A Vestigial Tale
Ienter my bedroom quietly. Sunlight coats the room in a gentle glow. Quickly, I realize I am not alone. A warm lump of fur lies immobile on my bed. Her presence fills me with that glow, but she is not napping exactly where she should be.
“Oh, Lexi, you’re on my pillow again,” I whisper. A slight movement of the tip of her white tail curled around her small body tells me she has heard my words and knows I am nearby. Now my voice is a bit louder: “OK, puppy, it’s time to go out. Want to go out?” Ears shoot up and that telltale tail thumps on the lace edge of my pillow. I have my answer.
Later I walk into a room where the television is playing a show about airplane disasters. “Dinner is ready,” I say. No response. More loudly: “You wanted dinner at 7, right?” I know the human television viewer, my husband, can hear me, but there is no move to answer — well, at least not until the announcement that the FAA has determined the crash in question was caused by fog on the runway.
How could the viewer acknowledge my announcement without breaking concentration? How could he communicate his awareness that I’ve told him about dinner? The solution is more than vestigial.
Some 20 million years or so ago, our evolving ancestors had tails. Many humans today grow a tail in the womb, but it’s gone before two months of gestation. Scientists assert that humans have no need of one.
I heartily disagree. Your tail, if you had one, could improve your connections with other animals like you. I’d go as far as to say that everyone would communicate better if we each had a functional tail.
One tiny movement of the tip says, “Yes, I know you are here. Give me a minute.” During a two-way conversation, tails wag quickly or slowly to indicate level of attentiveness, or of agreement with the speaker’s point. The gentle touch of a tail sends a message of physical attraction. Imagine what rejection would feel like.
A tucked tail portrays the listener’s degree of intimidation or sorrow, maybe even fear. The speaker can be sensitive enough to respond to those feelings, by wagging gently. A wild, strong wag means, “I’m in charge.”
An uncontrollable wag that involves the entire backside means “I am so happy to see you.” Or “Let’s go for a walk.” Or simply, “You are very special to me.” A full tailspin spreads joy everywhere.
I expect that if we all had tails, fashion would follow. Clothing would be specially designed to allow for a small, medium, or large size tail. Some of us would maintain simple, well-groomed tails. Others would create plumes, fluffy or curly. An unkempt tail? A reflection of self-image. Tails could be colored to match the style of the season, but the messages they conveyed could not be controlled because, after all, they are natural reactions that portray our deepest feelings.
And the sports advantages? A tail could create balance for a dancer, obviously, or block a pass on the field. With practice, it could redirect a ball or even trip an opponent. Penalty for that one.
Of course, children would have to be taught appropriate ways to carry their tails while upright, and polite placement of the immature tail while seated, especially in school or around relatives. They’d also need to know when to use a tail to help climb a tree or reach a bag of Pirate’s Booty atop the refrigerator.
Yes, I am convinced that animals have communication methods much beyond those of humans. I can imagine it now:
“Dear? Dinner is ready.” His tail thumps twice. He hears me, but he is not willing to leave the television. My mission is accomplished. I sent the message. The response is up to him.
My tail swishes gracefully as I walk back into the kitchen.