Two Sundays ago, in the morning, I was leaving to get some coffee just as my parents were returning from Mass. I got in the car, and usually I listen to my own music, but I felt like perusing the radio stations. So, I turned on 99.7, Kansas City’s pop station, and found myself genuinely enjoying a Justin Bieber track and “I Like Me Better” by Lauv. Then, I switched to 103.3, which is typically R&B, but on this fine Sunday they were playing Gospel. The Spirit, the motherfucking ruah, was flowing on that morning. Believe in God or not, when Aretha Franklin and company start beltin’ it, you believe Jesus Christ rose that day, man. Halle-fuckin’-lujah. I grabbed my coffee and cruised on back to my home.
On returning from my brief outing—15 minutes tops—my Mom, rather flustered, still make-upped and in her church clothes, lamented the chaos caused by Mac, our lovely cat.
Mac is our two-year-old grey runt with leukemia, and she is precious and oh-so cuddly. She is also, despite her puny frame, a patient and skilled hunter. Her favorite pastime is watching the Blue Jays, Robins, and Chickadees flutter about in the back yard. Occasionally, she’ll chase a squirrel up a tree, who will stare down at her at and make odd squealing and chittering noises amounting to, “Can you fuck off? Lil’ bitch-ass runt? I could probably take you, but I’m gonna just sweat you out.”
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So. In the time that I had left to grab some coffee and enjoy some tunes, Mac had captured a baby squirrel and let it loose in the house. After bringing it into the kitchen, my Mom screeched and Mac lost hold of the critter. The creature, free of Mac’s teeth, began its mad dash around the first floor of our house. Mac caught it again and drug it under a desk in my kitchen, crammed full of plastic bags for miscellaneous use and groceries, but now in use as a crinkly squirrel dungeon. My Mom was yelling and yapping and called upon the help of my Dad. Somehow they got the squirrel into a black Croc and moved it outside into the whirling, casual heat of the sun, only picking up to its early summer vigor in the past few days. It was here, in the middle of my Mom’s telling me all of this, that we walked over to the sliding glass door and looked out at the squirrel with its tiny, fluffy tail poking out of the Croc.
“And then he died in there,” my Mom remorsefully remarked, and with her endearing, purposefully-over-saccharine baby-voice, reprimanded Mac, “Bad Mac!” And after a beat, “Oh well. But she’s just doin’ what she does.” She says this as my Dad picks up the shoe and moves the squirrel, in his odd coffin, to the base of the well-shaded Oak Tree, with little brick walls and mulch all around. He stared at the squirrel then back to me and my Mom.
Death, Respect, and Grief
Death
Last summer, Audrey, my girlfriend, lost Patrick, her family dog they’d had their whole life; and a few months later in the early Fall, Ody, my family’s pet, died. We took our respective losses hard. Needless to say, we had a lot of love for our dogs. I have a tendency to trot through the weeks like I am unaffected by most things—because, faithfully, I have limited, carefully-curated concerns, and the concerns I do have take unusual forms: I care about my relationships and my own personal excellence and goals. Any other concerns garner their power by being attached to one or the other, or both, of these values. It can make me seem cavalier, or irritable, or alien, about a great deal of things, but that’s because I have a careful sense of what I should let into my circle, my accepted boundary of investment. And the reason for that is I know how much I do care about what I do let in.1 It’s a form of respect for who I am and my emotional limits—and it involves a deference to the lessons I learned from doing the opposite in the past, from extending myself and my concerns too far, and the burns that left.2 But my sensitivity to shifts in those landscapes of my people and my person reveal a vulnerability, and a tenderness-to-the-breach, that is tectonic. And this precarity is a precious and revealing aspect of being in the world.3
What this means, amongst other things, is that—in the tradition of Aristotelean virtue ethics—I think a lot about what one ought to feel, and how, and to what degree. One’s emotional energies are not fully part of nature—wild and untamable—they are, sometimes directly, oftentimes indirectly, part of our responsibility. And one aspect of this responsibility is how one should feel towards nature, death and grief.
