Littérature scientifique sur le sujet « Laboratory animals – Fiction »

"In the relatively short time since its establishment as an area of research, literary animal studies has become a burgeoning field covering a significant amount of intellectual terrain: traversing, for example, thousands of years of history and an array of human-animal encounters like pet ownership and breeding, hunting, farming, and biotechnology. However, few scholars have focused their attention on “experimental animals”—that is, animals used in experiments within and beyond laboratories—and fewer still have investigated the aesthetic and ethical challenges of representing these animals (and literary animals more generally) as collectives. This article uses the polysemy of “the experimental” to think together innovative literary forms and descriptions of scientific research and experimentation. In particular, it considers some of the tensions that arise in literary experiments that feature representations of animal collectives in science. In place of an in-depth study of a single text, I draw on Natalia Cecire’s vocabulary (2019) of the “flash” to explore how Tania Hershman’s short story “Grounded: God Glows” (2017), Karen Joy Fowler’s “Us” (2013), and an excerpt from Thalia Field’s Bird Lovers, Backyard (2010) constitute an ecology of experimental texts which, when considered alongside one another, highlight patterns of animal multiplicity and movement. Foregrounding literary strategies like fragmentation, we-narrative, and synecdoche and juxtaposition, I argue that snapshots of animal collectives in Hershman, Fowler, and Field accumulate into a shimmering and hybrid multitude of bodies resistant to uncritical forms of literary anthropomorphism and impersonal scientific practices that frequently transform such bodies into readable and interpretable “data.” Keywords: laboratory animals, experimentation, flash, form, fragmentation, we-narrative, synecdoche, juxtaposition "

Recombinant DNA technology covers a wide range of biochemical techniques used to cut, splice, and move DNA from one organism to another. Genetic engineering began as a basic scientific study to learn more about gene expression and gene structure in bacteria. In the last 10 years the techniques of recombinant DNA technology have moved from the university research laboratory to the industrial production level. The techniques are applicable to all organisms and studies have been made of the genomes of viruses, bacteria, yeasts, animals, and plants. It is the latter, genetic engineering of plants, which is covered in this article.

Alice Sheldon provided perhaps the earliest call for a feminist approach to research using model organisms. Her work was grounded in ongoing debates about theoretical models and methodological issues, specifically the choice of model organisms and the interpretations of data the models produced. When she became convinced that the laboratory conditions of her day did not permit her to practice feminist science, she turned to feminist science fiction to reimagine them. This piece shows how Sheldon’s experiences as a research scientist in experimental psychology influenced her science fiction writing and how she used that writing as a platform within which to think through the key scientific concerns in her specialty, as well as their connection to the feminist and environmental movements of her day. I examine Sheldon’s resistance to the dominance of reductionism and her desire to develop non-reductionist methods of research on human and non-human animals. She rejected the dominant paradigms of her contemporary research field, but believed in the possibility of science to address oppression and promote feminism, which many of her contemporaries and some recent critics see as incompatible. I argue that she believed that a different kind of science — a contextualized, non-reductionist biology — could solve gender oppression and environmental degradation, harms she saw as linked.

