You will of course be familiar with my distaste for the popular tendency to anthropomorphise animals – not merely because of a grumpy, jaundiced outlook on the world in general and mankind in particular, but because that’s not what wildlife is really about – it’s a human-centric way of looking at the world, and look where that’s got us.

That said, and I’m nibbling at the very outer crust of humble pie here, the odd anthropomorphism has crept into these pages now and then. I hold my hand up – I too am guilty of not living up to my principles on each and every occasion. Luckily, there is a literary quote for every situation, and the one I summon now is “a foolish consistency is the hobgoblin of tiny minds,” coined by Ralph Waldo Emerson – which has got me out of a tight corner on numerous occasion, let me tell you. 

Let me digress briefly: Emerson is someone worth checking out, and not just for the useful snippet of wisdom above. His dedication to self-reliance, embodied in his essay, ‘Self Reliance’, gives quite a neat template for self-isolators everywhere in this time of global pandemic. Among a plethora of other things, Emerson said, “Nothing can bring you peace but yourself.” Words to live by, if you want my opinion.

Anyway, when it comes to bestowing human-centric thoughts and emotions on the birds and beasts, I remain steadfast that it’s a mistake because they aren’t people, they don’t think like us (most of the time), and their experience of the universe can’t but be very different.

That said – and here’s where Emerson’s thing about consistency is so usefully applicable – it is possible that animals of certain stripes can and do experience certain basic feelings not unlike our own. The drive to live and reproduce, and the corresponding fear of not living: that is certainly observable in the higher orders of organic things. Protecting one’s young – there’s another. And among sociable beasts there are signs of mutual affection; and if we look at elephants, of mourning their dead.

Of course, these so-called emotions don’t filter very far down the food chain. Plankton do not feel anything much at all, I’d hazard; ants and mosquitos are pretty much organic robots that respond to specific stimuli in specific ways without pondering their motivations or the implications of their actions – or indeed, indulging their offspring with love and affection. 

So where are we going with this anyway? Don’t be too gobsmacked if you learn that I’ve been watching the birds in the garden quite a lot in the last week. The smaller ones are filled with crazy energy, darting from tree to tree in search of food and nesting materials. And it’s pretty clear that they are experiencing a form of, let’s say, excitement – even playfulness. They’re engaged in the very fundamentals of living, as opposed to mere surviving: they’re pairing off, finding a home, and getting down to procreating. Small wonder they’re enthusiastic.

You can see this and hear it all the time, from early morning onward. The Gerygones, the Thornbills, the Silvereyes – they’re all mad with energy and purpose. But they’re also playing – their dipping dashes from tree to tree, the way they impulsively explode from the branches in a close melee of five or six and chase each other in and out of the foliage – there’s joy in that, and that’s not a projection of human feelings onto animal behaviour.

Of course, we can explain this behaviour in purely zoological terms – competition for mates, displaying superior flying skills, tweeting more loudly than their rivals – it’s all in there. But they’re so boisterous about it, somehow mere Darwinian rationalisations don’t capture it entirely. 

And here’s the thing: I could swear that these little beggars are toying with me as I lumber around trying to photograph them. I lurk under tree A; they skitter to tree B; in tree B, they contrive to show me their butts only to be photographed; or I line one up in my viewfinder, and it flits before I can trigger the shutter; and most of all, that chittering call they make as they go sounds uncomfortably like laughter.

Come to think of it, if you turn this all on its head, could it be that we identify with these aspects of nature not because we’re trying to impose a human-shaped shape over them, but because we are ourselves animals at base and therefore share these traits to some degree?

Yes, animals are different in that they’re not self-aware as we are, and we do rather pride ourselves on our rational capabilities, not to mention our sophisticated communication abilities (which seem to lead to correspondingly more misunderstandings and conflicts). But apart from these significant differentiators, there’s a lot more that’s very similar. We’re stirred to various actions by our endocrine systems, by pain and pleasure, just as much as any reptile.

Think about it: we sleep much more in winter and get grumpy when sunlight is in short supply, but suddenly find the energy to rise earlier and work (or party) later when the days are long and hot. And we parade ourselves in our finest finery when seeking a mate, strive to demonstrate our athleticism (or cleverness, for those nerds among us), and fight tooth and nail to ensure any advantage for our young.

So yes, I still don’t buy the Disney vision of squirrels in tiny aprons storing nuts in little cupboards between trees’ roots, or of little Simba striking up a schoolyard friendship with little Pumba. But when the sap is rising and the birds are singing, I think it’s fair to say we’re probably sharing something of the season’s excitement with our animal brethren. As Emerson said, “In the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man, in spite of real sorrows. Nature says, ‘he is my creature, and . . . he shall be glad with me’.”