by Diana Reiss
In 1960 Eiseley wrote a beautiful essay called "The Long Loneliness,"3 which begins "There is nothing more alone in the universe than man." Our supposed "loneliness" was the result of the widespread belief of the time that only humans possessed rational, thinking minds and high-caliber intelligence. This left our species alone on an intellectual pinnacle, unable to communicate our thoughts and feelings to any other creature despite a strong desire to do so. "When we were children," he wrote, "we wanted to talk to animals and struggled to understand why this was impossible." (Some of us kids, of course, believed we could!) "Slowly we gave up the attempt as we grew into the solitary world of human adulthood; the rabbit was left on the lawn, the dog was relegated to his kennel."4
Eiseley's inspiration for the essay had been John Lilly's work on dolphins and his ideas about their large, complex brains and inferred high intelligence, which offered a possible pathway to ending the long loneliness. Eiseley argued that perhaps we hadn't recognized other intelligent minds here on Earth because we had been using a human model of intelligence—symbolic language, hands capable of making tools, and so on. What if we imagined an intelligence such as ours in a creature that had exchanged hands for fins and lived in the ocean? What would the evidence of intelligence look like in the absence of the products of science and technology, in the absence of material manifestations of our minds?
I read the essay in my early days as a graduate student, and it was very influential in my thinking. Yet I have never experienced the kind of loneliness to which Eiseley refers. I have always felt an abundance of life and intelligence around me in nature. But he asks the key question: What kind of experiments do you do if you don't know what you are looking for? Donald Griffin's discovery that bats navigate using echolocation is a good lesson. At the time, no one had even considered that animals might use a form of radar to find their way in the world, and so no one had actively looked for it. Griffin stumbled on it by chance and was greeted with disbelief when he reported what he had found.
When we try to interpret animal minds, animal thinking, and animal behavior, it is all too easy to use our own experience as a model. This act of anthropomorphism, of assigning human qualities to animals, can be a helpful start to understanding what is going on in the mind of an animal, but it is also dangerously seductive. As a scientist I must find a balance between anthropomorphism and anthropocentrism, in which we assume that we humans alone are unique in our abilities and that our kind of intelligence is the only "real" intelligence. In the writings of animal behaviorists and animal intelligence researchers over the past eight decades or so, there are many stern warnings about the pitfalls of anthropomorphism. But there was little, if anything, about the dangers of anthropocentrism until the beginning of the cognitive revolution, precisely because it governed a great deal of mainstream thinking. Anthropocentrism remained an unspoken assumption of reality: that Homo sapiens were so different from other animals, so special, that no useful parallels between ourselves and any other species could be drawn.
One of my favorite snippets from history on this topic concerns the wife of the bishop of Worcester. In 1860, following a debate at Oxford between Thomas Huxley and the good bishop on the matter of Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection, the bishop's wife purportedly said, "My dear, descended from the apes! Let us hope it is not true, but if it is, let us pray it will not become generally known." The notion of any connection between exalted humanity and the base world of animals was, and is, abhorrent to many people, then and now.
Evolutionary continuity of physical form between humans and anthropoid ancestors, and by extension the living great apes, has long been an accepted fact. Yet even in physical forms, anthropocentrism lingers on. The evolutionary tree of life is envisaged by some as a conical pine, with humans at the very top of the tree—the pinnacle. This is not so unlike Aristotle's placement of humans, alone, at the top of the Ladder of Life—alone. The reality, as all evolutionary scientists know, is that the tree of life is more like a gracious elm, broad and lush, with Homo sapiens one branch among many others, each of which has its own collection of ingenious adaptations. Man is no longer seen as the pinnacle of evolution but rather as one outcome of a diverse process of adaptation.
Yet despite the acceptance of physical continuity between humans and the rest of the animal world, the idea of cognitive continuity has been stubbornly resisted. As leading behaviorist Lloyd Morgan put it: "In no case is an animal's activity to be interpreted in terms of higher psychological processes, if it can be fairly interpreted in terms of processes which stand lower in the scale of psychological evolution and development." In other words, scientific logic supposedly demanded the most parsimonious conclusions about animal behavior—that it is the product of mindless, unconscious responses to stimuli in the environment rather than of conscious thought.
Parsimony is generally a good strategy, but it can be a problem if applied in the wrong way. Viewed in this manner, much of our own behavior could be interpreted as mindless responses to environmental stimuli rather than the product of active thought. And indeed, one can engage in a behavior while switching in and out of conscious thought about it—breathing, for example, or taking a walk. There is no clear method by which an observer could differentiate between a person's conscious and unconscious modes. For animal researchers, everything depends on what we are looking for, how we are looking, and what we expect to find. This brings us back to Eiseley's poem in which he regrets "the borders between us." What if the borders between us are not real but merely assumed, based on lack of evidence? Shouldn't we sometimes allow for the possibility that what a certain behavior, such as an act of apparent empathy, looks like is in fact what it seems?
