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Page 2 of 3
For
decades it has not been fashionable for scientists to acknowledge that
other animals have feelings, or to study them. When Donald Griffin wrote
The Question of Animal Awareness
(1976), he was roundly criticized for attributing the “human trait” of
cognition to animals. Here I use cognition to mean the mental process of
knowing, involving reasoning and judgment. To some extent, cognition is
essential for empathy and compassion; an animal uses judgment to
recognize distress in others before it can show compassion.
When
Kidogo (a bonobo) in the Milwaukee Zoo developed a heart condition,
became feeble, and was unable to find his way, other apes in the group
acted as guides, leading him by the hand, and they protected him from
teasing by other younger males. Macaque monkeys also help handicapped
group members, and monkeys sometimes die trying to save another that has
fallen into water, gotten caught on wire or other objects, or fallen
over a fence. In the wild, chimpanzees have been observed comforting
females in the group who have recently lost offspring.
Jane
Goodall, who spent decades studying chimpanzees in Gombe Reserve in
Tanzania, observed chimpanzee offspring stay for days beneath the tree
of their mother when she was too sick to move on. Until she died, the
young, who were themselves quite old, remained at the base of her tree,
maintaining a silent vigil. This kind of behavior demonstrates
cognition, family ties, and empathy.
Since
primates are our closest relatives, many people do not find it odd that
they would feel compassion and take care of each other. But compassion
is not limited to primates. Cynthia Moss and others have studied
elephants in Kenya and Tanzania, and they’ve found that elephants will
assist others that are sick or injured, and that they help unrelated
elephants, not just their close relatives. They also show an inordinate
interest in their deceased relatives and return months or years later to
pick up, investigate, and even “fondle” the bones belonging to their
relatives. Herds or families of elephants alter their migration path
year after year to reach these burial grounds, while ignoring the bones
of unrelated elephants. Are they grieving or merely curious? As a
scientist, I don’t want to be accused of anthropomorphism, but I think
we should be equally cautious about ignoring the obvious continuum and
link we share with the rest of the animal world.
Some
people might say that birds do not show empathy or compassion—that only
mammals do—but I beg to differ. As a behavioral ecologist, I have
watched Amazon parrots in Peru pick fruits and hand them to others, and
macaws in Brazil pull clay from a cliff and carry it to another macaw
before returning to pull some off to eat themselves. While some of these
interactions are between mates or offspring, that’s not always the
case. Perhaps certain individual macaws are afraid to get the clay, and
others, recognizing this, do it for them.
For
more than twenty-five years I have lived with a bright and
compassionate parrot named Tiko. He is now fifty-seven years old and
doing well. Tiko is free flying, and considers our house his and all of
the inhabitants a part of his flock. He defends me vigorously from all
newcomers, regardless of their size. When I had Lyme disease, Tiko
remained in my room, preening my hair endlessly until it was spread out
on my pillow like a golden-brown halo. He caressed my fingers, and cooed
so softly he was barely audible. He refused to leave my side, eating
only if my husband Mike brought him food, which he could eat on the
dresser while watching me.
Tiko
used to be equally defensive of my late chicken, Hester, and he watched
over her as she went about the yard scratching for grubs or worms. But
though Tiko watched, he almost never commented. I was usually busy
working on my computer and each day he interrupted me every hour or so
for attention. He climbed down from his perch, and butted his head
against my arm. If I failed to heed his gentle caress, he climbed on my
computer and stomped across the keys until he could place his head
beneath my hand. He knew I would always stop to preen him then, because
otherwise he wrote gibberish with his feet, turned off the computer, or
deleted a sensitive passage.
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