Are You Feral or Domesticated?

And I ain’t talkin’ about yer dog. 

Our society has a way of pigeon-holing people based on personality traits.  We can’t help it – we want to put everything and everyone into a neat little box with a label stamped on it.  You can’t just BE, you must be SOMETHING.  Are you a Go-Getter Type A, or a more laid-back B type of person?  (My guess is that if you are taking time out of your busy day to read this, you are likely a B, or an A-/B+ at most - those A types are probably balancing their checkbook or scrubbing their baseboards right now.)

There is the Extrovert-Introvert continuum on which somewhere we all apparently reside.  When I try to place myself, though, I’m all over the map – I love to be around people, but not people I don’t know.  How does that work?  And when you add in the labels that go with those, like intuitive, sensitive, thinking and feeling, then the attempt to define ourselves gets even more fuzzy.  By the time you pair up all the possible combinations you have 16 different personalities to choose from in that model.  Just wrapping my brain around that makes me feel a bit schizophrenic myself!

The Big 5 traits are all the rage these days.  This gives us 4 more continuums on which to place ourselves.  It starts with the familiar extrovert/introvert spread, and adds agreeableness, conscientiousness, neuroticism and openness.  My head hurts just thinking about it….does that kill my “openness” score?

But it turns out that this personality thing is not so complicated after all.  I can boil all of our quirks and habits down to one simple continuum.  I call it the Feral – Domesticated continuum.  Nothing could be more simple or natural.

I selected a few definitions to begin my argument:

          1.      Domesticated: 

a. To train or adapt (human) to live in a human environment and be of use to humans.

        b. To introduce and accustom (human) into another region; naturalize.

      2.    Feral: 

a. Not domesticated or cultivated

b. Wild

Although I am talking about us humans, I’d like to introduce the idea with a comparison of the scrappy wild dog living with the pack versus the labradoodle lap-dog complete with collar, tags and up-to-date vaccinations.  The labradoodle is a natural people-pleaser, jovial, friendly and easily trained. The rewards are plentiful and frequent for the doodle, as long as she follows the rules. The wild dog survives on instinct, suspicion and reliance on the close-knit pack. And within the pack is also the safest place to sit back and howl at the moon.  The wild dog’s success depends on loyalty and defense mechanisms.

The traits of the spectrum for humans are not that different from the animals.  A fully domesticated person blends seamlessly into their environment and seems to enjoy it.  They pay attention to advertisements, shop at the malls, drive shiny cars, own and use most modern gadgets with ease.  They comfortably wear the latest fashions or professional sports jerseys and keep a tidy appearance.  Large gatherings with lots of small talk are easy for the Domesticated.  Appointments are made and kept on a regular basis.  Annual vacations are planned well in advance.  Rules are followed.

However a person closer to the Feral end of the continuum not only doesn’t always blend in, but doesn’t necessarily WANT to.  They don’t want to be sold anything and would rather be hung from the ceiling by their toenails than be trapped for an afternoon at a crowded shopping mall.  Wandering outdoors is time well spent for the Feral.  When required to sit indoors, they can be seen circling a chair before finally sitting down with back against the wall, facing out toward the window.  (And you thought you were claustrophobic….now you know, it’s just good ol’ Feral instinct!) 

The Feral is suspicious of trends and is content with what stands the test of time.  They may be very extroverted, but mostly within their own pack. Idle small talk is not a strength for the wild human. And if a stranger invades personal space or threatens some kind of trouble, the Feral will retreat, hackles up, or make an attempt to scare the invader off to a safe distance.

How about some “real life” examples from popular culture – how’s that for an oxymoron?

Take this old-fashioned example.  Those of my generation grew up watching black and white reruns on TV.  June Cleaver, of “Leave it to Beaver” was the perfect mother, wife, housekeeper, coupon-clipping shopper, etc.  She fit into her modern (for that time) environment without a hitch.  Then you had Lucy Ricardo, of “I Love Lucy” who had the same time-period role to fill, but couldn’t do it for the life of her.   She tried to be a June Cleaver, but that didn’t fit her personality so she was constantly defying her roles as wife, mother and housewife by venturing out to make trouble and then having to fix all the mistakes in her wake.  June Cleaver was perfectly domesticated and Lucy Ricardo was quite feral.

Too young to understand that comparison?  If you were alive in 2012 you should be able to relate to this:  A less archaic pop-culture example might be from The Hunger Games.  Effie Trinket is the fully domesticated Panem resident who fits seamlessly into the colorful and hedonistic culture of The Capitol. Whereas Katniss Everdeen, the Feral, is a rebellious soul who will fight against perceived injustice.  Even when Katniss is embraced by the culture of the capital, she feels uncomfortable with the fancy clothes, endless luxuries and attention.  She would rather sit out on the roof, under the open sky and stars, than “trapped” below in the luxury apartment she was given.