Some animal-thinking deniers, such as the British Darwinian philosopher Helena Cronin, have argued that the great flexibility and versatility in animal behaviors that have been uncovered during the decades of the cognitive revolution are best explained as the outcomes of genetically determined biological programs. Just as computers can be programmed to carry out complex functions, she argued, so too can animals be programmed (in their DNA) to be behaviorally complex in the absence of conscious decisions or conscious experience. But, as Griffin pointed out from the beginning of his writing on the subject, an animal that has some degree of cognition will be more flexible and more efficient in the face of myriad environmental challenges. "This is the most parsimonious position," he said. "I'd say it is so plausible that I would put the burden of proof on Dr. Cronin, or anyone else, to tell me why it would not be useful for animals to think consciously."5 I agree.
The issues of empathy, compassion, and care are even more contentious than, say, whether a young baboon makes a decision to try to sneak a quick copulation with a desired female while the alpha male is elsewhere. More contentious, because empathy and compassion are considered to exist at a higher level of cognition than decisions about foraging and mating. They seem much more human, if you will. What, then, can we say that might encourage us to believe that dolphins experience something akin to empathy when they are impelled to save a drowning sailor?
We know from the mirror self-recognition experiments that dolphins have a sense of self, which is one requirement for having a sense of what another is experiencing. But I would also point to the fact, and I use the word fact purposely, of cognitive continuity. Human brains and the brains of other animals are built from the same components, so there is at least the possibility that the functions they support will be similar. Griffin pointed this out in his first book, The Question of Animal Awareness, published in 1976, and has done so repeatedly in subsequent books and many papers. Here's a recent example: "In view of the similarity of neurons and synapses, and the flexibility of many animals' behavior, it seems unlikely that the difference between human and animal minds is an absolute dichotomy, with no animal ever conscious. Instead, the principal difference is probably the content of consciousness."6
What that difference is, we cannot know
objectively. Unlike Gordon Gallup's mirror test for identifying self-recognition, there is no equivalent, simple, objective test for empathy. I know what I feel when I am moved to an act of compassion, and I can guess what you feel under similar circumstances. Something related might be occurring in the minds of dolphins when they perform acts we would describe as functionally empathetic. And if so, it is possible that recipients of acts of compassion understand and appreciate it in some way too. To make this suggestion is not an emotional leap; it is a logical leap, based on a degree of cognitive continuity.
Recall that moment when Humphrey came back to our boat at the end of our rescue effort and stared up at us for several lingering seconds. There was definitely something on his mind that compelled him to do that.
***
Conversely, imagine what might be going on in the mind of a dolphin as it is being eviscerated alive by a fisherman during the annual drive hunts at Taiji. Frankly, I think about the dolphin hunts every day, and I am determined to find a means to bring them to an end. I am passionate, even obsessed with this. How could I be indifferent? My science has brought me to the realization that dolphins are highly intelligent, feeling creatures that, like us, have a sense of self and a capacity for care and compassion. Killing these sentient animals as the Taiji fishermen do is brutal, inhumane, and unjustifiable.
When I first started working with these creatures three decades ago, I instantly experienced a sense of presence, a sense of familiarity, a pattern that connects. People describe swimming with dolphins as moving and even spiritual. What they are feeling, I think, is a reconnection with that primal pull, biophilia, in a powerful way. My three decades of rigorous study now places what I knew in my gut to be true into the realm of demonstrated science. The evidence of cognitive continuity is now, I believe, compelling, and because of that I feel compelled to act as a scientist on behalf of dolphins, to be their voice where they have none, to be their advocate.
I first stepped into a scientist-advocate role in the late 1980s, when the annual slaughter of more than 130,000 dolphins by tuna fishermen off the coast of San Diego came into public consciousness. Yellowfin tuna and dolphins have a special biological relationship that the fishermen exploited. Schools of tuna and several species of dolphin often swim together, for reasons that remain unknown. The fishermen used the presence of the dolphins at the water's surface as a signal that there might be tuna beneath. They then circled the dolphin with purse seine nets, hauled them up, and caught the tuna, and at the same time they caught hundreds of dolphins in which they had no interest. Many of the dolphins drowned while entangled in the nets; others were crushed in the heavy winch equipment used to haul the nets aboard the ship.
The California-based Earth Island Institute surreptitiously shot footage of the catches, and I saw it on television. It was gruesome. I spoke out on radio and television to support the efforts of the institute. Ultimately, a tremendous outcry from consumers along with crusading efforts by schoolchildren led to the 1990 decision of three major U.S. canneries to no longer buy tuna caught by encircling dolphins. The U.S. Congress passed the Dolphin Protection Consumer Information Act the same year, and canneries started to put DOLPHIN-SAFE TUNA labels on their products.
Today, Taiji is not the only place in the world that dolphins and whales face the darker side of Homo sapiens. Thanks to the efforts of the International Whaling Commission, whales are slaughtered far less now than they once were. Most of the eighty-eight global members of the IWC want a full moratorium on whaling. Today, dolphins and small whales continue to be killed in drive hunts in Japan, the Faroe Islands, and the Solomon Islands. Modern whaling occurs in Japan, Norway, and Iceland. A smaller number of whales are taken in subsistence hunting in Canada, Greenland, St. Vincent and the Grenadines, and Russia (Chukotka in Siberia).
