Reflections on What makes us human

Written on 2.21.24

In the mornings when it’s nice out, I like to have my breakfast with a cup of tea on my back porch. Recently, I set up a new fancy bird feeder my mother got me for Christmas relatively high up in an oak tree which springs up from the earth only a meter or so from the porch. Whenever the feeder detects movement, it snaps a photo and sends it to my phone. I was proud of the strength and agility it took to climb up the tree and nail in the bird feeder. Moreover, I was excited to begin to provide seed and nourishment to the local neighborhood birds, despite the fact that ornithologists generally agree it is more harmful than helpful to set up a feeder.

Things started off well, it didn’t take long until I had an adorable black-capped-chickadee munching down on some seeds.

But it didn’t take long before things took a turn for the worse.

Yee gawd! A squirrel! Pretty soon, the fox squirrels came in hoards to satisfy their desire for my gourmet western bird seed. At a loss, I began to read on the interwebs about potential fixes. One idea is to mix in cayenne pepper with the seeds as birds don’t have the taste receptor for spice, but squirrels do– and they aren’t a fan of spicy food. No Indian or Mexican food for you, Ms. Fox Squirrel!! And now, before you grow concerned, I was assured from Dr. Google that this would not harm the squirrels or the birds.

My plan was set. But after my feeder was emptied, Boulder received several dumplings of snow and I decided not to shimmy up the tree with wet feet in the cold. In a recent warm spell, the snow melted and it was time for me to refill the feeder. Ironically, I had the energy to climb back up and refill the feeder with seed, but was far too lazy to undergo the strenuous effort required to mix some cayenne with the seed. Maybe the squirrels had forgotten about it, right?

Well this morning as I sat gleefully soaking in the sun and having my peanut butter toast–with a banana of course– I was disgruntled to discover that the squirrels had NOT forgotten about the feeder. But this time, I decided I would take action.

I jumped up and down and waved my hands! “BE GONE, YE DEVILISH SQUIRREL!” After two acrobatic jumps the rodent retreated behind the tree where I could no longer see him. Satisfied, I returned to my meal, waiting in earnest for my beautiful chickadees, house finches, white breasted nuthatches, and downies to return.

Of course, I wasn’t actually foolish enough to think I had won. I knew the devil hid just beyond my sight. Mr. Fox Squirrel inched his way back as if I couldn’t see him. I waited until he was on the feeder and jumped back into action. “I SAID BE GONE FROM HERE YOU VERMIN!” Mr. Squirrel just blinked at me. So I had to resort to other, perhaps cruel, means. I walked to the edge of the porch and began shaking the branches of the tree. The branches were many feet from even touching Mr. Squirrel, but he was sufficiently scared and did his acrobatic maneuver and fled to safety.

After repeating this dance two or three more times, Mr. Squirrel decided it wasn’t worth the trouble to keep having his fine dining interrupted by the server so he made his way across the yard in search of another meal.

But I’ll be damned shocked if Mr. Squirrel tells his nieces and nephews about the danger, or even if Mr. Squirrel himself doesn’t again chance the murky waters. They’ll continue to come and I’ll have to keep chasing them away: this hardly feels like a solution. A young man in his 20s such as myself should have better things to do with his time than angrily shake my fist yelling at squirrels to “get off my lawn, goddamnit!” 

Next batch I’ll be sure to put cayenne pepper in with the seeds.

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What does this story reveal to me about the human condition? I think this story tells us something about bias. Why am I trying to assert my will on the type of animal that can eat at MY feeder? I own the damn thing, don’t I? But even if I feel a right to the plastic object, do I deem a squirrel’s life less valuable than a bird’s? No. Not logically at least. But I don’t derive the same pleasure from watching squirrels decimate my seed supply as I do from the birds.

So it’s pleasure then. That’s why I do it. I gain a certain level of satisfaction from viewing birds and learning about them and their habits. They serve a symbolic fantasy for me. A metaphor of the untamed spirit. This feels hypocritical to me though; I am definitely tainting their “untamed spirit” by forcing them to be a part of industrial society, eating the seeds I have hand-packed and shipped personally to me from none other than Mr. Jeff Bezos. 

What are some other solutions to my squirrel problem? How can I use AI to solve this issue? What if my bird feeder also came with a water spraying device that uses AI recognition software to send a small jet of water onto the squirrels. 

I would no longer have to stand on my porch waving my fist at Mr. Squirrel. I could spend that time doing something far more important, something in a digital world perhaps? 