There are so many real-life situations that show the contrast between the ends of the Feral-Domesticated spectrum.  School?  Forget the ADD and ADHD labels.  The Domesticated are traditional students who can sit still for hours and learn from books and lecture.  The Feral child feels squirrely when confined to a small desk and needs to bounce, wiggle and chatter.  Recess is an absolute necessary for the Feral – you won’t find them begging to stay in the classroom to tidy the bookshelves.  Exercise?  The Domesticated can get what they need from a treadmill and ear buds.  Not the Feral – for them it takes mountains, trails and wind in their face to keep sweating.

So…have I successfully introduced a whole new definition to add to the personality spectrum?  Fat chance.    But a gal can have a little fun with words, eh?  Besides, this Feral understands herself a little better now.  What about you?  Are you Domesticated or Feral?

My Turtle has an Over-bite!

He didn’t used to.  Alfie the box turtle had quite a handsome, strong lower jaw.  I would compare his reptilian profile to Rock Hudson, if Mr. Hudson were a reptile.  But last night I found myself staring at the bedroom ceiling, thinking about my green little guy.  Something was different about him and I wasn’t sure what it was.

This fellow came to us a few years ago when our friends moved overseas and had to leave him behind.  I knew nothing of box turtle care but what they had told me. He is a special needs turtle and I have always had a soft spot for the under-dog. I read the little pamphlet that he came with and did my best. 

In his pre-previous home (turtles live a long time, you know) he was assaulted by a creature of the night, raccoon perhaps.  He has some missing toes, the edges of his shell are gnawed off and he has a massive crack through his shell.  As a last resort the vet experimented with super-glue, and to this day our Alfie is in one, glorious but crooked, piece.  Even his little beak is/was crooked. These injuries are the reason Alfie can’t live a normal box turtle life; he can’t burrow into soiled litter or spend too much time in wet or moist environments for fear of a parasite entering his shell.

In the years as our family member, Alf has led a healthy life eating live mealworms, peas, berries and occasionally mango.  We created a safe deck garden out of a plastic wading pool so he can enjoy the sunshine and eat strawberries straight from the vine, and we bring him in at night to keep him safe from the night creatures.  In the winter he suns himself by the windows while exploring the living room.  He also has a traditional tank with heater and light for his bedroom.  I try to keep his toenails trimmed, at least on the toes he still has. Most of all, we try to keep his life interesting, but it’s difficult to tell when a turtle is happy.  He has a perpetually grumpy face and his tail doesn’t wag.

This summer, though, he didn’t seem to be interested in his worms.  Initially he would tackle them with lightning turtle speed (you’d be surprised) and chomp down.  But later I would find the maimed or dead worm in the corner, uneaten.  I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like I was finding more and more uneaten food in his home.  His crooked beak was quite pronounced, could that be the problem?

Last night when I put him to bed/tank, half asleep myself, I looked into his face and something was different.  Worry crept into my brain and I lost some sleep.  What was it?  His jaw….HIS JAW MUST BE BROKEN, I thought while staring at the dark ceiling.  I saw no under-beak.  He CAN’T EAT and is going to DIE.  I could not let this happen!  Maybe I could make him a liquid diet…little vegetable and bug smoothies...can a turtle sip through a straw?? My mind was spinning.

First thing this morning I plucked him out of his cave and looked at his chin.  I was RIGHT.  My turtle has a major overbite.  More than half of his chin-beak is missing.  As any modern human would do, I went straight to the internet...and HOLY CRAP! 

Did you know that turtle’s beaks grow just like their toenails?  Did you know that they should be trimmed if they get too long or cock-eyed?  How did I miss that? Apparently Alfie’s beak grew too long and just snapped off!  Now he has an uncomely over bite.  Thank goodness he is not in middle school for the endless teasing that would bring.  I am just terribly relieved that he ate his mushy peas this morning and is in good spirits.  And now I get to look forward to trimming his beak from time to time...ug.  

Long live Alfie!

Smells Like Team Spirit - Relay Race 101

Every year I spend a weekend with my best pals running the Ragnar Relay.  Basically we divvy-up a 200 mile running course from the Canadian border to the south end of Whidbey Island among the 12 of us.  We each run three different legs, starting on a Friday, continuing through the night and finishing sometime on Saturday for a celebration.  This means 2 vans, 6 people per van, very little sleep, eating and drinking from coolers and changing clothes in the bushes or nasty little port-a-potties. And quite a bit of running.   During those 30-ish hours we are either in the van following a runner, cheering someone on at the relay exchanges (while trying to rest up and fuel up for our own next run) or running.  You can imagine that this does strange things to one’s body.  Some may think it odd to choose such an activity, but believe it or not, this is more fun than you can imagine.

