Animal Consciousness
"What's wrong with Tokjai?
He never used to sleep this long! He hasn't finished his food either."
My chin is spread over my paws
like a slippery silk handkerchief, my body numbed by the coolness of the hard
concrete, waiting in the position where I feel the least pain from the wound on
my rump. Occasionally, I flick my tail to chase away flies landing on my wound.
Sometimes I force myself to lick the uncoagulated blood that accelerates my
end. I've been awake for a while, but I am too lazy to get up. Besides, it
hurts most when I sit down and stand up, so I try to minimize those movements.
Once I'm up, I want to do everything — eat, drink, pee, survey the area, bark.
Otherwise, my moaning disturbs Mother greatly. Others might not notice, but I'm
sure Mother feels my pain very deeply. It's a feminine perception,
characteristic of those who devote the spaces between pains to meaningful tasks
— the opposite of men, who see life as the sum of their sufferings and make
pride out of that sum. The conversations reach my ears. Without changing my
position, I listen to the sounds that are far from me but at the same time near
to me…
"Did you do what you said,
son? You were hanging around Tokjai's food bowl."
"No, Mother, I didn't do
anything. And if I were going to…"
"So, what were you doing
there?"
"I cleaned his water bowl,
Mother. I do it every time I come, don’t you know?"
"With you, it's hard to
tell. We spoiled you too much, and you're headstrong. If you'd had a sibling,
you wouldn't be like this, but you don't."
"Look now! Why do you say
that, Mother? What fault have you ever found in me?"
"I tried to take a little
nap. I couldn't sleep because of what you said. I had all sorts of strange
dreams. In the last one, Tokjai was digging a huge grave with his paws. 'What
are you doing, Tokjai? Isn't that grave too big for you?' I asked. He turned
and looked at me slyly and said, 'This grave isn't for me.' I was scared — I
felt like boiling water was running through me for a moment. Seeing Tokjai
speak, even in a dream, doubled my worries."
"Don't worry, Mother, even
if I decided to kill Tokjai, I wouldn't do it without your approval."
"See, you're still talking
about killing. Don't, son, don't say that word. No one is going to kill anyone.
Tokjai is part of this house, this family, even this village. If I were sick,
would you kill me right away?"
"What does that have to do
with it, Mother? You're human — you can understand life and death. Can Tokjai?
For him, there's only the day he's living, and each day he's living now is full
of agony. I'm just saying we don't have the right to make him suffer like this.
Besides, after you said no, I won't lift a finger, don't worry."
"How do you know Tokjai
doesn't understand the meaning of life? And what good did all your
understanding do? Who has ever benefited from your understanding of life, tell
me now!"
Tossapol doesn't answer this
question. After a long silence, I hear a clatter from the dishwashing basin.
He's going to prepare himself a drink. He does this when he wakes from his
afternoon nap, to moisten his dry throat — either iced cola or chanomyen[1].
I hear the liquid gurgling down his throat. Then silence again. Did he fall
silent because he had no answer? Or because he's afraid of arguing with his
mother? Maybe he doesn't even believe in the truth of what he said himself — he
read or heard it somewhere and tosses it out whenever he gets the chance.
There's one more possibility. Maybe his mother's question increased his doubts,
made him think deeply, and he decided he was wrong. Could it be? Why not?
Tossapol has been like this since
his youth: he's not a fighter. Either he gives up quickly or changes sides at
the slightest nudge. He experiences his first hesitation by considering the
possibility that the claim he's about to make has already been made many times
by others. The thought that comes to mind may have no great value that can be
proclaimed, shared, or grasped by someone in need. Even if he gets past that,
somehow persuading himself that his thoughts have value, there's the matter of
standing behind his ideas and defending them tirelessly. Tossapol almost never
does this. He can't quite believe that the things he says could be claims worth
standing firmly behind. Doubts like "What if I'm wrong?" "What
if I'm unjust?" "What if there are nuances that I haven't
realized?" constantly echoes in his head. Trying to examine these echoes one
by one, he loses his upright posture. He bends, leans left and right, turns his
head in the direction the wind blows, thus believing he's protected from
breakage and fracture. He is protected; therefore, everyone loves Tossapol,
everyone knows him as a pleasant, gentle, and respectful friend. But in the
long run, he pays the price. While he thinks he's continuing safely down the
same path, he fails to notice that the road beneath his feet has changed. When
those around him find themselves — a cause to cling to, an ideal to spend a
life on, a unique dream that makes them forget all other dreams — and abandon
those who can't keep up, Tossapol will realize how alone he is. Maybe then
he'll regret it and, in a final struggle, try to attach himself somewhere.
