Why do we talk to animals?

THERE are certain questions that polite society has spent centuries avoiding. Who is secretly in love with whom? Which neighbour has been discussing whose business? And perhaps most importantly, why do perfectly respectable adults spend half their day having conversations with animals who cannot answer back?

I regret to inform you that I am one of these people.

I speak to my rabbit, Lily, with a level of seriousness that would suggest she is a member of the household capable of contributing to important discussions. I ask where she is going, what she is doing, why she has decided to chew that particular thing and whether she has any intention of behaving herself.

She offers no explanation.

Naturally, I continue the conversation.

Indeed, if an observer were to enter the room at the wrong moment, they might reasonably conclude that I had finally lost my mind. There I am, speaking earnestly to a rabbit while she sits perfectly still, looking at me with the serene expression of someone who has no intention whatsoever of answering.

And yet, this behaviour is hardly unique.

Pet owners everywhere have been conducting these one sided conversations for generations, and somehow society has decided this is perfectly normal. We tell dogs that we will be back soon, ask cats why they are staring at us and explain our entire day to animals who are considerably more interested in whether somebody has opened the refrigerator.

The rabbit, meanwhile, has already moved on.

What makes the situation even more ridiculous is the language we develop for them.

Every pet eventually acquires a collection of nicknames, many of which have absolutely nothing to do with the name they were given. We begin with one perfectly sensible name and, several months later, find ourselves calling the animal something that would make no sense to anyone outside the household.

The pet, of course, responds. Or perhaps it does not.

We choose to believe it does.

This is where humans become particularly imaginative. We begin interpreting everything.

A certain look means they are hungry. A particular movement means they are annoyed. A twitch of the nose means they want something. A prolonged stare means they are judging us. The last one, I suspect, may actually be true. Lily has perfected the look of quiet disapproval.

There are moments when I can almost hear her thinking, “You are the one who brought me into this household, and yet somehow I am the one expected to tolerate your behaviour.”

Then there is the matter of food, which reveals the true hierarchy of any household containing an animal.

You may have spent the entire day working. You may be exhausted. You may have barely sat down.

The moment you open something edible, your pet will appear. I do not know how they do it. A rabbit can be sleeping peacefully in another part of the house, completely motionless, and yet the sound of a food packet being opened will summon her with the efficiency of a military operation.

You could probably open a packet of hay in the next district and she would hear it. This is also where pet owners begin negotiating.

“You just ate.”

A blank stare.

“You had food five minutes ago.”

Silence.

“No, you cannot have that.”

A look of profound betrayal.

And somehow, despite having no spoken language in common, we continue this exchange as though a successful negotiation might eventually take place.

Perhaps animals understand far more than we think. Or perhaps they have simply discovered that humans are remarkably easy to manipulate. I suspect the latter.

There is another strange habit among pet owners that deserves examination. We tell our animals things we might not tell another person.

We complain about work. We talk about our day. We tell them about something that annoyed us. We announce that we are tired. We even apologise to them.

“Sorry, I have to go to work.”

As though the rabbit is sitting there thinking, “Very well. I shall see you at seven.”

And perhaps this is why we become so attached to them. They listen without interrupting. They do not tell us that we have already told the story three times.

They do not say, “You are overthinking this.”

They certainly do not reply, “I told you so.”

Although, to be fair, some cats have the facial expression of someone who has been waiting years to say exactly that.

Animals simply stay there. Sometimes they look at us. Sometimes they walk away. Both are perfectly valid responses.

The remarkable thing is that we do not actually need them to speak.

We have become so good at reading them that a movement, a look or a particular sound can seem like a complete sentence.

And perhaps that is the real conversation. Not words, but routine.

You know when they want food. They know when you are leaving. You know when they are annoyed. They know when you are holding something they want.

It is a relationship conducted largely through glances, noises and increasingly ridiculous amounts of food.

There is something rather lovely about that.

Human beings spend an extraordinary amount of time trying to make themselves understood. We explain, argue, clarify and occasionally send three paragraphs when one sentence would have been sufficient.

With animals, somehow, we manage without any of it. Perhaps that is why the house feels different when a pet is gone.

It is not simply that there is no longer a little creature moving around. There is no one to greet. No one to feed. No one to tell, “Look what I bought.” No one to complain to when something has gone wrong. And, most importantly, no one to have completely unnecessary conversations with.

Which brings us back to the original mystery.

Why do we talk to animals?

I have no scientific explanation. I have not conducted a study. I have not consulted an expert. I have, however, spent enough time talking to Lily to reach one conclusion.

Perhaps we do it because somewhere along the way, they stop being animals we keep in our homes and become part of the household itself.

We know they cannot answer. We know they probably do not understand half of what we say. And yet, when Lily looks at me after I have been talking to her for several minutes, there is always that tiny possibility that she understands everything and has simply decided that I am not worth answering.

Frankly, given her personality, that is entirely possible.

And if you happen to hear me having a serious conversation with my rabbit, I would appreciate your discretion.

There are some things that polite society simply does not need to know.

The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of Sarawak Tribune.