The Z that stands for Zorro
Zorro, in Spanish, means fox. But because of the masked man made famous by television, the Spanish Robin Hood, when we acquired a baby raccoon, we immediately dubbed him Zorro.
Zorro had been one of three baby raccoons found in a nest when some of our neighbors cut down a tree. One of the babies was killed in the fall. Our neighbor kept one to raise, and my father took the other. My father built a cage on the side of our house, about four feet off the ground, with a wooden enclosure where Zorro could sleep and some branches he could climb. Our goal was to keep Zorro untamed rather than domesticate him, so that when he grew up he could return to the wild.
To achieve that end, we brought him ears of corn which he shucked and ate (we were living in the country in upstate New York and there were many cornfields nearby). We also brought him live crayfish, frogs and tadpoles from the creek that ran through our property so he would learn to hunt. Of course, wild food being hard to come by, we also augmented his diet by feeding him dry cat food, a delicacy savored by raccoons everywhere.
Zorro had a large basin of water in his cage. Though he had been too young when we got him to have ever seen his mother wash her food in the stream, the instinct was apparently hardwired. He scrupulously washed every food item before devouring it, whether apples, carrots, kibble or the crayfish he joyfully ripped apart after discovering them in his water bowl. My father, curious scientist that he was, decided to test Zorro’s instincts. He presented him with food items that were large and awkward, like a banana. Zorro fumbled it into the basin, dragged it out and then figured out how to peel it. He gave Zorro fruit chopped into tiny pieces. Each tiny piece was diligently washed, though several remained at the bottom of the water dish. Then, the real test. My father handed Zorro a sugar cube. Zorro sniffed it delightedly, then began scrubbing it in the water. A moment later, he was patting all around the bottom of the pan, searching for the missing treat. My father handed him a second sugar cube. Again, Zorro set to work washing it. This time, a look of complete bewilderment spread over his face as, once again, the treat vanished. My father proffered a third sugar cube. Zorro took it, holding the white cube gingerly in his little black hands. He looked at the sugar cube, and he looked at the water. He looked at the sugar cube, and he looked at the water. He approached the water, then backed away a step. He began trembling all over, instinct warring with intelligence. Finally, in a burst of genius, Zorro quickly swished the sugar cube through the water and popped it in his mouth.
“Only three tries!” My father said admiringly. Of course, once Zorro had cracked the code, he never washed a sugar cube away again. My father gave him another one the following week; Zorro executed his swish and pop technique flawlessly.
Humans like to think that we are smarter than raccoons. But when it comes to noticing that our habits don’t work in a certain situation—or maybe don’t work anymore at all—we are embarrassingly slow to change.
Put a rat in a maze every day of its life, and put cheese at the same corner of the maze each of those days. Quickly, the rat learns where to go for the cheese. One day, the researchers move the cheese to a different location. The rat goes to the same corner as usual, realizes the cheese isn’t there. The rat wiggles his nose. He starts sniffing around. He explores the maze until he finds where the cheese is hidden this time.
Put us humans in the same situation, and we will stand there bellowing; “But there has to be cheese here! There’s always been cheese here! I’m staying right here until the cheese comes back!”
The rat, and the raccoon, are just intelligent enough to see the problem and figure out a solution to it. Humans are smart enough to be stubborn, to become identified with and attached to our behavior. We are smart enough to use our intelligence to sabotage our ability to make necessary changes. We get tangled in our intelligence as if it were a ball of yarn, spinning all sorts of stories and rationalizations which keep us stuck.
A friend of mine who was a recovering alcoholic once told me that when he was drinking, he frequently had the experience of waking up next to a woman he did not know and having no memory who she was or what they had done together.
“Well, that must have been a wake-up call,” I said.
“Oh no,” he laughed. “Not at all. All my friends were having the same sorts of experiences.”
In that moment, I realized what A.A. means when they talk about ‘lowering companions’. One way to disguise our addictions, our bad habits from ourselves, is to surround ourselves with others who share them.
Once, I was giving a talk about Witchcraft to an anthropology class at Pomona College. After I had been speaking for fifteen or twenty minutes, one young woman in the class put her hands over her ears and closed her eyes. She remained that way until the end of the class. She spoke to the professor before leaving the classroom. Then the professor approached me and said, “That young woman wanted to apologize for covering her ears while you were speaking. She knows it was rude. But she is a Christian, and has been taught certain things about Witches. She said that everything you said was so reasonable and logical, she knew that if she kept listening, she would start to believe it. The only way not to believe that you were a good person and what you were saying was true was to put her hands over her ears.”
Animals are not frightened by the possibility of increasing their intelligence. Their survival depends on their ability to make the best choices in any situation. They don’t worry that they will become a different, unfamiliar person if they explore a new part of the maze. They don’t worry about sailing over the edge of the known world. They don’t fret about being different from other raccoons if they figure out how to wash sugar. They don’t use their intelligence to thwart their own growth. Primitive people of every culture spent an enormous amount of time observing other animals. And while we call those peoples ‘primitive’, they were often far more psychologically sophisticated than our modern culture encourages us to be today. A shaman does not relate to the animals and plants inhabiting the natural world as ‘scenery’. A shaman relates to each creature, including the plants, as fellow travelers, as potential teachers. Zorro was one of my teachers.
I really liked your blog it will open many folks eyes on this subject. Very well written and will be looking forward to reading more in the future.