He'll want to, but those dreamers who've spent years making a dream come true
will understand his intention before he even opens his mouth. They won't accept
Tossapol, and just as they refuse him, they'll insult him. They'll mock his
efforts and say, "In our dark days, in poverty and misery, while we fought
despite our weakness, embraced each other to gain strength, and celebrated our
small victories with modest gatherings — you were not with us. Now you are the
one who is alone and helpless. Why should we be with you?" Then Tossapol
will hang his head, his face burning with shame like a shy child whose pleas
have failed, and retreat into his own world. He'll live as someone everyone
loves and die as someone no one cares for…
Am I exaggerating? Maybe! I've
dramatized it too much. He just didn't answer his mother. But it's not only
toward his mother that he behaves this way. When the country was divided into
reds and yellows, Tossapol stayed silent. When the coup happened and soldiers
patrolled the streets of Bangkok in tanks, he didn't speak up. When a female
student at his school was raped, he didn't support his friends' action for a
more peaceful campus. Instead of joining the protest and supporting his
violated friend, he went to the movies that day with a girl as cowardly as he
is. He always prefers to stay on the sidelines, and most likely his being an
only child plays a role in this. When you're an only child, you're the
offspring that parents dote on and watch every move. Whenever you try to make a
decision on your own and carry it out, it doesn't take long to realize it was
wrong. Whenever you try to go somewhere alone, you get scolded upon your
return. How different can the adulthood of someone who spent childhood and early
youth like that be? Perhaps the fear of parents is replaced by the anxiety of
upsetting them. That's all. So as not to upset them, you don't open your mouth,
you don't speak the truth, you don't take the roads you should take, you don't
take the necessary measures. Living a life that won't upset your parents, you
fail to realize that the sum of what you live don’t even amount to half a life.
Fine, we dogs don't have much say
in these matters, but at least we can take a clear stance when it comes to
communicating and expressing our troubles. If a dog barks, he's angry or senses
danger. A dog doesn't start barking wondering, "Should I be angry?"
If he barks, the reason is one or the other, and it doesn't take long to find
it. So, if a dog barks, it's the result of a need. In humans, the situation is
much more complex. First, no human can stand behind what they say with one
hundred percent confidence. They always have the right not to say it, and if
they have spoken, they have bypassed that right. That is, during a meal in the
canteen — I'd seen many fights in the university's open-air canteen — if
someone cuts in front of you, you can get angry and shout. You can also stay
quiet. You can hesitate and choose to remain silent like Tossapol. Second, and
more importantly: every sentence spoken, every claim made, aims to garner
support for the idea it defends. If you say, "This mango is yellow,"
you mean to state that the mango is yellow. Fine, but if you're sure of your
claim, why do you want to say it out loud? Because you want your claim
confirmed by others, for someone to follow you, and for those same people, when
the time comes, to defend your ideas to the death. In short, every claim made
verbally aims for leadership. You can keep saying the mango is yellow for a
long time, conduct research, prove the claim by various methods. The crowd that
initially found your work meaningless will, after a while, appreciate it. Then
they'll follow you. Thus, you'll become the leader of those who say, "The
mango is yellow." Believe it or not, there's a hidden desire to gather
followers in every sentence humans utter. You can test this easily by objecting
to a simple sentence, persisting in your objection, and observing the results.
"I didn't say he doesn't
understand life, Mother! I said his view of life is different from ours because
he has no consciousness. We know we will die — that's why life is important to
us."
Ehh, Tossapol — almost half an
hour has passed. Now, you think of answering your mother? She's already
forgotten what she asked.
"What are you saying, son?
Enough about consciousness and life. Look, it's cooled down. There's a hose
under the barn. Take it to the garden. After you pick the custard apples, I'll
water the garden. Then let's not go in again — our feet will get muddy."
"That job might not get
done, Mother. Look, Father didn't finish cutting the grass. He's asleep in the
swing. Let me do the grass before the meal. If there's time, I'll pick the
fruits."
I hear footsteps, steps moving
away, the flip-flop sound of the back of thong sandals hitting the heel.
Tossapol goes to the front of the house to finish the job his father left
half-done. I'm left here to wait and think, whether I like it or not. I don't
move from my spot; it's still very hot outside. When it's this hot, bodies
inevitably become drowsy. When the body is drowsy, the mind wanders into
subjects it would otherwise find unnecessary. With the courage that comes from
having nothing to lose, or with cheap opportunism that counts even the smallest
gain as profit.