Stone is turned into meat. This spectacular project entitled “Prometheus delivered” is an installation that Thomas Feuerstein stages as a fascinating laboratory of bubbling bioreactors, mysterious fluids, pumps and endless tubes which wind around a classicist marble sculpture of Prometheus and meander through the entire exhibition. It is the first major solo exhibition of the Austrian artist in Munich. At the center of the installation is a sculpture, a replica of the Prometheus statue by Nicolas-Sébastien Adam (1762), and features its gradual decomposition. The miraculous protagonists of this process of metabolism are stone-eating (chemolithoautotrophic) bacteria. They convert the marble into plaster and, in a further complex transformation, they themselves become the food of human liver cells. The cycle of destruction and re-creation inherent in the Prometheus myth is replicated in a biochemical process. Zeus chained Prometheus to a rock in the Caucasus as punishment for bringing fire to people and thus technology. An eagle rips his liver out of his body – but every night it grows back again. The final result of Thomas Feuerstein's “Prometheus delivered” is – by analogy to the myth – a bioreactor in which human hepatocytes grow and finally form a new three- dimensional liver sculpture. As in antiquity, the liver becomes the organ and a medium that looks into the future because Feuerstein’s installation gives us a glimpse into a time to come in which human beings no longer subsist on animals and plants, but possibly on their own body cells. The exhibition presents this narrative using drawings and objects, sets them to music that also incorporates a radio play, and performs them by means of biochemical processes. In addition to focusing on sound scientific facts, the show is also a science fiction story and a splatter movie on the brink of horror. Resumen La Piedra se convierte en carne. Este espectacular proyecto titulado “Prometeo liberado” es una obra que Thomas Feuerstein plantea como un laboratorio fascinante de biorreactores burbujeantes, fluidos misteriosos, surtidores y tubos sin fin que envuelven una escultura clásica de mármol de Prometeo y que serpentean por toda la exposición. Es la primera gran exposición en solitario del artista austríaco en Múnich. En el centro de la obra hay una escultura, una réplica de la estatua de Prometeo de Nicolas-Sébastien Adam (1762), y presenta su descomposición gradual. Los protagonistas milagrosos de este proceso son bacterias comedoras de piedra (quimiolitoautotróficas). Convierten el mármol en escayola y, en una transformación más compleja, ellas mismas se convierten en el alimento de células del hígado humano. El ciclo de destrucción y re-creación inherente al mito de Prometeo se replica en un proceso bioquímico. Zeus encadenó a Prometeo a una roca en el Cáucaso como castigo por llevar el fuego al hombre, y así, la tecnología. Un águila le arranca el hígado del cuerpo—pero cada noche vuelve a crecer. El resultado final del “Prometeo Liberado” de Thomas Feuerstein es—análogo al mito—un biorreactor en el que los hepatocitos humanos crecen y finalmente forman una nueva escultura tridimensional del hígado. Como en la antigüedad, el hígado se convierte en el órgano y en un medio que mira hacia el futuro porque la obra de Feuerstein nos permite ojear un tiempo venidero en el que los seres humanos ya no viven de animales y plantas, sino posiblemente de sus propias células. La exposición presenta esta narrativa usando dibujos y objetos, usa música que también incorpora una obra radiofónica, y los pone en funcionamiento mediante procesos bioquímicos. Además de centrarse en hechos científicos sobre el sonido, el espectáculo también es una historia de ciencia ficción y una película con salpicaduras al borde del terror.

During the early twentieth century, the Bermuda Biological Station for Research (BBSR) functioned as a multipurpose scientific site. Jointly founded by New York University, Harvard University, and the Bermuda Natural History Society, the BBSR created opportunities for a mostly US-based set of practitioners to study animal biology in the field. I argue that mixed gender field stations like the BBSR supported professional advancement in science, while also operating as important places for women and men to experiment with the social and cultural work of identity formation, courtship and marriage, and social critique. Between 1903 and 1930, the BBSR functioned as a laboratory of domesticity, a temporary scientific household in British Bermuda where women and men interacted with established colonial ideologies about science, sex difference, and racial hierarchy in their public and private accounts of doing biology and socializing in the field. Viewing field stations as generative of multiple forms of labor offers a corrective to narratives within the history of biology, in which scientific practices are considered to be the principal forms of output produced by practitioners in the field. Understanding how women and men at the BBSR engaged with (and at times critiqued) the politics of gender and race from the periphery of U.S. networks of biology suggests that we might view field stations as shaping not only academic science but also domestic life and fields as disparate as fiction and the law.

