Propeller: Given the stir Monica Szczupider’s photograph of grieving chimpanzees has caused recently, it seems the idea that "animals feel things" is somewhat startling (or at least surprising and newsworthy) to many people. What's your take on why a group of silent primates lined up over the death of one of their kin is, as National Geographic puts it, "resonating with people everywhere"?

Keri Thomas: I think the photo resonates because we see a correspondence with ourselves. I'm not sure it's surprising because of a realization that "animals feel things," but because they feel things that look so much like what we feel. It goes beyond sentience, beyond being able to register pleasure and pain. I mean, those chimps have an understanding of death, of total loss. They know that one of their members is gone forever. That, I think, is surprising for people, that level of understanding. But what's also really interesting about the responses to the photo is that people seem to be elated to find out that we aren't the only creatures to have these sorts of complicated, mysterious recognitions about ourselves. It might even come as a kind of awe-inspiring relief to realize that we're not alone among animals in what we know and how we know. 

Propeller: We've been wondering for a while now about National Parks--places of pristine enchantment sealed off and protected from the outside world so that we humans can have a chance to go visit and see what nature "is truly like" (not unlike zoos, we suppose). If, as you say in your article, animals occupy worlds of their own outside of ours, are there ways to make these worlds less distinct and mutually exclusive?

KT: I'm kind of an extremist on this topic, just to warn you. It's great that some folks had the foresight to protect beautiful ranges of land, but I find the National Park machine to be depressing. They're really anything but sealed off and protected--I went to Yellowstone last year and it was like Disneyland: lines of cars, shopping centers, parking lots. I agree with Edward Abbey: if you want to experience wilderness, don't bring your television and your toaster, you know? Don't set up a gift shop. National Parks make it possible for people to look at nature, but to not really have to deal with its wildness. And on the occasion that the wildness does perforate the bubble, we lock it up and move it somewhere else--presumably somewhere more wild. Like the notorious bears in Yosemite--that's some serious wild getting all up in our nature fairy tale. In a perfect world, I'd love to see those same areas (and more) protected much more stringently. I mean really sealed off and protected. People would only be allowed to explore Yellowstone, for instance, if they were willing and prepared to accept its dangers, its wildness. Leave the RV and the computer games at the gate, go in on foot, bike, or horse, pack out all your trash. I think that's one, albeit not very realistic, way of bringing animal and human worlds together in a more symbiotic way. Ironically, it would probably involve more sealing off, but at least what you would experience on the other side wouldn't be just a prettier version of the same sealed off world we live in daily.

Propeller: In addition to the kildeer, what other animals do you find yourself particularly affected by? What is it about them that moves you so?

KT: It's kind of strange to me that I even like birds as much as I do. It's not as if it's easy to make a sympathetic connection with them. They're elusive. And I'm not really moved by them emotionally. I just admire them--their ingenuity, their variety, their tenacity. I feel the same way about the whole animal kingdom, really. There are particular animals that kind of hold the mystery of consciousness on a grander, more obvious scale, like elephants, apes, and dolphins. And it's easier to feel emotional about those animals because the consciousness is writ large. But if you really start looking, there are indications of consciousness all over the animal kingdom: the capacity for memory; the ability to build tools; an understanding of death; use of language and communication; recognition of one's own kind; displays of affection or love. The list goes on.

Propeller: The PETA website states, "Some people go vegetarian after looking an animal in the eye and realizing that there's a 'who,' not a 'what,' looking back." What are your thoughts on vegetarianism and it's relation to animal compassion?

KT: I've been a vacillating vegetarian for many years, but I decided--recently and finally--that I'm not going to eat animals anymore. And one reason for me is something like empathy. When I was eating meat I'd either have to consciously not think of the thing on my plate as an animal or acknowledge it. But when I acknowledged it, I couldn't help but feel like I was violating a pact or acting in bad faith. I didn't have to eat the animal, biologically speaking. Plus, I know what bacon tastes like already; I'm happy to let that be just a memory! The other thing is that I feel connected to animals and I don't want to participate in their misery--and we know now that, at least in the U.S., the factory farming industry equals just total misery in every way for animals. I think the argument can be made for only eating meat if you know where it comes from, but the percentage of meat that comes from ethical farming practices is just infinitesimally small and really difficult to identify. So, there's a kind of empathy there, which I do think is helpful when talking about animals, because taking an empathetic stance can help remind you that you're not the only creature on the planet. Empathy helps me cultivate a more open mindset toward other organisms: we have things in common--not just the atmosphere, but feelings and thoughts. Of course, it would be nice if we didn't even have to discuss animals in the context of diet!

Propeller: Lastly, what's your take on Mary Oliver's poetic assertion that,"Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,/ are heading home again./ Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,/ the world offers itself to your imagination,/ calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —/ over and over announcing your place/in the family of things."? 

KT: Well, I think Mary Oliver is interested in the mystery of our connection to everything, and the connection of everything else to us. I think the poem also touches on a point that I made in the article, which is that animals--or, more broadly, "nature"--can stoke your imagination, in the sense that they can pull you out of the pocket of modern daily life, rearrange your thinking about not only yourself and where you belong, but about who they are, and their importance in the entire scheme of things. There's a case to be made for recognizing wildness everywhere, everyday. In some ways it's the opposite of what I said about National Parks--that the structures of modern life make it difficult, if not impossible, to contend with real wildness, that you have to step fully away from those mediating factors to find out what the wild is really like and, in that way, begin to really understand animals, other living things, and yourself. But Oliver seems to argue--and you see this over and over in her poetry--that the wild exists at your doorstep, you simply have to have the will and the imagination to see it. She's got a point.

November 9

In response to requests for more images of the Tour de Fat, please find below some additional photos of riders, the stage, and the "Death to the Circus Guy." (In the last case, please note how a small child's inexplicable inability to recognize the presence of a serious journalist ruined what would have been a perfectly good photo. C'mon, kids. We're trying to run a magazine here.) 

November 3