204 Supernatural and,╇ 25, 46-51, 183-85 Tradition and,╇ 3-6, 9-11, 12, 14, 35, 40-1, 49, 96, 121-2, 136-7, 139-44, 160, 168, 180, 183, 193, 203, 215, 238, 243, 247, 284 War and,╇ 32-5, 43, 92 Zoo and,╇ 11, 41, 43, 130, 156, 158, 165-6, 171, 175-7, 184, 190, 193, 267 A Actor Network Theory (ANT)╇ 13-15, 208-19, 222, 236-39, 248-9 ALF (Animal Liberation Front)╇ 36, 51 Alienation╇ 88, 99-100 Animal rights╇ 35-7, 51, 87, 89, 104, 166, 190, 213-14

Animal welfare legislation╇ 33-4, 37 Anthropocentric/ism╇ 1, 3-4, 13, 88, 91, 150, 153, 206-8, 211-12, 214, 217-18, 221, 223, 257-8, 270, 282 Aquarium╇ 14-16, 156, 158, 171, 254-259, 261-263, 265-6, 268-9, 275-77, 283 B Beck, Ulrich╇ 10, 108-11 Benton, Ted╇ 93, 99-100 Berger, John╇ 12, 175-8, 188-90, 193 Bouissac, Paul╇ 154-5, 163 Burkert, Walter╇ 130-35, 137, 143 C Capitalism╇ 9, 12, 87-91, 93-104, 131, 160, 175, 259, 269, 275 Cat shows╇ 11, 139, 141-43 Centaurs╇ 14-15, 221-28, 231-50; metaphor of, 14-15, 221-6, 234, 236, 239, 242, 246, 248-50 Class, social╇ 35, 88, 90-91, 101-4, 126, 160, 257; type of, 60, 80, 155, 268 Commodity fetishism╇ 88, 100, 103 Community╇ 7, 37-9, 44, 47, 60, 69, 72-4, 82, 111, 118, 121, 141-2, 150 Corrida de rejones╇ 14, 222, 240, 245-6 Culture╇ 2, 4-5, 7, 10, 16, 24-25, 41, 45-7, 49-51, 67, 74, 98, 109-10, 127, 130-1, 143, 149-54, 156, 158, 160, 166, 171, 176, 192, 203, 223-4, 227, 229, 256, 258, 261, 270-1, 284-5; drug culture, 107, 110, 119-21 Cultures╇ 12, 110, 149, 157-9, 165, 190, 193, 271, 282 D Dangerous dogs (Act)╇ 10, 107, 119, 124, 127 Dawkins, Marion Stamp,╇ 70, 72-3 Derrida, Jacques╇ 12, 149, 177-8, 193-7 Descartes, Rene╇ 70-1, 80, 101, 182-3, 193, 195 Demography╇ 7, 26, 28-9 Dog shows╇ 141

292

index

Domination╇ 51, 67, 74, 109, 142-3, 2034, 259, 270, 275-6 Downers, and slaughter╇ 30-2, 76-78 Dog fighting╇ 115-17, 119-20, 126-7 Dualisms╇ 2, 13, 99-100, 205, 209, 217 E Economy╇ 7, 29, 31, 44, 92, 95-6, 98, 1013, 160 Ecotourism╇ 139-40, 142, 190 Enactment(s)╇ 151-2, 154, 158, 160, 268, 273, 275 Enlightenment/post-enlightenment╇ 2-3, 13, 183, 206, 270, Environment(al) movement╇ 143, 190 Epistemology╇ 1-3, 261; epistemological, 2, 4-6, 14, 50, 182-3, 204, 210, 212-16, 219, 250, 256 Ethology╇ 4, 44, 196, 281, 284 Exploitation╇ 36, 50-1, 63, 70-72, 74, 82, 88, 91, 109-10, 142, 189, 215, 270 F Feudalism╇ 9, 78, 87-91, 97, 99, 103 Factory farming╇ 8, 74, 102, 213 Fishing╇ 8, 31, 39, 41 Foucault, Michel╇ 129, 230 G Geertz, Clifford╇ 132-5, 137, 143, 152-3, 160 Gender╇ 67, 88, 150, 160 Gothicism╇ 183-4 H Haraway, Donna╇ 5, 15, 135, 150, 195, 203, 210, 225-6, 228, 234-7, 259, 2715, 277 Hearne, Vicki╇ 162-3, 242 Hebdige, Dick╇ 122 Humanimal╇ 5-6, 11, 286 Human-animal╇ 28, 39, 225, 273; humananimal boundary, 1, 14, 195, 225, 233, 238, 241, 249; communication, 221; encounters, 256; nexus, 22; relationships, 3-9, 11, 21, 49-52, 82, 88, 92, 129, 132, 134-5, 143, 152, 175-7, 187, 190, 192, 204, 206, 208, 212-13, 217, 224-5, 228-31, 235, 238-9, 244; scholars/ studies, 14-15, 22, 205, 210-12, 215-17, 225-6, 281 Humanism╇ 2, 5, 9, 98, 100, 103