"There you go again, finding
a way to slack off. If you hurry, you could do both. You've wandered around and
wasted a ton of time. Now you're ignoring the job your mother gave you, and on
top of that, you're talking nonsense… Tokjai has no consciousness, his life has
no meaning. Who are you to pronounce such lofty words?"
Mother is right, all the way till
the end. What had Tossapol said? Animals have no consciousness. Animals can't
grasp the meaning of life. Every time I hear this, I'm sad that I can't speak
the human language. Helplessness settles in my stomach like a huge lump of sticky
rice swallowed without being chewed, stuck there for hours without moving an
inch. Yes; if I were human, I'd take Tossapol aside and teach him how
anthropocentric and biased what he said is. "How selfish and greedy are
you?" I'd ask him. "Why do you see the whole universe as a system
revolving around your being, gaining meaning only according to you?" I'd
add. Then I'd continue without stopping. I'd lay out clearly and plainly how,
when humans talk about the meaning of life, they're actually talking about a
narrow concept limited to their own lives, and that even if they wanted to,
they couldn't easily give up these narrow definitions. That is, when they say
"the meaning of life," they're discussing the meaning of human life,
because they don't know or recognize others. Naturally, they don't include
dogs, cats, flowers, or insects in their conversation. Thinking they're talking
about all living beings with the glitz and glamour of universal concepts that
confuse the mind and flatter the ego, they open the door to an even greater disaster.
We animals also have lives, and as long as we stay true to our own parameters,
our lives also have meaning. To think otherwise leads the claimant straight
into inconsistency and contradiction. After all, how could the life of a dog
who has faithfully performed its dogly duties for fifteen years be meaningless?
How could it be said that his existence is deficient?
"Tok, Tok, Tok… Where are
you, my baby? Where has this animal gone? I haven't seen him since lunch. He's
not in his usual sleeping spot either. Tossapol, where is my baby, Tokjai? Go
look in front of the house and see if he's come there."
Mother is looking for me, but I
won't make a sound. I haven't finished my thoughts on meaning yet. Let her
search a little longer — even if she looks under the barn, she won't easily see
me. There's a lot of junk here. Besides, her eyes aren't very strong. Let her
keep worrying — I'm sick. My head is sharper than ever before, but my body is
fading. Let me continue with the concept of meaning; I'm enjoying thinking
about it. What I fear most is that I'll die before I finish.
Let me explain it this way.
Eating, drinking, breathing, running, sleeping, sitting, wagging my tail, being
affectionate, having my head patted, barking, growling… Putting all these
together already reveals the meaning of a dog's life. That is, meaning is
nothing more than the sum of what is done and the complex network formed by the
connections among them, just like farming or doing math. The meaning of the existence of all complex systems is nothing but the sum of the elements that
compose them and the visible or invisible paths connecting those elements.
Isn't human life just the sum of the actions they perform? Does life have some
secret meaning that I don't know about, that humans don't talk about when a dog
is present? No! They live because they were born, and so do we. They struggle
for good food, enjoyable times, a healthy life, and so do we. They want to have
children and pass on their genes to the next generation, and so do we. I don't
understand all this fuss. Every living thing lives its life meaningfully anyway.
They live as they should, neither less nor more. The tales you invented
afterward, the stories you imported from outside and gave a domestically
produced veneer — they don't give life meaning; on the contrary, they steal the
meaning of life and put in its place tools to facilitate the exploitation of
others. You believe in fairy tales about life after death or before birth, kill
each other, shed blood for others, and think your life gains meaning this way.
I wish you could be as smart as animals, that you could use your highly
developed brains not to produce baseless meanings, but to make efficient use of
what exists. But no — when it suits you, you're the most evolved being, the
most intelligent creature, the most creative mind. Yet when you look at your
state in the world and the harm you do, many animals say, "I'm glad I'm
not human." Because being human means being more royalist than the king
himself, being human means a never-satisfied search for meaning that destroys
your own species, other animals, and other non-animal creatures that can never
be replaced. The consciousness of humans becoming so selfish and seeing
themselves as the chosen beings of the universe is nothing other than the
suicide of evolution, the death of the historical mechanism that produced that
consciousness. Write that down somewhere. Let that be a small lesson from Tokjai,
the old and veteran dog, to humanity that has lost its way. All flaws begin
with humans seeing their own intelligence as absolute intelligence. Yet human
intelligence is just one of millions of possible forms of intelligence. Humans
are not the smartest, most supreme, or most agile — they are just different.
