
I’ve been reading a little about animal cognition and communication (Shhhhh, its research!). The mystery of “what goes on inside” an elephant’s head is not really what interests me; it’s what animals reveal about the relationship of perception, language and knowledge. If language is what we use to segment and inform the continuum of our perceptions, then language is knowledge (and knowledge is language) and the knowledge of animals must be very, very foreign. Learning about non-human life forms continually confirms my suspicions: (1) We aren’t shaped by language, we are language (whatever language that may be), and (2) Many of us have aliens living in our own homes.
Wittgenstein gave us this famous verdict on animal language and consciousness: “If a lion could talk, we would not understand him.” Some people think he was saying that animals can’t have language as advanced as our own. I think he was saying that lions have different perceptual apparatus, and a different symbology, so even if a lion could communicate in English, or sign language, the words and metaphors it would draw upon would follow a completely different logic. This is exactly why I have always been freaked out by the idea of pets. We’re so casual about having animals live with us, and strangely confident that all our one-sided conversations are penetrating them just as they would a baby, or a mute uncle. Yet animals, so long as we don’t speak their language, should silence us like contemplation of the galaxies.
Think of all the pictures of cats on the web. No matter how much we learn about their bodies and brains, no matter how much we live and interact with them, they remain icons, or symbols, or something. We gaze at them like stars and predicate their meaning and identity with our own image.
The questions that haunt us are: Do they understand me? Do they appreciate beauty? Do they have memories? Do they make meaning? Do they have anything at all like story and narrative? Do they differentiate right and wrong? As this line of questioning continues, it becomes more and more obvious that the answer is no. Well, at least not like that, right? The problem is we have no idea how to phrase the questions so they even make sense in the context of a dolphin’s experience (or an ant’s, or a rabbit’s, or a dinosaur’s, or a blue jay’s).
We know that animals can see, hear, smell, taste, touch and feel; we imagine that they think, reason, and abstract from their own histories of sensory information. We try and put ourselves inside a dog’s colorblind, scent-swamped, ear-pricked experience, marveling at how differently they see the world. But it’s not as though we could simply heighten and dampen certain senses and brain capacities and arrive at a dog’s interpretation of the world. It’s not as if the world is a fixed text, or dataset, seen from various angles, or interpreted through different lenses, which we can compare and contrast. It is dynamic, existing in relationship and process.
Remember triads? All of our information comes to us via “a cooperation of three subjects”: sign, object, and interpretant. According to Charles Pierce, as quoted in this essay, “this tri-relative influence” is not “in any way resolvable into actions between pairs.” It’s not just the world and it’s interpreters, there are these little guys called signs–the words and symbols we use to communicate our perceptions–aiding and interfering. The “tri-relative world” exists in the interface. Animal signs and sign-functions are not like our own. And with this brilliant kernel of evidence *wink*, I suggest that animals do not live on Earth, as we know it: they are aliens on planets that may as well be light years away.
Thomas Sebeok, the semiotician who applied sign study to the study of evolution of life systems, and popularized Biosemiotics, believed that “semiosis [or sign behavior] must be recognized as a pervasive fact of nature as well as of culture.” “The significance circuit,” as Sebeok calls it in his essay, “The Sign Science and The Life Science,” is “based on construction by the observer-participancy of some carbon-based life.” Animal, vegetable, mineral–each the locus of its Umvelt. Not vessels of communication, transmitting information and receiving knowledge, but communication itself, constituting what is seen, known and understood.
Mostly, I just I love the way we talk about our furrier friends, attributing cunning and emotion, and imagining inner monologues.