1. In freely behaving Aplysia brasiliana, spontaneous swimming in the laboratory occurred primarily in the dark hours of the day-night cycle. Suspending an intact animal above the substrate elicited continuous parapodial flapping with the same frequency and amplitude as spontaneous swimming. Parapodial flapping with decreased frequency and amplitude could still be elicited by suspending minimally dissected, but not more radically dissected, preparations. 2. In otherwise intact animals, severing the cerebropedal connective (CPC) bilaterally abolished suspended parapodial flapping, but normal flapping was elicited by tonic stimulation of the distal CPC. In minimally dissected preparations, tonic CPC stimulation elicited parapodial flapping, but with reduced frequency and amplitude. 3. During normal parapodial flapping, chronically implanted electrodes on parapodial nerves recorded the swimming motor program (SMP). The whole-nerve SMP consisted of rhythmic bursts of large-amplitude efferent units in phase with parapodial opening, with no observable activity during parapodial closing. By contrast, simultaneous electromyogram (EMG) recordings from antagonistic parapodial muscles showed antiphasic bursts of activity during opening and closing. The SMP was inhibited by touching food to the animals' lips. 4. Parapodial nerve backfills, using nickel chloride, labeled several cell clusters in the ipsilateral pedal ganglion. Two of these clusters were located caudally: one tightly clustered medial group had large cell bodies, and another, more distributed, lateral group had small cell bodies. The two clusters were identified in semi-intact preparations and isolated brains, using tonic CPC stimulation to elicit a fictive SMP recorded in parapodial nerves, and intracellular electrodes to characterize and stain individual cells. 5. The large parapodial opener-phase (POP) neurons were normally silent. At the onset of CPC stimulation, POP neurons depolarized and fired tonically, and then burst rhythmically in phase with each other, and one for one with large-amplitude axon spikes observed extracellularly in parapodial nerves during the fictive SMP. Intracellular firing of POP cells, singly or in pairs, never produced observable papapodial movements or one-for-one responses in parapodial muscles. Lucifer yellow-filled POP neurons showed a process (with a pronounced rostral loop) that gave off many short, fine neurites in the pedal neuropile before branching into two or three axons projecting into different parapodial nerves. 6. The smaller parapodial closer-phase (PCP) neurons normally discharged tonically at low frequencies.(ABSTRACT TRUNCATED AT 400 WORDS)

Monoamines are well known to modulate locomotion in several vertebrate species. Coapplication of dopamine (DA) and serotonin (5-HT) has also been shown to potently induce fictive locomotor rhythms in isolated spinal cord preparations. However, a synergistic contribution of these monoamines to locomotor rhythmogenesis in vivo has never been examined. Here, we characterized the effects induced by selective DA and 5-HT receptor agonists on hindlimb movement induction in completely spinal cord transected (adult) mice. Administration of the lowest effective doses of SKF-81297 (D1/5 agonist, 1–2 mg/kg, ip) or 8-OH-DPAT (5-HT1A/7 agonist, 0.5 mg/kg, ip) acutely elicited some locomotor-like movements (LM) (5.85 ± 1.22 and 3.67 ± 1.44 LM/min, respectively). Coadministration of the same doses of SKF-81297 and 8-OH-DPAT led to a significant increase (7- to 10-fold) of LM (37.70 ± 5.01 LM/min). Weight-bearing and plantar foot placement capabilities were also found with the combination treatment only (i.e., with no assistance or other forms of stimulation). These results clearly show that D1/5 and 5-HT1A/7 receptor agonists can synergistically activate spinal locomotor networks and thus generate powerful basic stepping movements in complete paraplegic animals. Although previous work from this laboratory has reported the partial rhythmogenic potential of monoamines in vivo, the present study shows that drug combinations such as SKF-81297 and 8-OH-DPAT can elicit weight-bearing stepping.

In this article, I explore questions of laboratory animal agency in dialogue with Thalia Field’s literary text “Experimental Animals: A Reality Fiction” (2016). Using the framework of “care” (understood, following María Puig de la Bellacasa 2017, as a multi-dimensional concept comprising affect, ethics, and practice), I consider how Field’s synaesthetic descriptions of animal suffering create an affective response in readers, alerting them to a shared carnal vulnerability. Indeed, rather than anthropomorphizing animals through narration or focalization, Field “stays with the body” to consider how animals call to us not as experimental objects, but as ethical subjects, how they become – in other words – agents of the description (Stewart 2016). To develop this idea, I introduce the “practiced” dimension of care. More specifically, I explore how Field uses narrative strategies like first-person narration and second-person address, “bridge characters” (James 2019), and juxtaposition to morally structure the text and encourage “transspecies alliances” between readers and represented animals. I argue that such devices direct and train affect, allowing us to better appreciate how conceptions of nonhuman animal agency are always contextualized within particular sets of social, cultural, historical, and disciplinary frames and practices.

