Laughter

I've been listening to my favorite podcast, Radio Lab. In one of the most recent episodes, Laughter, it's explained that Aristotle theorized that laughter was the one thing which set us apart from all other living creatures and in fact we don't really become human until our first giggle as a baby, typically around the fortieth day of our lives. Science has since slowly chipped away at Aristotle's idea and has determined that not only do babies enjoy their first laugh around day ninety, but that perhaps humans aren't alone in their ability to laugh. Several studies have shown that rats laugh, as do primates and several other species.

But what is laughter? One of the theories put forth by the Radio Lab episode is that we laugh as a sort of defense mechanism, a way of signaling non-malicious intent while behaving aggressively. For instance, baby rats who play together laugh to remind the rest of the community that they're not actually fighting, simply playing, a way of saying, "There's no trouble here. It's all fun and games." Radio Lab go on to report that laughter has developed for societal reasons, that without the aid of books or film or recordings or other media we don't laugh when we're alone because there's simply no reason to do so.

Science has a remarkable way of removing the fun and magic from life even as it offers explanation and enlightenment. But that's science's job and I can't lay any blame. I, however, am a romantic and have a difficult time thinking in such black and white ways. But as Tom Robbins said, "Romanticism and science are good for each other. The scientist keeps the romantic honest and the romantic keeps the scientist human."

I have spent countless hours playing with Duncan and were Dr. Lab Coat to tell me that Dunc does not experience joy and knows nothing of laughter, I would smile politely but think him an idiot. This morning––a gorgeous 70˚ morning––Melissa and I took Duncan and Kona on a walk through the park, down to Starbucks. The dogs played almost constantly, wrestling and nipping, stealing sticks and treats from one another. It was clear they enjoyed the other's company. And even when they weren't interacting––what the scientists call "parallel play"––they were enjoying being outside, the blue of the sky, the warmth of the air, the fragrance of Spring rising up all around us. I needed no rationale to tell me my dog was happy.

And I do not need years of study and research to tell me that it's possible Duncan may laugh. When we wrestle, or when he rolls in the grass, or even when we've been working hard on some new "trick" and he sees he's pleased me, his joy is apparent; I have heard his laughter. We laugh alone together all the time. I need no other proof.

If this is not a laughing face, I am an idiot.

February

In addition to my personal journal, I have kept a quote journal for the past eighteen years and have often claimed that if you really wanted to know how I felt or gain an insight into The Full Curt," you should cast off the ramblings of my diary and check out my collection of quotes. Several notebooks have been filled with bits and pieces of quotations from books, films and things my friends have said or that I have overheard that have struck me as funny, poetic, interesting, philosophical, intelligent, spiritual and just plain whimsical. My friend Lori over at Fermented Fur made a comment about yesterday's post that reminded me of something Tom Robbins wrote in one his best books, Jitterbug Perfume, which you can order here. If you'll indulge me I'd like to share it with you.

"They say that February is the shortest month, but you know, they could be wrong.

Compared, calendar page against calendar page, it looks to be the shortest all right. Spread between January and March like lard on bread, it fails to reach the crust on either side. In its galoshes–and you'll never catch February in its stocking feet–it's a full head shorter than December, although in leap years, when it has growth spurts, it comes up to April's nose.

However more abbreviated than its cousin it may look, February feel longer than any of them. It is the meanest moon of winter, all the more cruel because it will masquerade as spring, occasionally for hours at a time, only to rip off its mask with a sadistic laugh and spit into every gullible face, behavior that grows quickly old.

February is pitiless and it is boring. That parade of red numerals on its page adds up to zero: birthdays of politicians, a holiday reserved for rodents, what kind of celebrations are those? The only bubble in the flat champagne of February is Valentine's Day. It was no accident that our ancestors pinned Valentine's Day on February's shirt: he or she lucky enough to have a lover in frigid, antsy February has cause for celebration, indeed.

Except to the extent that it 'tints the buds and swells the leaves within,' February is as useless as the extra 'R' in its name. It behaves like an obstacle, a wedge of slush and mud and ennui, holding both progress and contentment at bay.

James Joyce was born in February, as was Charles Dickens and Victor Hugo, which goes to show that writers born in February are poor at beginnings, although worse at knowing when to stop.

If February is the color of lard on rye, its name is that of wet wool trousers. As for sound, it is an abstract melody played on a squeaky violin, the petty whine of a shrew with cabin fever. O February, you may be little but you're not small. Were you twice your tiresome length, few of us would survive to greet the merry month of May."

Lori urged me to join her for a getaway in Vegas where we could talk dogs and dogs and dogs but then thought better of it because I needed Duncan just to make it through the month. As I stayed home today, sleeping most it away on the couch, occasionally walking Duncan down to the edge of the yard for a potty break, I knew exactly what she meant. He's the one thing that's brought me any solace this afternoon. I have watched the weather turn from bright and sunny to gray and dark, then fill with snow flurries and now what looks like rain. Being inside with Duncan, safe from February's bi-polar disorder, has been comforting and safe. Being dogless now would be most unwise.

Perhaps doctors should rethink their treatment of Seasonal Affective Disorder. Rather than urge the use of UV lamps they should prescribe a litter of Golden Retriever pups for, to misquote A.A. Milne, no one could be un-cheered by a Golden."