Do Humans Have Zoochosis?
A hypothesis on our mental health crisis
My hometown is famous for its animals. For the excited tourist or overworked local struggling to afford the astronomical rent, the San Diego Zoo is an oasis from everyday city life. Just pass under that wide awning with its friendly cartoon lion and you enter another world, packed with delightful creatures from anacondas to zebras.
If you look more closely at the animals, you may notice something strange. Big cats pacing in circles for hours. Zebras biting repeatedly at things that aren’t food. Elephants rocking their heads back and forth, back and forth, as if hypnotized. All these animals, so far from home, with some sort of deep distress written in their bodies.
Head a couple of exits up I-5 and you hit another famous San Diego landmark: SeaWorld, that family-friendly waterpark now rendered infamous by the 2013 documentary Blackfish. Between their performances, marine mammals are often kept in small enclosures, cut off from their natural communities and culture, driving them to repetitive, self-harming and hyper-aggressive behaviors.
For 18 years, delighted visitors to SeaWorld San Diego could watch Obie the Walrus regurgitate and swallow his food, press himself against the glass of his tank, alone and blind in his captive world.