Several years ago, my colleagues and I developed a project-based assignment where students create a fictional animal and predict its ability to thrive in a hypothetical environment by examining the interactions between different combinations of designs for selected body systems. This assignment, which was implemented at different types of institutions and for different levels of students, can be readily adapted to either lecture-based or laboratory courses. Here I describe how students design a fictional animal as a semester-long collaborative group project in an interactive lecture course on comparative animal physiology of vertebrates. The fictional animal project aligns with several course learning goals including 1) Acquire a fundamental knowledge of “how animals work” and 2) Exercise responsibility and teamwork. Students learn integration of body systems as they choose a random fictional animal, consider if this animal can survive in a specific environment, and create the animal. Creation of the animal, which cannot closely resemble an extant animal, is scaffolded throughout the semester as students complete question sets where they describe the structure and function of the systems and consider potential trade-offs and physiological constraints. At the end of the semester, we hold a fictional animal showcase where students share highlights about their animal and its environment. Student learning is assessed through the questions sets, which are submitted as homework, and the class presentation; this group project contributes to 25% of the overall course grade and replaces more traditional assessments such as exams. Examples of fictional animals demonstrate how students must consider interactions and functions between different systems in their design; in addition, they must think about the metabolic requirements of their animal as they decide its lifestyle. Reflection data from students strongly supports that designing a fictional animal helps them understand how physiological systems function together; students gain a new or deeper awareness and appreciation of trade-offs in function as well as constraints on physiological processes. As this project continues to evolve, students will have the freedom to choose a creative format for the fictional animal showcase, such as a recorded or live oral presentation, a podcast, a tri-fold brochure, a poster, an educational game, or an illustrated story. All protocols were approved by Rice University IRB (Protocol FY2017-294). Rice University Office of Undergraduate Research and Inquiry (OURI). This is the full abstract presented at the American Physiology Summit 2023 meeting and is only available in HTML format. There are no additional versions or additional content available for this abstract. Physiology was not involved in the peer review process.

Since its return in 2005 the science fiction series Doctor Who (BBC1) has featured many alien creatures which bear a striking similarity to non-human Earth species: the Judoon in “Smith and Jones” (2007) have heads like rhinoceroses; the nurses in “New Earth” (2006) are cats in wimples; the Tritovores in “Planet of the Dead” (2009) are giant flies in boilersuits. Yet only one non-human animal has appeared twice in the series, in unrelated stories: the pig. Furthermore, alien races such as the Judoon and the Tritovores simply happen to look like human species, and the series offers no narrative explanation as to why such similarities exist. When the pig has appeared, however, it has instead been as the consequence of experimentation and mutation, and in both cases the appearance of such porcine hybrids is signalled as horrific, unsettling and, in the end, to be pitied. The fact that the pig has appeared in this way twice suggests there is something about the human understanding of this animal which means it can fulfil a role in fiction unavailable to other Earth species. The pig’s appearance has been in two stories, both two-parters. In “Aliens of London”/“World War Three” (2005) a spaceship crashes into London’s Thames river, and the pilot inside, thought to be dead, is sent to be scientifically examined. Alone in the laboratory, the pathologist Doctor Sato is startled to find the creature is alive and, during its attempt to escape, it is shot by the military. When the creature is examined The Doctor reveals it is “an ordinary pig, from Earth.” He goes on to explain that, “someone’s taken a pig, opened up its brain, stuck bits on, then they’ve strapped it in that ship and made it dive-bomb. It must have been terrified. They’ve taken this animal and turned it into a joke.” The Doctor’s concern over the treatment of the pig mirrors his earlier reprimand of the military for shooting it; as he cradles the dying creature he shouts at the soldier responsible, “What did you do that for? It was scared! It was scared.” On the commentary track for the DVD release of this episode Julie Gardner (executive producer) and Will Cohen (visual effects producer) note how so many people told them they had a significant emotional reaction to this scene, with Gardner adding, “Bless the pig.” In that sense, what