Whales continue to be killed each year for commercial gain, sometimes under Japan's disingenuous claim of "scientific whaling." This term, coined in the late 1980s, is a loophole that allows the Japanese to kill whales in the name of science if they take their physical measurements, obtain genetic samples, and analyze the contents of their digestive tracts. It has been argued that the whales eat too much commercially important fish, and thus these competitors need culling—a specious argument based on selectively released data about the stomach contents found in some species.
The IWC offers no protection at all for small cetaceans—dolphins, porpoises, and small whales. Focusing on Taiji is not a numbers game for me. Bottlenose dolphins are not endangered as a species around the world. It is a question of man's inhumanity to a sentient species. It is the duty and obligation of scientists to speak out against it. If we can't stop what has been happening in Taiji, what hope do we have to apply our science to fixing anything?
I am looking for nothing less than a change in consciousness about ourselves and other animals, not in a fuzzy New Age way, but in a way based in science. I do not want a future generation to look back and say, "They knew what was happening. Why didn't they stop it?" I don't want to be part of a generation that, knowing what we do about these animals, allowed the drive hunts to continue.
Steven Wise, a legal scholar who teaches animal rights law at Harvard Law School and the Tufts University School of Veterinary Medicine, argues in his Drawing the Line that dolphins and the great apes should have protection under the law due to the fact that they demonstrate self-awareness and other high levels of intelligence. Thomas White, the Conrad N. Hilton professor and director of the Center for Ethics at Loyola Marymount University, in a book entitled In Defense of Dolphins goes even further. Since dolphins are, like humans, intelligent, self-aware beings with personalities, emotions, and the capability to govern their own behavior, he proposed they be viewed as "nonhuman persons" and valued and protected under the law as such. I worry about this argument, however—does it mean that other species may be mistreated? I take an animal welfare rather than an animal rights view—I would much prefer that all species are treated humanely and remain free from undue pain and suffering. In any event, it doesn't take a lot of complicated argument to make the case against the drive hunts. They simply must be stopped.
***
A question that I am often asked is whether dolphins should be kept in aquariums, or, to put it more graphically, kept in captivity. This is a very important issue, one that many people and animal rights organizations feel strongly about. The coalition against the drive hunts includes both colleagues from the zoo and aquarium community alongside animal welfare and animal rights activists. Yet the latter often oppose the former, arguing (as does The Cove's central subject Ric O'Barry) that dolphins should under no circumstances ever be kept in captivity. The question is an important issue. But it is also not a simple, black-and-white issue. I wish it were.
What is black-and-white is the fact that dolphins have large and complex brains and use them in complex ways.
If we lived in a world in which there wasn't a single dolphin in an aquarium and we were deciding if we should have dolphins in aquariums, I would be among those loudly saying no. But we don't live in that world. We live in a world where there are dolphins in aquariums. So what, then, is the right thing to do?
I am absolutely opposed to dolphins being captured from the wild. Not a single dolphin should be taken from the wild and put into an aquarium. Aquariums in the United States, Europe, and Australia comply with this edict.
The second issue is if aquariums should continue to breed dolphins and keep those that are already there. Some people argue that captive dolphins should be released into the wild, which, while well- meaning, is naive and inhumane. Most of these animals have been born in aquariums; they've learned nothing about how to forage in natural environments, let alone how to defend against predators. Integrating into established social networks of wild populations could also be problematic. Releasing these animals into the wild would most likely present unenviable ends: starvation or shark bait. Those few remaining dolphins in aquariums th
at were taken from the wild (over twenty years ago) might not fare any better. Releasing these animals into the wild sets animal rights before animal welfare, to the detriment of the animals in question.
So what are the alternatives? Captive breeding programs could be discontinued and dolphins phased out by natural attrition. I've suggested that social groups of captive dolphins could be transfered to protected marine sanctuaries where they would be fed and cared for by trained staff.
In my mind, the only justification for aquaruims to mantain dolphins is if they become strong advocates for dolphins in political arenas. Given the fact that millions of people—families, students, educators—walk through the doors of aquariums each year, aquariums are uniquely positioned to provide transforming experiences about dolphins and to expand the number of advocates for the protection of dolphins and their ocean habitats. Aquariums have the power to educate children and adults about their responsibility to be stewards of the planet through active advocacy. It often takes a face-to-face experience with a dolphin in an aquarium to make that connection, to propel someone to take action. But sadly, that is often not enough. If a connection is made, aquariums need to further educate and guide their visitors into real advocacy.
For years, working at the Wildlife Conservation Society and being a member of the Animal Welfare Committee of the Association of Zoos and Aquariums, I have worked with many extraordinary scientists, wildlife veterinarians, conservationists, animal welfare advocates, and animal caregivers. Many have spent their lives trying to enrich the lives of the animals in their care, animals that effectively act as ambassadors for their wild counterparts so that they and their natural habitats are protected. Those captive ambassadors are real individuals with real needs. Is it not then an obligation for aquariums (and zoos) to be their advocates?
