On a Scale from Idiot to Complete Jerk (13 page)

Until now, this project has focused exclusively on human jerks. But is the quality of being a jerk limited to humans? Is jerkishness something at which only we as a species excel? Is it related to our bigger-than-many-animals brain size, or our ability to plan?

In this chapter, I expand the research to other species and draw some important scientific conclusions about the question “Can animals be jerks?” Let me say right now that I'm not including this chapter only to bump up my word count and make this quite an astonishingly long and thorough science project. No, the study of whether animals can be jerks seems a logical, necessary next step in the study of jerkishness.

This was a very hard chapter to research. I mean, think about it.
Animals.
There are a lot of them out there. Our family dog, Daisy, was an obvious subject for study, but she's the happiest, laziest, least jerkish creature I've ever known. If anybody ever does a study involving gulping food or lying in sunbeams, Daisy's your dog. I had to really hunt around for some interesting case studies.

A) Pets

Ever strolled through a pet store? There are millions of possible pets to study. It could be a whole project on its own, with chapters on goldfish, hamsters and gerbils. And I'm not even including birds and reptiles. Or exotic pets, like those nine-thousand-dollar birds with curling black tongues and gray reptiley feet. Or monster snakes. Or chinchillas. No, I had to draw the line somewhere, which was made easier by the fact that none of my friends have anything more exciting than cats and dogs.

CASE STUDY #11
The Flyer-Route Monster

Subject:
Rosie the St. Bernard

Laboratory:
The front yard of 887 Fairlee Way, a house on my flyer route

Experiment:
887 Fairlee Way is better known as Rosie's house. Rosie is a monster St. Bernard with a huge, drooly mouth the size and dampness of a half watermelon. She seems a friendly enough dog until you lay a finger on the front gate to, say, try to deliver a flyer. As soon as she sees you touch the gate, Rosie starts up this deep growling, a rumbling like a huge truck in a tunnel. So you freeze. You try again. Same growl. You look into her droopy, red-rimmed monster eyes. You figure it's not worth it and 887 Fairlee Way never, ever gets a flyer.

My cousins Jake and Elizabeth (who have three dogs) volunteered to be research assistants in this experiment to see if they could deliver the flyer at Rosie's house. “You need to be firm. Alpha dog,” said Jake.

Observations:
My cousin Jake's kind of pushy, and if he hadn't been helping me out, the way he just snatched the flyer from me might be annoying. Maybe even jerk-like. Anyway, he grabs the flyer, confidently opens the gate and walks right in. Rosie skips the growl and heads straight into deafening barking while she gallops straight at Jake. Jake moves pretty quickly, let me tell you. He gets out and we shut and lock the gate just before Rosie slams into it from the other side.

When it's Elizabeth's turn, she makes me and Jake cross the street so we won't “crowd” Rosie. “You need to
understand
her,” Elizabeth says, picking up the flyer that Jake dropped. We hear her talking to Rosie gently in this singsongy voice. “Who's a good girl, Rosie? Are
you
a good girl? Nice dog. Nice dog…” She lays a hand on the gate, and Rosie lumbers to her feet, growling and with hackles raised.

Rosie's owner, a tiny old lady, finally opens the door. She snaps, “Rosie! Sit!” and Rosie, with an adoring look, sits, her tail thumping happily. The lady turns to us. “Sorry, kids. She's so protective. But she's just a big pup, really.” She pats Rosie, who rolls onto her back, closes her eyes and drools happily.

Conclusions:
Rosie is not a jerk. This sort of surprised me. I thought at the beginning of this case study that she might be. She's a monster. She's scary. She freaks out easily. But she's just protecting her house and her tiny old lady. The old lady isn't even a jerk. She clearly didn't train Rosie to be all aggressive. It's something Rosie must have figured out for herself in her little dog brain.

No way, no how am I ever delivering a flyer at Rosie's house.

CASE STUDY
#12
The Four-Pound Ankle-Biter

Subject:
Peaches, a tiny white dog with a ponytail tied on the top of her head with a pink ribbon

Laboratory:
My house

Experiment:
My mom has a friend from work named Sheila. Sheila doesn't have kids or anything. She just has Peaches. She and Peaches were over after school one day when Joe and I came home.

Now, Peaches is adorable and tiny. Her paws are the size of quarters, and she has very silky fur and a tiny pink tongue. My brother and I love dogs, so we were kind of excited. Here's how it went.

Observations:

JOE
. Awww, she's so cute. (
Drops down onto his
knees, holding out his hand
.)

PEACHES
. RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR! (
This bark is very quick
and aggressive and it goes on and on. There're only so
many times you can type RAR.
)

SHEILA
. Peaches! Baby girl, calm down, sweetie! (
She dives for the dog, just as it lunges at Joe's hand, and
grabs Peaches by her pink studded collar.
) She just gets excited with people she doesn't know. Wants to give them smoochies. Doesn't she? Doesn't my little one? (
Struggles to hold her.
)

PEACHES
. RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR!

ME
(
nervously stepping away from Peaches, who has
slipped out of Sheila's cuddle and who starts jumping as
high as my head while snapping her tiny jaws
). Whoa, hey, down, girl!