begins as a moment of horror in the series becomes one of empathy with a non-human being, and the pig moves from being a creature of terror to one whose death is seen to be an immoral act. This movement from horror to empathy can be seen in the pig’s other appearance, in “Daleks in Manhattan”/“Evolution of the Daleks” (2007). Here the alien Daleks experiment on humans in order to develop the ability to meld themselves with Earthlings, in order to repopulate their own dwindling numbers. Humans are captured and then tested; as Laszlo, one of the outcomes of the experimentation, explains, “They’re divided into two groups: high intelligence and low intelligence. The low intelligence are taken to becomes Pig Slaves, like me.” These Pig Slaves look and move like humans except for their faces, which have prolonged ears and the pig signifier of a snout. At no point in the story is it made clear why experimentations on low intelligence humans should result in them looking like pigs, and a non-hybrid pig is not seen throughout the story. The appearance of the experiments’ results is therefore not narratively explained, and it does not draw on the fact that “in digestive apparatus and nutrient requirements pigs resemble humans in more ways than any mammal except monkeys and apes, which is why pigs are much in demand for [human] medical research” (Harris 70); indeed, considering the story is set in the 1930s such a justification would be anachronistic. The use of the pig, therefore, draws solely on its cultural, not its scientific, associations. These associations are complex, and the pig has been used to connote many things in Western culture. Children’s books such as The Sheep-Pig (King-Smith) and Charlotte’s Web (White) suggest the close proximity of humans and pigs can result in an affinity capable of communication. The use of pigs to represent Poles in Maus: A Survivor’s Tale (Spiegelman), on the other hand, has been read as offensive, drawing on the animal’s association with dirt and greed (Weschler). These depictions are informed by debates about pigs in the real world, whereby an animal which, as mentioned above, is similar enough to humans to be useful in medical research can also, for the food industry, go through a slaughtering process described by Bob Torres as “horribly cruel” (47). Such cruelty can only be justified if the boundaries between the pig and the human are maintained, and this is why pig-human representations are capable of being shocking and horrific. The hybrid nature of the human-pig creature draws on the horror trope that Noël Carroll refers to as “fusion” which works because it “unites attributes held to be categorically distinct” such as “inside/outside, living/dead, insect/human, flesh/machine” (43). He explains that this is why characters in horror narratives do not find such creatures simply fearful, but also “repellent, loathsome, disgusting, repulsive and impure” (54); their failure to conform to accepted cultural categories destabilises assumed norms and, perhaps most horrifically, undermines ‘the human’ as a stable, natural and superior category. As Donna Haraway notes, “‘The species’ often means the human race, unless one is attuned to science fiction, where species abound” (18). Science fiction therefore commonly plays with ideas of species because it is often interested in “the image of the scientist ‘playing god’” (Jones 51) and the horrific outcomes of “the total severing of scientific concerns from ethical concerns” (53). That the result of human/non-human experimentation should be regarded as horrific is evidence of the need to maintain the distinctions between humans and other creatures; after all, a pig/human can only be thought of as horrific if it as assumed that there is something unnatural about the destabilisation of the human category. And it is precisely the human which matters in this equation; it is not really as if anyone cares about the pig’s categorical stability in all of this. In both these stories, the appearance of the pig-creature is narratively structured to be surprising and shocking, and is withheld from the audience for as long as possible. The first appearance of a Pig Slave in “Daleks in Manhattan” constitutes that episode’s pre-credits cliff-hanger, with the creature appearing out of the shadows and bearing down upon the camera, directly towards the audience viewing at home. At this point, the audience has no idea why such a creature exists; the meaning of the pig-human hybrid is contained purely in its visual appearance, with the horrific fact of its contradictory appearance perhaps drawing on the pig’s historical association with evil and the Devil (Sillar and Meyler 82). Similarly, in “Aliens of London” we see Sato’s shocked reaction to the pig far earlier than we actually see the creature ourselves, and Sato’s scream is clearly intended to construct what we have yet to encounter as horrific. The Doctor’s search for the creature is similarly signalled, as he roams dimly-lit corridors trying to find it, following the trail of the grunts and noises that it makes. That the pig might constitute a horrific—or at least unsettling—site