Sean Brody getting primal in Liberian waters. Photo: Jessica Preese
My parents have a Chiweenie named Duke. That is a Chihuahua and wiener dog mix – another one of the multitude of designer dogs that are so popular these days. The result of someone saying, “you know what would be cute? If you mixed a blah with a blah.”
Duke is coddled like a spoiled child. He spends his days lounging on a leather couch and his nights sprawled out on a California King. He rarely sees the outside of the backyard and has never once had to scrounge for food. Needless to say, this species should not exist in nature, so it always strikes me as curious when I see Duke pounce on his stuffed squirrel and violently shake it to death; if that toy had a spine it most definitely would be broken. Why does this lap dog have a killer instinct? Where did he learn to hunt? Somehow during the transformation from wolf to Chiweenie, a few essential life skills were retained.
When I was young, I had a cat named Sheba. She was master of the garage and gatekeeper of the garden. As a kitten, she enjoyed milk out of a saucer as much as the next domesticated house cat. Often times, Sheba would find her way into my room and nuzzle up next to me for some pats and purrs. When she was really content, she would start to knead the comforter one paw at a time, as if she was making bread.
I wondered what compelled her to religiously repeat this behavior, so I did some digging. I don’t know why I’m thinking about all this so obsessively, I’ve been browsing the web for cat behavior and these automatic cat litter box reviews keep being suggested to me. I don’t have a cat at the moment, I just want to learn about them, but thank you anyway, automatic ads. Finally I stumbled on the rumor mentioned on Animal Planet that cats do this because it replicates what a nursing kitten does to get milk from the mother cat. Although Sheba was a mature cat that was given a home and a domesticated lifestyle as a young kitten, she would still habitually repeat this behavior when she was truly relaxed, happy, and carefree. She couldn’t help it. It is what cats have been doing since saber tooth tigers roamed the ice plains of Siberia.
I recently noticed some strange behavior exhibited by myself. I have spent a good deal of my life these past few years living in Liberia, West Africa, setting up a sustainable surf retreat (Kwepunha Retreat) and grassroots non-profit (www.surfresource.org) with one of my best friends, and we use the sport of surfing as a tool for community development.
We are ideally located in front of five perfect left-hand pointbreaks and I wind up surfing by myself more often than I surf with others. So why is it that when I am walking up the beach solo and I see peeling epic waves with no out that I start running? There is literally no one around, but instinctually and unintentionally I find myself, time and time again, ramping my casual beach stroll up to a medium-paced jog, which eventually turns into a full sprint as I see more set waves peel down the point.
I had an epiphany the other day as I, once again, found myself huffing it up the beach with not another soul in sight. Growing up as a surfer in California, whenever I would pull up to a spot that had less than ten people out, I would rapidly park my car (strategically taking two parallel parking spots to do my part to diminish the crowd) and take off into a full sprint in hopes of catching a few waves before my uncrowded discovery was spoiled by the likes of other passersby who noticed the surfable waves and were determined to quickly burst my bubble. For this reason, I can’t help but scramble up the beach as quick as possible when I see picturesque waves going unridden. Could it be that I am just amped? Or is it just primal instinct?
