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Most humans are familiar with language - that set of codes by which we make our feelings, thoughts, and experiences known. The code is usually vocal: it's fascinating to realise that the thread that holds society together is, dispassionately, nothing more than a set of differing sounds created by larynx and modulated by mouth. Yet an entire part of the human brain is dedicated to the generation of these sounds, on one side of the coin, and the interpretation of them, on the other. Broca's area, Wernike's area, the inferior frontal gyrus . . . all contribute, operating on the left side of the brain, to the incredibly complex process we call language. Even silent reading or writing or typing involves these areas, the magic machine called the brain working to encode and decode vowel and consonant sounds, letters of the alphabet, sematics, syntax, grammar, and a host of other elements that make language possible. With these areas we can say "Two tickets to Fairborough" or "I love you". We can say "Take the next turning left" or "Black holes, according to Hawking, must emit a resonant radiation." We can say "I want a drink of water" or "What is the connection between God and His creation of the Universe?" And we take it for granted that we can do this so effortlessly. Yet it only takes a few seconds of thought to remember that, apart from certain fairy stories and denizens of fantasy fiction, animals don't talk.

  Of, course, we have birds that can mimic speech sounds and even string together their own phrases, bird-brains apparently being bright enough to handle simple syntax and grammar. There is a female gorilla who learned to "speak" the sign language used by deaf people; a pair of dogs who were taught to communicate by paw-tapping; and a cat in Turkey who could vocalise several human words when he wanted to drink, eat, or go out. But I'm yet to hear an animal saying the phrases I mentioned above!

  This is because animals lack the brain areas required. But that doesn't mean they can't communicate. Risking argument here, I maintain through my own study of animals that they have their own structured set of "words" suited to their less complicated lives. Solitary creatures don't have much in their set; social ones have a lot. And perhaps the best illustration of these extremes are with cats.  Most cats are solitary, and their vocabulary is seldom used until they meet one another in the forest (veld/tundra/whatever) - and then you get the expected fare of threat signals (if they're rivals) or courtship preliminaries (if they're not). But the social - and
sociable - lion has a great range of "words" used all the time in daily life. So let's take Panthera leo as an example of How To Speak Cat.

  First of all, you need a tail. The sinewy, sinuous tail of a cat is a constant window to his moods - held relaxed with the tip lifted for "neutral", switching at the tip for excitement, waving slowly for interest, lifted up for greeting, drawn down for submission (like a dog's tail), and lashing agitatedly for annoyance or fear. The tail is a special organ of speech in lions, and that's why the tip of it is done out in a fluffy black pompom - to make the tail  signals clear at a distance. (Remember, the lion is very much an open-plains dweller, so other pride members often have to be seen - and "read" - from far off.) Lions are not entirely aware of their tail movements, I think:
many times a hunt has been spoiled by the tail of a hiding lioness switching excitedly when she should really have held it still.
 

To be continued...
 

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