Midnight musings on morality, pigs, and that jerk who shot Cecil

You are walking near a trolley-car track when you notice five people tied to it in a row. The next instant, you see a trolley hurtling toward them, out of control. A signal lever is within your reach; if you pull it, you can divert the runaway trolley down a side track, saving the five — but killing another person, who is tied to that spur. What do you do? Most people say they would pull the lever: Better that one person should die instead of five. 

Now, a different scenario. You are on a footbridge overlooking the track, where five people are tied down and the trolley is rushing toward them. There is no spur this time, but near you on the bridge is a chubby man. If you heave him over the side, he will fall on the track and his bulk will stop the trolley. He will die in the process. What do you do? (We presume your own body is too svelte to stop the trolley, should you be considering noble self-sacrifice.) 

        - Clang Went the Trolley, The New York Times

As the half moon sets behind Makaleha and the mist descends on top of us, my only remaining senses are of the pervasive cold of my soaked clothes and the rhythmic dripping as the last of the day’s heat gives way to condensation. Three hours of sitting silently and unmoving, and we finally hear the distinct sound of a breaking twig.

After months of a pig sneaking into my property and devouring my extensive plantings of ‘uala and kalo every night—after months of chasing her off of my property armed only with an o’o bar and my pellet gun-- after months of lost sleep from three dogs in a 700 square foot home reacting to the smell of pua’a-- it was finally going to end. 

My friend fired two shots and a screaming pig ran out through my fence. The blood trail was huge and impossible to miss. We could hear her dying as she struggled to breathe while stumbling through the brush ahead of us. After 90 minutes of trudging through the black rainforest the blood trail disappeared into a mass of uluhe fern. No sounds. No blood. No sign. We sat there for 30 minutes, intently listening for the snap of a twig or the grunting of a pig.

And then we gave up and left her to die. I walked home, took a shower, and lay in bed. SHIT. SHIT SHIT. Was all I could think. I’m a vegetarian. I go to friend’s houses and save cockroaches from an inevitable death-by-broom. Other than severing the occasional head of a mortally injured rat, toad, or chicken—I’ve never willingly killed an animal. Ever.

Yet, I brought upon the grisly and slow death of a pig that I’d seen every night for months. And she died in the bushes where her flesh would rot instead of being smoked in an imu.

But, three nights later I heard the distinctive crack of a twig, followed immediately by the barking of my dogs. Was she alive? After trying for weeks to kill her, I was elated at the thought that she may have survived. When I verified it was her (she is short and fat and distinctive looking) I tip-toed back to bed-- not wanting to disturb her well earned meal of my sweet potato. 

Then another month of nightly visits, and I was back to exploring options for killing her. The last of my taro was eaten. All of my manicured sweet potato was decimated. Even my newly planted peanut grass (to replace the ‘uala) was destroyed. Every night we would go to bed earlier and earlier, trying to counteract the inevitable two hours of lost sleep that the pig would cost us.

And then my friend offered me his gun. Because I saw the pig every night, often no more than 10 feet from my deck, killing her with his high powered rifle would be easy. Then all I had to do was slit her throat and hang her by the hind legs to bleed out while waiting for a real hunter to come and gut her.

Easy, right? Pigs are invasive. They destroy our native forests. And, most often they end their lives with a slit throat under a pile of dogs gnawing at their face and legs. Killing a pig at very close range with a quick shot to the head would not only provide free-range meat to a family, it would minimize the damage done to our forests, and it would give it the quickest death possible.

I spent the next few nights watching the pig as she rooted around my yard in the moonlight. I was calling up every hunting friend I have, hoping one come and "dispatch" her. Yet, when offered the chance to do it with my own hands, I balked. Faced with my own hesitation during the nightly destruction of my yard, I desperately read up on morality. Yes, it's just as pathetic as it sounds.

I’ve written repeatedly that this blog is a wade through the moral swamp land of sustainability. And that we’re never faced with clear moral answers, just a slew of shitty options. But, I was wrong. Very, very wrong.

