It makes my brain happy to know scientists are getting closer to understanding what sperm whales are saying to each other. Not HOW they communicate, but WHAT they might actually be saying.
“Carole, would you mind scratching behind my left flipper? I’ve got an itch back there I just can’t reach.”
“Seriously, Jack? Look. See that coral reef to your right? Scratch your back on that. How you ever survived before you met me I’ll never understand.”
According to a recently published study in the journal Nature Communications, “sperm whale vocalizations are more expressive and structured than previously believed…and its communication system is, in principle, capable of representing a large space of possible meanings, using similar mechanisms to those employed by human sound production and representation systems (e.g., speech, text, Morris code, and musical notation).”
“Holy seacow, Carole. I’m not asking you to scratch it all night long. Just a minute or two. Please?”
“Fine. But next time, use the coral. Or ask one of your octopus friends.”
Many years ago, we believed humans were the only species on Earth who were capable of complex communication. Today, we know that every species communicates in some form or fashion, some more complex than others. A bee can give direction and distance to food by performing a unique waggle dance. An octopus who doesn’t like you will shoot a stream of water in your face. And then there are the prairie dogs. Their whistling can describe a variety of different things about a person walking by their burrow.
“It’s the short one again. Just meandering. Wearing red. Someone needs to tell him red doesn’t go well with his complexion. Maybe a light blue would be better. And look at those shoes. He’d never catch any of us even if he tried. No danger here. Everybody relax.”
Sure, you, I and my Aunt Edna from El Paso will never be able to have a conversation with a prairie dog, or share recipes with a Ringtail Lemur, but that’s not the point. Just knowing that the sounds they make are a lot more than senseless chatter gives me hope that one day I’ll understand why this little dog at my feet keeps whining at me.
“What is it girl? You hungry? You want to play fetch? You need to go outside and take care of business?”
Silence. Slight head tilt. Quizzical doggie look.
“Ok, girl. I guess we’re going outside. Let me get your leash.”
And then there are the trees with their roots stretching underground, communicating with other trees through the fungal network, or as German forester and author Peter Wohlleben calls it, the “woodwide web.” The trees share water and nutrients, as well as signal warnings to each other whenever danger is near.
“Again? Why me? Can’t that dog find some other tree to pee on?”
“It’s called paying your dues, little sapling. We all had to go through it at one time or another, and look at us now. Standing tall. Braced against the wind. Living much longer than a multitude of other creatures who inhabit this world. And why? Good genes and dog pee. You should be thankful.”
“OK. Fine. But I’m still not happy about it.”
I’m not really sure I want to know what sperm whales have to say. I imagine me diving into the ocean and hearing something that starts off sounding like, “Kevin, you let another one in the house. Would you please do something about that?” and ends up sounding like, “Sorry, honey. I’ll swat him out of here quicker than you can say ‘Ahab was a nincompoop.’”
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