North Star Writers Group

This device enables anyone with broadband Internet connections to observe the sea otters at the Monterey Bay Aquarium be, well, themselves. Everything in life is a game for God’s ultimate party animals. Playing is their M.O. They fool around with their food, cavort with their keepers and graciously put on a show for the legions of devotees who flock daily to see them in person.

Then there are the meerkats, the stars of the only reality TV show I have ever watched. Although these tiny creatures scratch their existence from the sands of South Africa’s Kalahari Desert, they still have the energy and inclination for frolicking. Curious, mischievous, rambunctious, young meerkats are a hilarious handful for those hapless siblings charged with babysitting duties. Even older, supposedly more mature meerkats sometimes can’t resist joining in the fun.

What a blessed relief to partake, however briefly, in these animals’ lives. Their dramas and deeds put human folly into perspective, reaffirming that life goes on no matter which team wins the Super Bowl or which political party has the (temporary) upper hand.

Animals connect us to our emotions in a world that seems to disparage and demean any forthright expression of true feeling. Otters fill me with joy, even though I know they are endangered. I marvel at meerkats’ courage while acknowledging that their social order has its own share of deadly rivalries.

Ever notice how different animals seem to reflect varying aspects of human nature? Bees and ants are Type-A overachieving workaholics. Their entire existence is wrapped up in and defined by their toils. Herd animals (think horses) hang out with each other and gossip as would any group of like-minded teens – or adults. Squirrels and chipmunks are deliberate thieves and accidental comedians.

We even have sayings that acknowledge these animal-human similarities – “lone wolf,” “crazy as a loon,” “sly as a fox.”

Of course there are those who argue that it is meaningless to superimpose human personality traits on the non-human denizens of planet earth. Anthropomorphizing is just wishful thinking, according to this viewpoint, which posits that animals behave according to their survival imperatives and nothing more.

I have to wonder. My partner once owned a part shepherd, part greyhound named Annie. When the dog was young, two squirrels banded together to steal food from her bowl. While one set up a chatter to distract Annie, the other stuffed its cheeks with her dinner, and then vice versa.

One day Annie finally figured out the scam, flipped around in mid-air, and tore after the squirrel gobbling down her food instead of the decoy. The thief barely made it safely up the nearest tree branch, losing a tuft of tail in the pursuit.

As Annie barked up at the escapee and leapt in vain trying to reach her quarry, the squirrel lifted its leg and urinated on her head. Then it chattered away at her in squirrel-speak that needed no translation either for the canine or the human audience: “Can’t catch me in the middle of the sea - nyah-nyah-nyah-nyah.”

The poor dog realized her owner was watching and cringed.

Tell me those weren’t human reactions. Or perhaps there’s just more squirrel in us than we care to acknowledge.

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This is Column #CT17. Request permission to publish here.