SHEILA
. Sweet pea,
down
, love.

PEACHES
. RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR-RAR!

ME
. Wow, she's little but she sure is… AAAAAAHHHHHH!

The “AAAAAAHHHHHH” is me getting bitten on the ankle by some impossibly sharp, tiny teeth. Taking a hit for science is how I look at it. Long story short. Sheila scoops up Peaches and disappears while I bleed on the carpet and Mom hunts for the stuff that stings like crazy but prevents death by dog bite.

Conclusions:
While Peaches sure has some aggression issues and might benefit from a training class or an animal psychologist, if I remain scientifically objective I just can't call her a jerk.

Biting my ankle might have been slightly jerkish, but was she deliberately trying to be irritating or annoying or hurtful?

I don't think so.

She was just acting on instinct. She was probably just having her tiny aggro-dog fun. She was just being Peaches. Little dogs can be scarier than big dogs.

CASE STUDY #13
The Night Screamer

Subject:
My friend Gus's orange cat, Scooter. Who names a fifty-pound cat Scooter? People who name a kid Gus, I guess.

Laboratory:
Gus's house on a sleepover

Experiment:
Gus was interested in this science project and volunteered Scooter as a subject for study. Scooter had other plans. He was completely uninterested in being studied and did as little as possible that whole afternoon. He lumbered from food bowl to couch, slept and then had a snack and another nap. Seriously, why don't cats live forever if all they do is eat and sleep? “Oh, Scooter's on a different schedule than the rest of us,” laughed Gus's mom. She wasn't kidding.

Observations:
Cut to the middle of the night, when I wake in a sweat to hideous screaming. Gus is snoring in the bunk above me. His parents are snoring in the room down the hall. The wailing and screaming go on and on. I am almost convinced that two people have broken into the house just so that one can murder the other.

I shake Gus awake. He listens for a second, mumbles “It's only Scooter” and puts his pillow over his head.
Only Scooter
. After screaming (At what? At who?) for about four hours, Scooter pounds up and down the stairs, plays hockey with a jingling cat toy up and down the hall (a game that apparently never gets old), barfs up a disgusting hairball, has a hissing/spitting fight with the dog and scratches endlessly on the bedroom furniture. He sits on my head for what's left of the night, batting at my hair.

Conclusions:
I am so completely professional that even though Scooter cost me a night of sleep, and my eyes are crossing as I type this, I still don't think he is a jerk.

This is interesting, because during the night I called Scooter many, many names, including “jerk.” Turns out I didn't really mean it.

Again, animals don't really
mean
to be jerks. They're either acting on instinct or doing things randomly or for fun. They're batting a fun ball or pawing at a fun face or biting an ankle just for fun. They haven't decided to be mean. They haven't planned.

Final conclusion: Pets can't be jerks.

B) Wild Animals

Perhaps there is something about pets being relatively tame (even if they're badly trained) that prevents them from being complete jerks. I wondered if
wild
animals, animals that play by nature's rules, behave differently. We've all seen the nature shows with the disturbing footage of the lions that deliberately target the weakest, slowest antelope (and despite our fevered, incoherent mental urgings to “Run, GO, just RUN!” usually get them), and the ugly hyenas that move in and bicker over the disgusting remains. That is nature. That's how it works. Can we possibly see elements of jerkitude in that?

Now, much as I would have liked to track a bear, cougar or wolf for this project, I was limited by time, availability and personal safety. So I studied another, more common (though still wild) animal.

CASE STUDY #14
The Garbage Thieves

You might be thinking, “Garbage thieves? Who cares who steals
garbage
? It's
garbage
.” True, but these thieves scatter and smear the garbage they don't actually want to eat all over the driveway, and I have to clean it up, so, yeah, I care.

Subject:
Magpies

Laboratory:
The end of our driveway, Monday evening (garbage collection Tuesday morning)

Experiment:
This was a very spontaneous case study. I came into the living room to see my mom looking out the front window. “Those jerks are ripping up the garbage again,” she said.
Jerks?
I was on the case.

Observations:
I slip out the door very quietly to observe the magpies. They couldn't care less that I am there—those week-old carrot peelings and moldy pizza crusts are obviously good eats. While I watch, they really attack the bag, using their huge beaks and gnarly claws to toss out old tea bags, used tissues, apple cores and ancient spaghetti.

As the mess on the driveway widens, I call, “Hey, stop it!” The magpies turn their heads slightly, stare at me with their cold bird eyes and turn back to vandalizing our garbage. “Stop it,” I repeat, remembering that even though I have no killer beak or wicked claws, I am still way bigger than they are. I walk over. They hop away, but only a few hops. Casual, assessing hops. “Are you serious?” hops. Then one of them shrieks
AA-AA-AA
, which is probably something like “get lost, loser” in magpie. Although, come to think of it, that's the only sound they
ever
make.

“GO. AWAY,” I say, stamping my feet and waving my arms and trying to look bigger. They look at me in disgust and fly a few feet up to the roof, where they sit looking down at me
. AA-AA-AA
. They call their friends, and several other magpies settle on our roof,
AA-AA-AA
-ing their heads off. The second I move away from the garbage, one of the birds flies in, which is humiliating and annoying.