Respect for Nature as Self-Respect
In David Schmidtz’s article, “Are all species equal?” he argues against Paul Taylor’s idea of species egalitarianism.4 On first glance, this sounds like villain-behavior—like the next thing he is going to argue for is that testing nuclear bombs on hospitals is a valid form of weapons testing. But its nothing of the sort. Species egalitarianism is the notion that every animal species has “equal moral standing” and deserves “equal respect,” that is the same type of respect.5 But is it at all obvious that every species commands the same type of respect regardless of what type of species it is? Or that one has to be a species egalitarian to respect nature? That we should purposefully ignore differences, treating a Dolphin the same as a Dalmatian the same as a Dung Beetle? He argues against that idea, and I agree with his notion that he replaces Taylor’s with: that we can respect our reflective human nature by not shying “away from respecting the differences as well as the commonalities” in species, and to believe that ranking species—any ranking, even one that flattens all to the same rank—is “beneath us.”6 We can opt out of the game and instead choose to ennoble ourselves by noticing the differences in nature and by expressing not only our capacity to compare, but to refuse to compare, to abstain and withhold ourselves from petty discussions.7 But a lack of comparison does not entail a lack of recognition of difference: we don’t have to hierarchize to respect natural variety. As Schmidtz says, “[t]he point is that we can, we do, and we should make decisions on the basis of our recognition that mice, chimpanzees, and humans are relevantly different types.”8
I highly suggest everyone check out this article, which I have linked in the footnotes. It is delightfully readable and entirely persuasive. I especially suggest it since I will neither be explicating nor defending his arguments in depth. In the medium of a blog post, I prefer to ruthlessly plunder beautiful ideas and put them to new use. The point I want to bring to the fore is this one that Schmidtz makes near the end of his article. We can come up with many reasons to respect other species. For example, that we should respect a species if the species has a point of view: if there is something it is like to be that species, then we should respect that, i.e., since they have rudimentary hopes, dreams, desires, intentions, etc.9 But what about plants, trees, and very limited life-forms (limited from the perspective of whether or not they have a conscious inner-life) like ants and microbes? Why might we respect them?
Schmidtz suggests a profound answer. Even though the tree cannot care what we do to it, we can. And to needlessly destroy a species without a point of view is to fail to respect ourselves.10 We can choose to not treat our world as a wayfarer vandal: just like we treat our “[l]awns and living rooms” with respect by keeping them tidy. To ignore the aesthetic impulse toward care for our environment—say of a beautiful lakeside view, by tossing some litter on the beachside—is not to disrespect the environment itself, but ourselves by refusing to express our capacity to respect, by shirking the possibility of valuing beauty. We can respond to the environment in a caring way, and why shouldn’t we exercise our moral regard? As Schmidtz continues, lions have no choice but to hunt gazelles, but we do: we can care about the gazelle’s beauty and point of view.11 It’s kind of incredible that we have that capacity, and it is a form of respect for the human species to express how respectful of the world we can really be.
Grief and Respect
When someone dies that is close to us, we grieve, or at least we feel we ought to grieve. Grief, and the full-feeling of it, is a form of respect.12 To shirk the oncoming waves that mount against oneself can be tantamount to ignoring the life of the one who has passed. But to temper the harshness of this, one must keep in mind that there is no getting through grief “right,” but that doesn’t mean that one can’t navigate it with more or less tact and care. Sometimes, one has to run away from the feeling, or put it off: our defenses, this whirring body with its frail bluebird heart, are not always up to the task. But one can’t put it off forever, because that grief, knocking on the bird cage of your heart, is the task to remember, the tale of who you have treaded this earth with and why.
