endangered animals

I feel weird about endangered animals. On one hand, we are supposed to save them. On the other hand, a real one could eat us, and most likely did in pre-modern times.

As weird as I feel about this, I am sure that the endangered animals feel much weirder. After all, they were once our predators and could still destroy most of us in a fair fight. And yet now, they rely on us to save them from extinction.

Although I am sure that the animals appreciate our efforts to preserve their species, I am also sure we come off as a little patronizing. I mean, imagine if creature we currently prey on were suddenly so powerful that we relied on its mercy for our survival. Like if a lab accident created a form of intelligent, giant cow that grazed on houses and fast food restaurants, completely demolishing civilization as we knew it. And if a faction of those house-destroying giant cows decided they wanted to preserve our species by rebuilding mediocre houses in a poorly conceived fashion.

If that happened, we'd be all, "Man, I wish I didn't have to be grateful to those giant cows. Wasn't there a time when we ATE those cows?"

Guess what? That's probably how endangered animals feel. Awkwardly grateful. Belittled but thankful. Someday, when they finally out-populate humans and can again prey on us, they will be fully happy. But for now, they will have to content themselves with grumbling about us behind our backs.

dolphin disillusionment

When I was a kid, I had the unique opportunity to go swim with the dolphins. I was really excited, because what seven year old girl doesn't like dolphins? Dolphins are so singularly revered by seven-year-olds that if there were some religion, centering around dolphins as deities with unicorns and rainbows to complete the holy trinity, it would be entirely populated seven-year-old girls.

My friends had prepared me for swimming with the dolphins. There would be no other experience as amazing in my life. I figured no photograph or video or trip to sea world could ever prepare me for being in a pool with a real dolphin.

Upon meeting the dolphins, however, I came to an important realization. Dolphins, while really cool, did not have the magical quality given to them by seven-year-olds. They looked a lot like they did in pictures. They were interesting, rubbery, grey, and had a charming laugh. But they were not empirically magical.

As I grew up, I realized that it wasn't only seven-year-olds who were amazed by dolphins. Dolphins are revered by many of my scientific-minded peers for their high intelligence. It's true-- they are awesomely smart. Not only do they possess the ability to repeat behaviors on command (much like a dog), they also show higher intelligence through creativity and teamwork in creating their own, new tricks, alone or with other dolphins. In our discussions about dolphins, we speculate that they probably have a secret dolphin language that has not yet been deciphered.

During these discussions, I remember my experiences with dolphin disillusionment. I warn my friends about the dangers of expecting too much from dolphins. What would we gain, for example, from speaking to the dolphins? Another conversational partner, perhaps. But perhaps not all that we expect. Many people think talking to dolphins will be like this:

But in fact, the cultural barriers between us and dolphins would be incredibly high, nearly insurmountable at first. A dolphin can't understand where we come from as humans with a human society. Dolphins live under the sea with fish.

A conversation would more likely go like this:

Forget trying to talk to dolphins about any human-created subject. Also, forget trying to make jokes with dolphins. We don't get their humor at all.

Dolphins are jerks when they think you are stupid. Luckily, we don't get their insults, either.