Moral relativism is the idea that morality is relative to time and cultures. And that there is no truly objective “right” or “wrong.” It’s why we give a wide berth to culture and religion to promote horrendous moral lessons such as sanctioned sexual abuse, withholding of birth control, terrorism, bigotry, and even human sacrifice. We (especially us "liberals") condemn the people involved but never the religious teachings. At least not in good company. Rather, we excuse horrendous behavior based on poverty, education, and other aspects of human development. And, I've unknowingly written every word on this blog from that frame point of moral relativism. While I have strongly held opinions on a variety of subjects, I've never dared to condemn another's morality on any subject. As Atticus Finch (before he got old and racist) once said: "you never really know a man until you understand things from his point of view, until you climb into his skin and walk around in it."

As I sat in the moonlight I convinced myself that it was morally correct to kill the pig, though my personal moral compass forbade that I personally kill it. And that was ok, because morality is relative, right? By that reasoning, it would be ok for me to oppose genetic modification because of my belief that it is an assault on nature (which I do believe), even if I knew that by doing so I was condemning others to death by starvation or malnutrition. It justifies opposition to the horizontal well in Wai'ale'ale for cultural reasons, regardless of how many thousands of gallons of fossil fuels it would replace. It justifies opposing climate change legislation (clean air act, carbon tax, etc) because of a dogmatic political belief in limited government.

But, as Sam Harris argues in The Moral Landscape, what if we define morality simply as that which maximizes well being? Then there is a right and wrong to every answer, and we’re limited only by a lack of data and an insistence on allowing dogmatism (both religious and political) to guide our moral compass. There are concrete moral facts and answers which are independent of our perception, opinions, or religious beliefs. Finding those answers isn't always easy because well being is difficult, and sometimes impossible, to measure to a fine degree. But there are objective answers-- even if we don't always know them. If genetic modification decreases deforestation by creating higher yields while reducing starvation rates, then it is a net positive. If drilling a well into the side of Wai'ale'ale saves thousands of gallons of fossil fuels per year and can be done with minimal environmental impact, then it is a net positive. If climate change legislation increases the well being of future generations, even though it is oppositional to our belief in the role of government, then it is a net-positive. All become moral questions with objective answers. 

But, obviously we don't always have enough information. When does a women's right to have an abortion turn from a moral imperative to a moral wrong? Premature babies at 22 weeks can survive outside of the womb-- so clearly an abortion outside of 22 weeks is immoral. But, where do we draw the line before that? Twenty-one weeks and six days? But, what about Amelia, who was born exactly at twenty-one weeks and six days. Sam Harris argues that while we don't know exactly what the dividing line is, there is always an answer-- we just don't always have enough scientific knowledge or data to know where that answer is. 

As Viktor Frankl writes in Man's Search for Meaning: "every situation is distinguished by its uniqueness, and there is always one right answer posed by the question at hand."

So, do I kill the pig?

In the query at the top of this post, do you throw the fat man over the bridge to save five others? 

Just as the ideas of moral realism were convincing me of the necessity of borrowing my friend's gun and shooting the pig myself, Cecil the lion was killed and the internet exploded.  

If you kill a beloved lion you become the most hated man on earth. Yet, according to VOX just by eating a typical American diet we are each directly responsible for the death of 28 chickens and 30 land animals per year. And "these animals aren't just killed, they effectively live lives of constant torture and suffering." 

As Dylan Mathews elaborates with a dose of Sam Harris-esque moral realism:

Let's say you eat chicken. You thus cause massive suffering to anywhere from 1 to 20 chickens any given year. How does that compare with Walter James Palmer's killing of Cecil the lion?  

Well, you certainly inflicted more suffering. Palmer wounded Cecil with a crossbow, causing him significant pain for 40 hours, before killing him with a gun. Given that male lions live about 10-12 years in the wild, and Cecil was already 13, Palmer didn't deny him much more happy life. So compare those 40 hours of pain and couple years of happy lion life to the weeks of excruciating agony that broiler chickens endure toward the end of their lives-- and then consider that you're likely inflicting that agony on more than one chicken. Palmer also likely prevented some animal suffering: Lions are carnivores, and Palmer increased the life expectancy of Cecil's prey by ending his life. He didn't increase it by much, given how old Cecil was and how little gazelle killing he had left in him, but it's still a factor[…]

I think it's almost certainly the case that eating chicken, as raised in the US, is a greater moral wrong than killing Cecil the lion.

