The love dart (or, how to cure the common anthropomorphism)

I chose nature writing for my English degree emphasis. At St. Cloud State University in Minnesota, where the back doors of many buildings open to a view of the Mississippi river, there weren’t a lot of other interesting emphases for English majors. That said, nature writing was a good and worthwhile focus, and just as unlikely to prepare the student for gainful employment as any English emphasis not called “teacher training.” St. Cloud was surrounded by some wonderful, vibrant habitats, and the opportunities for natural study, writing, and reflection are close and numerous.

The most challenging aspect of nature writing is to describe the natural world without overtly anthropomorphizing it. That prairie is motionless; it is not calm. That tree is old, but it is not wise. That mule deer that passed by you? It did not commune with your soul as you looked in its eyes. It actually didn’t even wonder if you were going to eat it. It can’t wonder. It’s a mule deer.

(The other really hard part about nature writing is accurately identifying plants and animals, but that’s a topic for another day. I merely wanted to point out that it wasn’t a mule deer at all. It was a regular old whitetail. Be more careful next time.)

I wish, in my struggle to conquer anthropomorphism, that I had known about the love dart.

The love dart is a mating tool used by some snails and slugs. In word alone, the love dart suggests at least one obvious parallel with humans, but it cannot be stressed enough that we don’t have anything like this. For one thing, the love dart is only found in some hermaphroditic snails. Feeling the distance already?

It’s a small, sharp projectile made of calcium or chitin (depending on the species of snail) that grows near the head of the snail after the first time it mates. Most darts are about 5 mm long. The love dart is not, I repeat not, a penis. It is not even necessary for successful mating.

But assuming that the snail has mated before, and the love dart is developed, here’s what happens. During the (predictably slow) mating ritual, pressure builds up behind the dart. The snails jockey for position, trying to get their sperm in the other’s genital pore. Sexy, right? Once one snail touches the other in just the right way, blammo, the love dart fires.

And brother, can it fire! Sometimes the force drives the dart into the internal organs, or even through the body and right out the other side. How much luckier can a girl/guy get? Apparently, even if there’s a love dart to be fired, there’s still luck involved; a third of all love darts either miss the body or fail to penetrate the skin. Sorry, dear. I thought I was ready.

After that, the snails mate.

So what’s the point of the love dart? Well, isn’t it obvious? Yeah, I didn’t get it either.

Apparently it wasn’t at all obvious until recently. Scientists now know that the love dart contains hormones which increase the likelihood of sperm survival within the target snail, and therefore improve the chances of successful mating. So in spite of appearances, it’s actually a good thing to be shot through the neck with an enormous spike of calcium while you’re doing the nasty. It means you’re twice as likely to become a daddy/mommy.

My previous point about the love dart being a good cure for anthropomorphism is hampered, of course, by the fact that love darts are only found in snails and slugs. Snails and slugs are some of the least relatable surface animals on earth. No one who isn’t a hardcore biologist has ever thought, “hey, this snail and I share similar struggles in this existence.” I knew a kid in school who always had mucus on his upper lip. He might have been able to relate, I guess. But I bet he didn’t.

Anthropomorphism isn’t about identifying similarities. It’s about assigning human attributes that don’t have parallels outside of humanity to non-human entities. Why is that dangerous? Why is it not better to think “Hey, that snail has feelings too?” Because then we only value the natural world we can relate to.

When we see elephants holding a funeral, we can relate, find value, and empathize. But the natural world that is counter to our empathy—and even some of our own goals—can hold less value for us. That’s reckless. Simply because the snail is slimy, hard to relate to, and fires a missile into its mate when it gets excited doesn’t mean it is less deserving of our consideration.

And what do we do when our assumed stewardship of the earth conflicts with our empathy for these animals? Those elephants who capture our hearts by displaying grief for their dead are also depleting the vegetation of the African bush at an unsustainable rate. As the author of the above article asks, how do you cull an animal that grieves?

There are no easy answers. But as mankind takes more of the world for itself while trying to manage its protection, it would be good to consider the mechanisms we use to dole out respect, affection, and salvation to the natural world.