When Emotional Intelligence is Edible

Octopuses, though not generally known for their loyalty, are said to display the same level of emotional intelligence as dogs.  (Dogs, for the record, have the emotional intelligence of eighteen-month old children.)  So it’s not surprising to hear the story of the sly octopus who, while living at a marine research center, became an escape artist.  Each night, after the lights went down and researchers went home, the octopus would open the sliding glass door on the lid of his tank, shimmy down its side, squelch across the concrete floor and ease himself into a tank of terrified crayfish across the way.  After properly gorging himself, the octopus would replace the lid on the crayfish tank, saunter back to his own tank and close the sliding glass door behind him.  In the morning staff members would find him innocently going about his day while the local crayfish population went into a mysterious and deep decline.

Last year Sid, the resident octopus at a New Zealand aquarium made headlines when he vanished from his tank.  He was found five days later in the building’s drainpipe, trying to squeeze out through a door.  Hungry but healthy, he was returned to his tank.  The aquarists believed that Sid might have watched the door to his tank being opened often enough that he figured out how to do it himself.  This is not unusual.  Sid’s predecessor at the aquarium—an octopus named Houdini—once made it halfway up a flight of stairs.

Octopuses are smart.  They can do mazes, use tools, open small doors.  Watch how, in this video, the sly mollusk figures out how to unscrew a jar: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T8cf7tPoN5o

Yes, they’re remarkable creatures.  They’re also yummy.

When we think about the amount of emotional intelligence these animals possess and consider how often they land on our plates, we really must ask, do smart things just taste better?

Don’t Play With Your Food

Ever since Charlotte wove that elaborate and literary web to save the life of her porcine pal Wilbur, kids everywhere have been emotionally scarred by the relationship between the pig and the plate.   “When I was a kid, my grandfather had pigs on his farm,” my friend Steve says.  “Every fall he would butcher them.”  He recalls how his grandfather traditionally used a .22 rifle to slaughter the animals and how, during a fall visit, Steve witnessed the one that got away.

Well, almost got away.

“The pig moved its head just before my grandfather pulled the trigger.  It took off running and squealing—about ten shots later the pig finally fell to the ground.”

“My God, that sounds like the Gunfight at the O.K. Corral.” I say.

“Yeah, that was the first time I considered vegetarianism.”

Pigs are highly intelligent, some claim as intelligent as three year-old children.  Which would rank them above our canine friends on the smart scale.

But they also yield some of the planet’s greatest treasures: prosciutto and bacon, sausage links and St. Louis ribs. Smoked picnic ham, roast, cutlets and chops.  The point is, as long as hogs remain so damn tasty—as long as there are outdoor grills, rotating spits and Cuban roasts—it is unlikely that IQ will save them from the epicure.

Korea:  The Other War

This story is not only unpalatable, but like most other war stories, it is aggressively redemptionless.  Its main character does not emerge a noble character, strengthened by his trials.  In fact, the opposite occurs.  Years ago, my cousin Domenic went to Korea.  He left as a young, bright-eyed and optimistic college graduate, vaguely the same age and build as any US Marine sent over in the 1950s.  (I should mention, however, that this was the mid-90s and Domenic was not going to war but to teach English in a remote south Korean town. )  Over the course of three semesters, letters and phone calls were exchanged, holidays passed and after his twelve-month tour of ESL duty was complete, Domenic was allowed to return home.

Brush cut and gunmetal bronzed, Domenic came back apparently no worse for wear.  But on closer inspection, one could see the light in his eye was dead.  The truth was Domenic had had his own Manchurian Candidate moment.  He had eaten dog.

In eerie post-militaristic fashion, Domenic does not like to talk about the experience.  In his defense he has always been a big guy, can fill a door frame with his shoulders, has helped me move from one dorm room to another without breaking a sweat.  He found it impossible to live on the highly vegetarian diet that was available to him in the village.  “I was shedding pounds so fast, I had no choice,” Dom says.  “I was starving.  There’s only so many noodles a guy can eat.”

Now, as we’ve noted in a previous entry, woe is you who die alone with cats. Cat will eat you.  A dog, however, will lay down at your side, mourn your death and eventually bite the dust as well.  Mature dogs will achieve the emotional intelligence of a toddler.  They are heartbroken when we leave the house, deliriously happy when we return.  They’re kind of goofy.

“I won’t lie,” Dom says.  “They also taste good.”

Is it simply that man will eat anything?  That, when push comes to shove and the jungle descends upon us, we must have ready protein available?  (Be it the eight-legged variety or the domestic, four-legged type.)  Or is there a deeper correlation between taste and intelligence?  Between mental ability and stir-fried-slow-roasted-braised-barbequed goodness?  Does the same nervous system responsible for an animal’s cognitive development also insure that after a red wine marinade and a four-hour braising that the animal in question will be a gourmand’s delight?  And more importantly, how do we feel about it—knowing that every slice of Mizudakosashimi we down once had the same mental potential as a walking, talking toddler.

Earlier this year, Sid was released back into the ocean.  It was for his own good.  Once his gig with the drainpipe was blown, Sid made a number of daring escape attempts.  A master of biding his time, he often waited until staff members were busily distracted cleaning his tank to make a dash for it.  Aquarium officials decided to set him free.  They put him in a bucket, carried him 300 yards to the sea and watched him swim away, happily.  Everyone noted his strong and healthy coloring.  The other thing everyone noted?  In the short time it had taken to carry the bucket to the water’s edge, Sid had already managed to pry off the lid.