Better yet, maybe once Figure AI releases humanoid robots at an affordable price to the public (will that be before or after the technology is sold into the military industrial complex?), I can get my robot servant to scurry up the tree to refill the seeds and to wave its robotic fist from the deck at the squirrels. Hopefully it will be as passionate as I am as it shouts at them in its synthetic human voice to “GET OFF MASTER’S LAWN, HUMANDAMNIT!”

Reflections on Relations with More-than-Human beings

Written on 2.24.25

While reading J.M. Coetzee’s Lives of Animals (2001), I am faced with a moral and ethical quandary. I have just read the discussion between Norma and John on page 48. Norma says: “Yes, a squirrel does have a worldview. Its worldview comprises acorns and trees and weather and cats and dogs and automobiles and squirrels of the opposite sex. It comprises an account of how these phenomena interact and how it should interact with them to survive. That’s all. There’s no more. That’s the world according to squirrel.”

Not two minutes after reading this on my second story porch, a squirrel wiggled its way under the fence in the yard and scurried up the tree next to my porch. In the tree sits a bird feeder with a camera that I stopped refilling because Mr. Squirrel eats all the seeds in one to two days. I have had conflicts in the past with Mr. Squirrel, chasing him away from the feeder, and now, he tries to chase me away from the porch I haven’t sat on for months.

He climbed up the tree and ran out on a limb, wagging his tail derisively and chipping at me in what I presumed to be frustration. I spoke aloud to him, “Hi, Mr. Squirrel. How are you? Why are you upset with me?” He continued to chip at me.

“Am I invading your home? Are you hungry? Do you want me to refill the seeds like I did last year?” He wagged his tail and looked at me, his head turned so that his eye could peer into my soul. I wonder what his other eye saw… his tree, his home? Or does his perception zero in on what demands his attention, the human boy sitting on the porch reading about whether squirrels care about anything other than survival. 

My initial instinct was to ignore Mr. Squirrel and his anger, to carry on reading my book and hoped he went about his day. But then I decided in the spirit of respect, I would do my best to listen to what this being was trying to tell me and consider how I should respond. I spoke with him. He seemed to become less upset with me, maybe something in my voice indicated friendliness? I am reminded of Linda Hogan’s discussion in Solar Storms (1994) about how humans and animals used to speak with one another, how they were able to talk in the same language.

I considered leaving. Am I invading his space, colonizing his home with my presence by the tree? But no, I pay rent, this is my home. My thinking quickly returned to my own territorial rights to this land, signalled by the monetary capital I invested in it. This instinct frustrated me and I thought I better leave Mr. Squirrel alone. Then I remembered an old Seneca story about a race between Turtle and Beaver that may or may not have been adapted from the Tortoise and the Hare. Beaver attempts to claim ownership of the pond, but after being outwitted by Turtle, he learns the merits of sharing. 

I feel as if Mr. Squirrel should learn this lesson. I have decided to refill the bird nest with seeds for Mr. Squirrel. Maybe a bird or two will have a chance to enjoy them, but so will Mr. Squirrel. Perhaps an ecologist would be frustrated with me and say I’m having Mr. Squirrel develop an unhealthy dependency on human beings. Perhaps I am. But hey, I have the seeds and they will nourish him. And maybe they will teach him the merits of sharing the backyard.

Mr. Squirrel has currently laid down on the tree, his frustration seemingly dissipating. He keeps his eyes on me as I write this, though. Curious? Cautious? Perhaps curiously cautious? I’ll wait for him to leave before refilling the bird feeder.

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When writing this, I hadn’t realized that almost exactly a year prior was when I wrote about Mr. Squirrel, and I didn’t remember the depth of that writing other. I just remembered being upset that the squirrels were eating my bird seed. After writing about this latest encounter though, I decided to go back and read what I had written.

At the time, I was so concerned with what separated human beings from AI. I still am interested in this distinction, but I am currently more interested in what happens if we don’t separate human beings from other living beings. Why do I have to create such a hard boundary between me and Mr. Squirrel? Is this benefitting either of us?

Call me a post-humanist, a fan of vitalism, or sympathetic with indigenous ontology, but I believe the separation and subsequent hierarchical delineations imbued by humans on the natural world actively produce harm. My hope is that returning to a space of reverence and kinship with more-than-human life will prove a fruitful endeavor for all of us beings.

Last year, when interacting with Mr. Squirrel, I was frustrated with him. I saw him as an obstacle in the way of achieving my birdwatching goals. This year, I see him as a potential friend.