for humans is unsurprising considering the cultural roles it has often played. There is, after all, an “opposition between civilization and piggishness” (Ashley, Hollows, Jones and Taylor 2) in which (incorrect) assumptions about pigs’ filthy behaviour helps mark out humanity’s cleaner and more civilised way of living. While this is true of all human/non-human interactions, it is argued that the pig occupies a particular role within this system as it is a “familiar beast” (4) because for centuries it has been a domesticated animal which has often lived alongside humans, usually in quite close proximity. In that sense, humans and pigs are very similar. Demarcating the human as a stable and natural “conceptual category ... in which we place all members of our own species and from which we exclude all non-members” (Milton 265-66) has therefore required the denigration of non-humans, at least partly to justify the dominion humans have decided they have the right to hold over other creatures such as pigs. The difficulties in maintaining this demarcation can be seen in the documentary The Private Life of Pigs (BBC2 2010) in which the farmer Jimmy Docherty carries out a number of tests on animals in order to better understand the ‘inner life’ of the pig. Docherty acknowledges the pig’s similarity to humans in his introductory piece to camera; “When you look in their piggy little eyes with their piggy little eyelashes you see something that reflects back to you—I don’t know—it makes you feel there’s a person looking back.” However, this is quickly followed by a statement which works to reassert the human/non-human boundary; “I know we have this close relationship [with pigs], but I’m often reminded that just beneath the surface of their skin, they’re a wild animal.” Perhaps the most telling revelation in the programme is that pigs have been found to make certain grunting noises only when humans are around, which suggests they have developed a language for ‘interacting’ with humans. That Docherty is uncomfortably startled by this piece of information shows how the idea of communication troubles ideas of human superiority, and places pigs within a sphere hitherto maintained as strictly human. Of course, humans often willingly share domestic spaces with other species, but these are usually categorised as pets. The pet exists “somewhere between the wild animal and the human” (Fudge 8), and we often invest them with a range of human characteristics and develop relationships with such animals which are similar, but not identical, to those we have with other humans. The pig, however, like other food animals, cannot occupy the role afforded to the pet because it is culturally unacceptable to eat pets. In order to legitimise the treatment of the pig as a “strictly utilitarian object; a thing for producing meat and bacon” (Serpell 7) it must be distinguished from the human realm as clearly as possible. It is worth noting, though, that this is a culturally-specific process; Dwyer and Minnegal, for example, show how in New Guinea “pigs commonly play a crucial role in ceremonial and spiritual life” (37-8), and the pig is therefore simultaneously a wild animal, a source of food, and a species with which humans have an “attachment” (45-54) akin to the idea of a pet. Western societies commonly (though not completely) have difficulty uniting this range of animal categories, and analogous ideas of “civilization” often rest on assumptions about animals which require them to play specific, non-human roles. That homo sapiens define their humanity in terms of civilization is demonstrated by the ways in which ideas of brutality, violence and savagery are displaced onto other species, often quite at odds with the truth of such species’ behaviour. The assumption that non-human species are violent, and constitute a threat, is shown in Doctor Who; the pig is shot in “Aliens of London” for assumed security reasons (despite it having done nothing to suggest it is a threat), while humans run in fear from the Pig Slaves in “Evolution of the Daleks” purely because of their non-human appearance. Mary Midgley refers to this as “the Beast Myth” (38) by which humans not only reduce other species to nothing other than “incarnations of wickedness, … sets of basic needs, … crude mechanical toys, … [and] idiot children” (38), but also lump all non-human species together thereby ignoring the specificity of any particular species. Midgley also argues that “man shows more savagery to his own kind than most other mammal species” (27, emphasis in original), citing the need for “law or morality to restrain violence” (26) as evidence of the social structures required to uphold a myth of human civilization. In that sense, the use of pigs in Doctor Who can be seen as conforming to centuries-old depictions of non-human species, by which the loss of humanity symbolised by other species can be seen as the ultimate punishment. After all, when the Daleks’ human helper, Mr Diagoras, fears that the aliens are going to experiment on him, he fearfully exclaims, “What do you mean? Like those pig-men things? You’re not going to turn me into one