Janet McCracken, in her article “Falsely, Sanely, Shallowly: Reflections on the Special Character of Grief,” argues for a conception of grief that involves an “apparently objective loss,” that is “felt to be dedicated to that lost object,” “seems to most people to be something that she ought to feel” and that “probably ought not to be medicalized.”13 Grief is felt toward and for something: it is “dedicatory” and it is not just “occasioned by a loss” but is “in honor of the thing lost".”14 I think respect and grief share this feature. Just as we grieve for and over loss, we respect things outside of ourselves. And the fact that the object is outside of ourselves is an important part of this feeling: grief and respect are more “externally based” than other emotional states. In her article, she deflects unduly Romantic conceptions of grief that myopically fixate on the feelings of the one who is grieving over the object of loss, the grieving subject, and that ignore the question of the justifiability of the grief, and the vital role that the community plays in grief.15
McCracken remarks on the ambivalence and avoidance with which we treat grief, and that our distancing ourselves from the task of analyzing and attending to grief—and the accompanied dissecting the grieving subject apart and away from their object of grief—results in an “overly-clinical attitude” that prescribes recovery (getting over it) and an “overly-mystical attitude” that “suggests that the dead hover beneficently over us.”16 She suggests that this reluctance stems from the fact that grief is an “obligatory emotion” since it is based on a “concrete relation, in the thoughts of the grieving subject, to real individuals who have passed away.”17 In grief, the living relate to the dead, and we fear that paying attention to grief will take this mysterious power away. But it may not, and it is worth attending to this emotion, to increase our appreciation of it, and to expand our repertoire of respect.
The ability to grieve—like the ability to respect our humane capacity by appreciating nature—is something we can elevate through reflection and respect, or that we can tarnish through ignorance and disrespect. That third condition of grief—"seems to most people to be something that she ought to feel”—is of particular importance here. I believe that one reason why we feel that grief is obligatory is that grief can be a form of respect. And to refuse to acknowledge the effect death is having on us is a way to disrespect ourselves and the apparently objective loss. And also, that grief, as a reaction to bereavement, is an excellent case-study in the role that death plays in building a temperament and a community that is based on self-respect, based on expressing our emotional and intellectual capacities to their fullest.
Adding onto Schmidtz and McCracken’s articles, I believe that having an attitude of respect toward death, and the death of animals around us, and toward the grief we may feel toward those animals, is one method to expand our self-respect and our respect for nature. It is also a prudent orientation to allow the aspect of our self-respect that deals with protection, our normative circle of concern, to mutually constrain this respect toward nature. The ability to grieve, to see and respect death, is simultaneously a form of respect for ourselves and for things outside of us.
From Death to Life
Before I leave off, why is this article called “Jesus Squirrel”? Well, it’s because later on that same day, when I went back downstairs, the Croc was gone and the squirrel was gone. Like Peter before the empty tomb, I wondered where the Croc had gone, and where our Lord…I mean…our baby squirrelly had gone? My Mom, the Mary Magdalene of this story, let me know that the squirrel got up and scurried away. Indeed, as if totally unbothered that the Mac Monster was about, the squirrel was foraging in our back yard just the same. And so in the same day I had missed the death and the resurrection of the baby squirrel. But “blessed are those who have not seen and yet have believed” (John 20:29). I have not seen the Good Squirrel laid to rest, nor seen the Good Squirrel rise, but I believe. Yes…I believe! Hallelujah!
Note the little living and the little dying today: a small ant moving across your desk; an overturned sparrow, robbed of flight; a light conversational aside, acknowledging the time of things: “Well, those days are behind us. It all moves too fast!” Our capacity to note this turning wheel allows us to mark this world with respect and it is in our attitudes of respect that we press our fingers against that precarious boundary of our concern, molding it like soft clay. So note the little dying—the baby squirrel in the shoe—and note too how life little raises up again.
Thanks for reading,
Nicholas
P.P.S. (Poem Post-Script)
would that I had died instead of you
Being driven,
drawing tulips in the
dew of the window,
and soon hot battle
brings news of your victory,
but not of your son’s return,
and then comes the messenger
who says that
he is not coming back.
Both of your palms on his cheeks
is the only victory you really
wanted.
I don't even have the body
to bury, no news
of a victory. And how do we
put this to rest
when I can't hold your paw
one last time?
So, I carry myself to bed
and I look up at the ceiling.