Yet, judging my friends and family who eat chicken (which is basically all of them) makes me an asshole. As Allan Watts writes: "If we make it an ideal to be morally superior, we cannot at the same time avoid self righteousness." But, because the rest of the internet is judging Palmer for the brutal death of Cecil, then it's OK to morally condemn him? Ok. We're getting somewhere.  

But, what about when animal protein is the cheapest and highest quality source available? Such as this story from NPR where school attendance in India goes up when eggs are served because they are "an easy way to provide much-needed protein and fat to malnourished children." As Nathanael Johnson writes on the morality of eating meat: "Ending deaths and suffering is a worthy goal for those of us who have the wealth to make choices. But saying that it's wrong and immoral to eat meat is just too absolutist. I mean, even the Dalai Lama, who says vegetarianism is preferable, eats meat twice a week."

As a recap-- I'm still sitting on my deck in the moonlight. There's a pig in my yard. I've read everything I can find on morality. My Facebook feed is still brimming with the condemnation of Cecil's murder by crossbow. I am now a moral objectivist. I believe in vegetarianism, but allow for a healthy dose of exceptions. I've concluded that bringing about the death of my nightly visitor is the right answer because it will:

- reduce global hog production in factory farms, even if it is minimal;*

- reduce the damage to the local ecosystem;

- maximize the amount of food I can produce at home, lowering my carbon footprint;

- feed a family;

- increase my sleep level possibly leading me to be a more productive human being.

There is a clear moral imperative in killing the pig. But, I will be taking a life. And I definitely wouldn't be able to push the fat man off the bridge. 

So, what do I do?

Keep scrolling.

**

Just kidding. Sorry, that wasn't funny. That picture is three years old and is of a much smaller pig than the one in my yard. Don't worry, my pig is alive and well-- she's probably waking up from her afternoon nap at this moment. 

I spent a day fixing every possible break in the fence and now have a female pig living in close proximity to my house, destroying my neighbor's property but unable to get to mine. I understand my hypocrisy and moral failings and I should be judged harshly for my decision. Two months of sitting on my deck watching a pig destroy my yard has turned me into a hypocritical self-righteous moral realist who's pondering inaction resulted in the complete obliteration of nearly all of the food in my yard. Hmm… maybe I would make a good politician? :) 

While I'm left with a huge amount of respect for those who are working to control the pig population on Kaua'i, ultimately I am a failure of a hunter.  

* The elasticity of pork is estimated to be between .42 and .87 with a best estimate of .57. That means that every pound of pork that you do not eat (or that you get from a wild pig) directly displaces between .42 pounds and .87 pounds of factory farmed pork. Elasticity formulas were also used in the Vox article to estimate chicken deaths per year. For more info on where that formula comes from click here or check out this spreadsheet. Or, as Vox describes it: "suppose a supermarket stocks chickens in units of 1000. If you buy two or three chickens every month, and then stop, you probably won't cause them to stock 1,000 less. But you might if the supermarket is just at the threshold between order sizes. That will likely only happen about 1 in 1,000 times you buy chicken-- but when you do, you save 1,000 chickens. The expected chickens saved by you not buying a single chicken is 1/1000 times 1,000 chickens: one chicken. That then affects the chicken wholesaler's purchasing decisions, which affects farms' decisions about how many chickens to produce. That isn't purely theoretical. Estimating the elasticity for chicken-- that is the amount less produced for every chicken that stops being demanded because a buyer became a vegetarian-- is tricky, but economists have studied this, and numbers range from .06-.7 for chicken. That means that by giving up chicken, a given person will keep 1.68 to 19.6 chickens from existing, per year. They will be spared a truly horrendous plight." 

** This picture is from a boar that a hunter killed on my property three years ago. Since my faithful dog (which we found out at the moment used to be a hunting dog) helped partake in the kill, and because I strongly support the eradication efforts of hunters on Kaua'i, I helped him drive the boar to his truck.