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Key points
- Laughter likely originated in the Great Apes, but we’ll use it even when other animals do something amusing.
- But why, if they don’t understand the meaning behind it, would we communicate such feelings of amusement?
- Due to our penchant for anthropomorphism, we tend to treat members of other species just as we would our own.
In my series of posts on the origin and evolution of laughter—the vocalization with which we express a sense of shared vulnerability—I made the case that this communicative behavior first arose around 16 million years ago in the common ancestor of all the Great Apes, including orangutans, gorillas, chimpanzees, and humans. If true, and assuming your pet does not belong to one of the first three groups (and I hope not, for everyone’s sake), it would make little sense to direct that message to your cat or dog or parrot, or whatever other critter you happen to cohabitate with. We simply wouldn’t expect them to understand the message being sent.
Creature comfort
So, the question is, why do we laugh at the antics of our pets, specifically, and other animals in general? I would suspect that this has been the case for many thousands of years. Our remote ancestors surely had occasion to let out a good laugh at the canine hunting companions they allowed near their campfires, and eventually into their caves. The same was likely true of the first domesticated cats that kept the first houses, stables, and grain storage bins free of mice. Today, their four-legged descendants now entertain us not just in person but in stories, cartoons, and movies all created for our amusement. Those with Internet access have millions of animal-themed videos capable of bringing at least a smile to our face, if not a chuckle, giggle, or guffaw. So what's going on?
Communicating a sense of amusement to our domesticated companions really shouldn’t come as a surprise to even non-pet owners. Humans have almost certainly been talking to their pets for ages and few of us think it’s the least bit odd. We know that dogs (and a few other species) are able to associate certain words or phrases with certain directions such as “come” or “get down from there!” or "fetch," and they similarly recognize individuals' names, but that’s not what I’m referring to. It’s all the other things we say that wouldn’t make a bit of sense to them. “It looks cold out there…we better put on your doggie jacket” or “Do you want to visit Uncle Bill in North Carolina?” or “I’ll be back in a few days,” for example. The fact that we make the effort to communicate in such a way illustrates how these relationships are every bit as intimate and important as those we maintain with friends and family because…well, that’s typically how we think of our pets.
We care for them and they, in turn, look out for us. We easily empathize with them, reading their body language and facial expressions to clue in on their emotional state just as we do with members of our own kind. And, to the extent they can, they do the same. So, we project onto them—sometimes with good reason and sometimes not—the same physical, emotional, cognitive, and social vulnerabilities as we possess, and when these are highlighted, we respond with laughter as we would members of our human family, both immediate and extended. This is anthropomorphism, the attribution of human traits and abilities to nonhuman lifeforms, and sometimes even inanimate objects.
So, when our companions slip and slide trying to run on the newly waxed wood floor, we understand their frustration and project onto them a feeling of “embarrassment.” We perceive their status dropping down a bit and then offer some sympathetic “lifting laughter.” If they become startled or anxious or frightened, we understand what they’re going through. When they become confused or fail to solve a seemingly easy puzzle (if only for us), it would likewise reveal a recognizable limitation. The same would be true if they exhibited some social failing, either in their relating to another of their kind or one of ours. We’ll pick up on their discomfiture or attribute a typical human response to them. And whenever we would offer supportive and reassuring laughter to a fellow human, we are similarly compelled to share it with our animal friends.
We can laugh for other reasons as well, just as we do with people. We might respond with “self-lifting laughter” when a dog or cat does something unusually acrobatic or heroic or clever. In that case, their rise in standing disrupts the prior status relationship and we seek to reaffirm our position by reminding them and others we are even now no less their superior. And if our furry friend gets a little too full of itself, a little arrogant, and then displays some inadequacy, a bit of “lowering laughter” would seem appropriate.
Animal crackers
Given these tendencies, it makes sense that a substantial portion of our formal humor relates to animals. Cartoons starring Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, Pepé Le Pew, and Foghorn Leghorn, not to mention the antics of the comedic team of Wile E. Coyote and The Road Runner, have entertained generations. Animated movies such as "Finding Nemo," "Kung Fu Panda," "Up," and "Ice Age" all featured highly anthropomorphized leading or supporting animal characters. Non-animated television and movie comedies also draw audience members who become wholly invested in their nonhuman co-stars. Whatever predicament they find themselves in, we perceive their trials and triumphs and respond with laughter as we would their human co-stars.
A search for “funny animal” videos on YouTube could have you scrolling for hours, if not days. Here are just a few that caught my eye recently. See if you can recognize a change in their status, either up or down. Right-click each link and select "open in new window." Enjoy.
Soccer Fan; Pure Grace; Kitty See; Shake It Off; Stealthy Stepper
© John Charles Simon