"He's not behind the trees
in the hollow either. I looked in the concrete gap under the guest rooms. He
hasn't gone under the car. I even looked inside the house in case he'd gone in
— but no. You don't think he went into the barn, do you? No, don't be silly! What would he be doing in the rice barn? Besides, the barn door is locked — how
would he get in? I looked under the barn, but I didn't see him. Wait, let me
look again."
Am I going too far? On the
contrary, we're just beginning. Let's look at Tossapol's second claim. What was
it? Dogs have no consciousness. How do you know? Or rather, how did you arrive
at that conclusion? Using your own consciousness, right? What does that mean?
It means my consciousness denies the existence of yours because mine is
superior. That is, I have absolute consciousness, or there is an absolute
consciousness and I somehow carry it inside my brain. All consciousnesses other
than mine are either hierarchically weaker or dismissed because their existence
cannot be proven. I can ignore the boastfulness in this claim, but I cannot
ignore its logical impasse. Humans know very well that the genetic difference
between them and chimpanzees is less than 2%. That is, with a 2% addition or
change, a chimpanzee can become human. Let's indulge in a little fantasy and
add another 2% to the 100% human. Let's call this 102% human a "tuman"
for clarity. Could we stop this tuman from looking at 100% humans the same way
contemporary humans look at chimpanzees? When tumans start experimenting on
humans kept in their homes, and start looking down on their consciousness,
won't humans object? They will, but because they can't surpass the intelligence
of tumans, and because they don't speak the tumans' superior, convoluted,
multi-layered, complex language, their rebellion won't amount to anything.
Worse, tumans will study human behavior, prepare reports, and announce to each
other via communication devices of a sophistication humans can't fathom — how
instinctual, mechanical, and devoid of tuman-like feelings and rationality
human behavior is. Because for tumans, understanding the meaning of life — tuman
life — is only possible by being tuman, and living beings other than tumans
cannot grasp the meaning of life. Of course, here the tumans, just like humans,
would make the mistake of imposing the meaning of their own lives on others.
Since the superior mechanism they call tuman consciousness belongs only to
them, they will see themselves as superior to all other living beings. They
will acquire strange habits to add meaning to their lives that no other living
beings' mental powers can reach, and they will attribute the inability of other
beings to understand those habits to their low intelligence, lack of
consciousness, or at best, the meaninglessness of their lives. Looking at
humans, the tumans will make the same mistakes that humans make when looking at
other beings. The problem of the meaning of life will occupy the tumans' minds
just as it occupies humans' today. Tumans will engage in serious debates; those
who choose Path A to assign meaning will wage war on those who choose Path B. Path
C and D will ally to try to defeat B. Path D will be smarter, offering strategic
support to A but not standing by them in peacetime. This hubbub will continue
for a long time. That is, while humans continue living their ordinary lives,
they will find the tumans' meaningless quarrels unnecessary, irrational, even
stupid. Just as the pet cat of a man reading the newspaper finds his master's
behavior every morning pointless, humans will see tuman behavior as equally
empty and foolish.
"Aha, there you are! How did
you get so far back there? Come on, get out and walk around a bit. Stretch your
legs. The vet recommended you move. The wound will get more infected if you
stay still. You haven't moved since lunch — you've been sleeping nonstop. It's
hard to tell if you're dead or passed out! Look, Tossapol is here. Until he
leaves, my mind will be on you. Come on, get up, get up. Come on, Tokjai!"
She pokes me with a long iron
rod. First, I growl but soon give up this irritating attitude. She means well —
as always, she's on my side. Leaning heavily on my numb legs, I slowly get up.
I pass through the rusty, dusty items — this is the only place in the house
whose smell hasn't changed in fourteen years — and put my feet on the ground
that the sun has been beating down mercilessly since morning. The air has
cooled a bit, but it's still very hot. I can feel Mother standing beside me.
She laughs by herself, murmuring at the same time. The bittersweet joy she's
feeling splits every word she says like a knife splitting a watermelon in half.
I sense that she's both happy and unhappy at the same time. Both at peace and
uneasy at the same time.
"Come on, Tokjai, go toward
the front of the house. Look, Tossapol is cutting the grass. You love the sound
of the lawnmower. Wander around a bit, drink some water from the duck-shaped
pot by the garden gate, pee by the wall, bark a few times… Do these things so I
know you're still being Tokjai. Do them so that your exhaustion and silence
wear less heavily on our hearts."
