FICTION: FERGUS MULLIGANreviews What I Don't Know about AnimalsBy Jenny Diski Virago, 312 pp, £16.99
THIS IS a rather curious book. The title declares the writer’s lack of knowledge on the subject, there is no table of contents or index and instead of the author’s photo there is one of a rather bored moggie called Bunty. On the front is the Cheshire Cat, who never gives a straight answer but keeps fading away, leaving only his grin.
The book is interspersed with animal encounters Jenny Diski had with creatures ranging from elephants to horses. Reading it, you may find yourself like Alice, muttering: “Curiouser and curiouser.”
The substance of the book is a lengthy reflection on how we relate to animals and how they relate (or are related) to us, from the simple amoeba beloved of biology teachers to distant-cousin gorillas. Such an overview can offer shades of understanding but never provide full insight.
The English are somewhat obsessed with animals, and shades of that devotion come through here. A few years ago a UK publisher did very well with a picture book called The Love of Baby Animals. The title says it all.
One woman featured in Diski’s book loved visiting a sheep farm to cuddle lambs. She was told to stop playing with her food.
There is much discussion about whether it is acceptable to eat meat. Diski says it is, though she voices the usual reservations about factory farming, battery hens and abattoirs. Even more abhorrent are the doings at animal-experimentation centres, which would chill to the bone. Future generations might well say: "You did whatto animals?"
One of the author’s concerns is anthropomorphism, the practice of attributing human characteristics to animals or gods. It is very common, from Beatrix Potter to Walt Disney. Some of the funniest cartoons are those in which animals replicate human behaviour, although translating the Bible into cat language falls into the bizarre category. As Diski presents it, in the feline Bible, God becomes Ceiling Cat and Satan is Basement Cat.
Having an animal does civilise one, and it’s a truism that a dog lives with you whereas a cat only lodges. As Diski puts it: a dog comes when called, cats take a message and get back to you.
We have always had a dog. Toby, the current madra, is a highly intelligent, affectionate but troubled lurcher. The fact that he was Dog of the Month at the Dublin Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should have rung alarm bells. Unusually for a canine, he has a disconcerting habit (among several) of staring at you intently for minutes at a time; like Diski, I would give a king’s ransom to know what is going through his head at these moments.
Some people talk to their plants and shrubs; one Cambridge professor in the book chats to the bacteria she cultivates in her lab, some of them lethal, some just the thing for lunch. She encourages them and gently chides those that are not growing properly.
Diski cites another example of how we relate to animals. One laboratory rat spent its entire life running on a treadmill and came close to covering Earth’s diameter. When a visitor objected, the scientist observed that human life is not that different: “We all live, eat and sleep in a cage like that and use the same treadmill while imagining we’re getting somewhere.”
He went on to quote the Little Boxessong about dreary urban living. It's a neat idea, and, superficially, he appears to have a point, but it is bunkum. We know almost nothing about animals and why they do what they do because we are humans. The real question is: what do they know about us?
Fergus Mulligan's most recent book, Trinity College Dublin: A Walking Guide, was published by Trinity College Library in July