This year along with all the fun there were a few bumps in the road. Keep in mind that we don’t jog these routes, we RUN. And as sometimes happens when one pushes oneself, some folks’ bodies rebelled a bit.  Especially our bad-ass Sherry - she had it bad.  From the hours between her second run, leading up to her third race leg, we had watched her face fade from green to a white-ish gray and back again.  She spent much of her time in the port-a-potty line and chewed many-a-pink tablet in an attempt to quiet the belly-beast.  Her refrain was, “I’ll be okay.  I have a long time before my next run.”  At the time I was thinking about flying pigs.  Yeah.  Right.

We whispered to each other while she was in the green plastic potty-stalls about who might be able to handle taking her miles, because honestly she looked like death - no matter how strong her will was.

Then whattayaknow?  I was warming up for my run, after which I was supposed to pass the wrist baton to Sherry, and noticed that her face was approaching the living-human color of beige!  After my 7 hilly miles I was happily surprised to reach the exchange point to find Sherry (instead of an alternate) waiting with her arm out for me to slap the bracelet onto her arm.  “GO SHERRY!”  We all screamed.

The vans always leapfrog their runners to offer support and it wasn’t long before we could see that she was struggling.  Her stomach was on the high and treacherous cliff.  We leapfrogged, screamed, played music and cheered all we could.  The other van had to get the next runner ready at the exchange so our van set up at the top of a monstrous hill on the course. 

We didn’t just set up.  We set up a dance party.  With B-52s cranking out “Love Shack” we cheered on not only Sherry, but every runner who climbed, hobbled and walked up that beast of a hill.  Our friend Amber flew, the Pirate limped and Sherry conquered.  All the while we danced, cheered and just about every runner and van joined us in our rhythmic celebration.  (Disclaimer:  The Rum Baton may or may not have influenced our party.)

After cheering her through, we followed the runners to the exchange with B-52s blaring.  Every single van and runner joined the dance party.  Even the Pirate limped his way into the exchange and was rewarded with a rum shot from the baton.  I won’t take credit for the runners’ efforts on that hill, but I’m pretty sure our enthusiasm didn’t hurt.  Nor did the rhythmic dance music.  Sherry ROCKED it.  (And by the way, our Women’s team was the fastest!!)

At the end of the weekend I was more than exhausted, had lost my voice but I couldn’t stop smiling.  I kept thinking about the power of friends, and music, and fun. 

To help readers to understand the Running Relay, here is a short poem:

Northwest Passage

Twelve people

Two vans

Packed with running gear, goodies and baby-wipes

A day

A night

Another day

On two legs

For three legs

Very tired legs

High highs

Medium lows

And everything in-between

Our mood and conversation sometimes mimics the route we run,

Climbing up to a peak, and then descending into a valley

With surprising twists and turns along the way

Topics cover things we normally wouldn’t imagine uttering aloud

Discussions of bodily functions

And things that smell bad

Food for fuel?  A must

Sleep?  A maybe

Laughter?  Unavoidable

Rummy yet happy

Hungry but satisfied

Exhausted and already planning for next year

200 miles and a Day later

We are 12 lifelong friends

Because we did this crazy thing together

A Short Rant

I think there ought to be a rule that Speed Limit signs should indicate the average speed of your entire trip from Point A to Point B.  That way when some Doofus in a gigantic shiny Red Hummer who consistently drives 10 mph under the posted speed limit on the Coastal Highway on the long curvy stretch absent of passing lanes, and he apparently can’t read because there are signs posted all over the place saying “Law Requires Slow Vehicles to Pull Off and Let Others Pass” because he drives past the signs and the provided turn-outs without hesitation, you still have a chance to make up for lost time.

“Oh my gosh,” he says, “That sign says I should slow to 45 mph for the curve, so I’ll slow down to 35 mph, because those highway safety people don’t really know what they’re talking about.”

You know the guy.  He’s the one lounging with his soft, hairy arm on the driver’s windowsill, which is all you can see through the tinted window.  He lolls about on the scenic highway, pointing at the sights while he is apparently unable to see the long serpent of impatient cars gathering in his wake.

He is likely the same guy who sits at a traffic light for, like, five minutes after it turns green, because he is so involved in his phone conversation that he can’t be interrupted to allow traffic to resume to its steady march forward.

I’ll bet he’s also the guy who has his grocery cart all filled up with chips, vegetables that will never be eaten and elegantly named yet over-priced beer  and gets into the express line with five times more than the suggested limit of “items”.

Whoever he is…(I did thumb my nose and make the fanny-finger “neiner-neiner” sign at him while eventually passing him in a small town, but I don’t know who he IS)  I decided it was my right to drive a few gazillion miles over the speed limit for the next several miles in order to make up for lost time…and to make myself feel better.

I think there ought to be a rule.



AFTERTHOUGHT:  Never take rants too seriously.  This Red Hummer Guy became our entertainment for the last 200 miles of our drive today.  Kind of like Mr. Bean and his nemesis in the 3-wheeled blue car.  We blamed EVERYTHING on this driver...including the weather!