It must be raining,
O,
O,
it must be raining.
When our first family pet—Brendi—died when I was very young, maybe 6, I remember falling to me knees and wailing. I mean wailing real tears of agony like I was Mary holding Jesus at the foot of the cross, like Agamemnon sacrificing Iphigenia, like a world leader failing to prevent a war. But away from the silly and onto the sweet point, my Mom and Dad have told me that that was the day that they saw how big of a heart I had. And that’s one of my big points about my circle of concern—I can’t be having torrential breakdowns and dark nights of the soul whenever something like that happens. Chosen indifference is a virtue. Otherwise, you’ll grieve the whole world, and a heart isn’t built for that.
In Robin S. Dillon’s Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy article “Respect”, in the section “Elements of Respect,” he notes C. Bird’s idea of respect as bearing important reference to boundaries: “When we speak of drivers respecting the speed limit, hostile forces respecting a cease fire agreement, or the Covid-19 virus not respecting national borders, we can be referring simply to behavior which avoids violation of or interference with some boundary, limit, or rule.” This certainly is one element of respect, and I think it can be properly applied to emotional self-respect, both as an attitude and a habitual behavior. To delve into the full philosophical breadth of the concept of respect would require another post or two. Dillon, Robin S., "Respect", The Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy (Fall 2022 Edition), Edward N. Zalta & Uri Nodelman (eds.), URL = <https://plato.stanford.edu/archives/fall2022/entries/respect/>.
Post on Care Ethics and Existentialism soon? Shoutout to Roshni Patel!
Schmidtz, David. “Are All Species Equal?” Journal of Applied Philosophy, vol. 15, no. 1, 1998, pp. 57; 57-67. https://davidschmidtz.org/sites/davidschmidtz.org/files/data/Schmidtz.pdf.
Schmidtz, pp. 57.
Schmidtz, pp. 63.
Once again, there are plenty of fascinating intricacies to the discussions and arguments in these articles, but I will not be delving to deep into them: except, perhaps, in the comments and chat, if anyone is so inclined.
Schmidtz, pp. 61.
Schmidtz, pp. 61-62.
Schmidtz, pp. 62.
Schmidtz, pp. 63.
Don’t we “pay our respects” when we go to a funeral?
McCracken, Janet. “Falsely, Sanely, Shallowly: Reflections on the Special Character of Grief.” International Journal of Applied Philosophy, vol. 19., no. 1, 2005, pp. 139; 139-156. https://philpapers.org/archive/MCCFSS-5.PDF.
McCracken, pp. 142.
McCracken, pp. 141.
McCracken, pp. 140.
McCracken, pp. 141.
“it's a terrible day for rain”
- Colonel Roy Mustang
Another fantastic post! I remain in awe of your ability to weave together personal anecdotes and philosophy articles in a convincing manner.
I think there is a lot to be said about how we quantify grief, especially for animals; for many people it seems perfectly reasonable to grieve a beloved family pet, but not to mourn the loss of a cicada on which you accidentally trod on your way to Jewel-Osco.
I don’t really know the answer here. I cry about spiders and roadkill. But I think it’s kind of a wonderful aspect of the human condition to extend empathy in this way to beings who, as you note, are so wonderfully different— if we find ourselves mourning those who, say, haven’t even died (something I know many people do: grieving the collateral damage of breakups, friends who have moved far away, childhood companions from which we’ve grown apart), then how can it be unnatural to mourn a jumping spider, when it is right there in front of us?
Anyway, I particularly enjoyed the Iphigenia mention in the footnotes; as the author of many a questionable poem about animal loss explored through the lens of Penelope and Odysseus, I think we can make some really interesting connections to contemporary living and, for lack of a better term, the weird Greek poems of the past. Speaking of: I really do enjoy your poetry. The enjambment in this one is on point. Would you mind sharing a link to purchase your book when it comes out?
Again, 10/10 post. Thank you for sharing all this with the world. I hope you have a wonderful weekend, and hallelujah to the squirrel. Is that how you use the word hallelujah? Who can say?