Hybrid(s)╇ 14-15, 48, 160, 180, 211, 2246, 231-2, 234-3, 238-9, 249; hybridity, 14-15, 224, 226, 238, 248-9; hybridization, 130, 224, 236 I Identity╇ 40-41, 126, 163, 214; national, 107, 110, 114, 121-2, 127; pit-bull, 122, 124-5; social; 118-21 Immersion╇ 16, 163, 259-60, 263, 265, 267, 269-70, 274-5 Isopraxis╇ 225, 234-5 L Latour, Bruno╇ 5, 143, 204-5, 208-9, 211, 216, 218, 237, 259; see Actor Network Theory (ANT) Lorenz, Konrad╇ 131-2 Laboratory(ies)╇ 30, 43, 45, 82, 87, 97, 129, 136, 190, 195-6, 262 M Marx/ist╇ 8-9, 87-104 Metaplasm╇ 15-16 Modernism/ist╇ 2-5, 13, 27, 50, 137, 188, 204-5; modernity, 2-3, 6, 8-11, 13, 17, 30, 44, 49, 93, 98, 100, 102, 108-11, 127, 129-30, 136-7, 142-3, 149-51, 175-7, 184, 198-90, 192, 196, 203, 256, 259 Mirror self recognition╇ 79-80, 142, 149, 177, 282 Moral panic╇ 8-10, 108, 110-11, 117, 121, 123, 126-7 Mutual determination╇ 7, 23 N Nature╇ 4-5, 7, 11-12, 16, 22, 24-6, 29-30, 46, 99-101, 109, 142, 149, 151, 155, 162, 169-71, 176, 182, 188, 190, 194, 203, 206, 208, 218, 227, 256-8, 261, 263, 270, 273, 283-5, Nature-cultures╇ 2-3, 5, 10, 16, 25, 46, 109, 143, 150-1, 270-1 O Other(s)╇ 8, 17, 59, 61-9, 71, 73-4, 78-82, 128, 130, 158, 194, 196, 203, 206, 212, 214, 232, 256, 258, 270-1, 274, 282; othering, 2 Ontology╇ 3, 271

index P Performance╇ 11-12, 47, 125-6, 149, 1519, 161-172, 207, 224, 232-3, 241, 248, 274 Performativity╇ 11-12, 125, 149, 151, 153, 156, 161, 164, 168, 170, 222, 232-3, 235-7, 239, 248 PETA (People for the Ethical treatment of Animals)╇ 36, 74, 89 Phenomenology╇ 182, 194, 222, 239, Pit bulls╇ 10, 107, 111, 115, 119-127 Politics╇ 7, 17, 32, 35, 111, 140, 168, 187, 208-9, 216, 258, 264, 276 Post-humanism/ist╇ 1-2, 5-6, 14 R Rationalization╇ 129-30, 133-5, 137, 143-4 Reflexive╇ 163, 272; reflexive modernity, 8, 10, 108, 110, 127; reflexivity, 168, 272 Regan, Tom╇ 4, 36-7, 49, 61-6, 166 Relating(s)╇ 15, 205, 210, 215, 235, 237, 273-4 Ritual(s)╇ 9-11, 25, 41, 45-8, 129-44, 155, 160, 166, 221 Romantic╇ 44, 183, 222, 236, 248-9; romanticise, 39; Romanticism, 183-4╇ RSPCA╇ 116, 118-19, 125 S Sacrifice╇ 9, 11, 48-9, 102, 131-2, 136; sacrificial, 48-9, 130-1

293

Sanders, Clinton╇ 4, 44, 206-7 Shils, E╇ 137-40, 142-3 Singer, Peter╇ 4, 31, 36-7, 45, 73, 88, 97, 16636 Slavery, see animal slavery╇ Social constructionism╇ 108, 207 Sociology╇ 14, 102, 138, 159, 203-6, 209, 211-12, 214-15; sociological, 21, 23-24, 45, 51, 87, 214, 219; socio�l� ogist(s), 204-6, 208-9, 212, 214, 287 Species boundaries╇ 8-9 Speciesism╇ 8, 36, 88, 96, 103-4 T Trope(s)╇ 170, 265, 272, 274 V Veal industry╇ 8, 75 Vivisection╇ 70, 79, 87, 95, 103, 287 W Weber, Max╇ 88, 129, 131, 135, 138-9, 143129 Welfare╇ 7, 42, 43-5, 68, 74-5, 117, 127; of animals, 33-5, 37, 42-5, 75, 104, 117, 126, 166, 167 Z Zoological gaze╇ 130 Zooscopic╇ 256