of those? Oh, God, please don’t!” In the next episode, when all the Pig Slaves are killed by the actions of the Doctor’s companion Martha, she regrets her actions, only to be told, “No. The Daleks killed them. Long ago”, for their mutation into a ‘pig-man thing’ is seen to be a more significant loss of humanity than death itself. The scene highlights how societies are often “confused about the status of such interspecies beings” (Savulescu 25). Such confusion is likely to recur considering we are moving into a “posthumanist” age defined by the “decentering of the human” (Wolfe xv), whereby critiques of traditional cultural categories, alongside scientific developments that question the biological certainty of the human, result in difficulties in defining precisely what it is that is supposedly so special about homo sapiens. This means that it is far too easy to write off these depictions in Doctor Who as merely drawing on, and upholding, those simplistic and naturalised human/non-human distinctions which have been criticised, in a manner similar to sexism and racism, as “speciesist” (Singer 148-62). There is, after all, consistent sympathy for the pig in these episodes. The shooting of the pig in “Aliens of London” is outrageous not merely because it gives evidence of the propensity of human violence: the death of the pig itself is presented as worth mourning, in a manner similar to the death of any living being. Throughout the series the Doctor is concerned over the loss of life for any species, always aiming to find a non-violent method for solving conflicts and repeatedly berating other characters who resort to bloodshed for solutions. Indeed, the story’s narrative can be read as one in which the audience is invited to reassess its own response to the pig’s initial appearance, shifting from fear at its alien-ness to sympathy for its demise. This complication of the cultural meanings of pigs is taken even further in the two-part Dalek story. One of the key plots of the story is the relationship between Laszlo, who has been transmuted into a Pig Slave, and his former lover Tallulah. Tallulah spends much of the story thinking Laszlo has disappeared, when he has, in fact, gone into hiding, certain that she will reject him because of his post-experimentation porcine features. When they finally reunite, Laszlo apologises for what has happened to him, while Tallulah asks, “Laszlo? My Laszlo? What have they done to you?” At the end of the story they decide to try re-establishing their relationship, despite Laszlo’s now-complicated genetic make-up. In response to this Martha asks the Doctor, “Do you reckon it’s going to work, those two?” The Doctor responds that while such an odd pairing might be problematic pretty much anywhere else, as they were in New York they might just get away with it. He reflects, “That’s what this city’s good at. Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, and maybe the odd Pig Slave Dalek mutant hybrid too.” While there is an obvious playfulness to this scene, with the programme foregrounding the kinds of narrative available to the science fiction genre, it is also clear that we are invited to find this a good narrative conclusion, a suitable resolution to all that has preceded it. In that sense, the pig and the human come together, dissolving the human/non-human divide at a stroke, and this is offered to the audience as something to be pleased about. In both narratives, then, the pig moves from being understood as alien and threatening to something if not quite identical to human, then certainly akin to it. Certainly, the narratives suggest that the lives, loves and concerns of pigs—even if they have been experimented upon—matter, and can constitute significant emotional moments in primetime mainstream family television. This development is a result of the text’s movement from an interest in the appearance of the pig to its status as a living being. As noted above, the initial appearances of the pigs in both stories is intended to be frightening, but such terror is dependent on understanding non-human species by their appearance alone. What both of these stories manage to do is suggest that the pig—like all non-human living things, whether of Earth or not—is more than its physical appearance, and via acknowledgment of its own consciousness, and its own sense of identity, can become something with which humans are capable of having sympathy; perhaps more than that, that the pig is something with which humans should have sympathy, for to deny the interior life of such a species is to engage in an inhuman act in itself. This could be seen as an interesting—if admittedly marginal—corrective to the centuries of cultural and physical abuse the pig, like all animals, has suffered. Such representations can be seen as evoking “the dreaded comparison” (Spiegel) which aligns maltreatment of animals with slavery, a comparison that is dreaded by societies because to acknowledge such parallels makes justifying humans’ abusive treatment of other species very difficult. These two Doctor Who stories repeatedly make such comparisons, and assume that to morally and emotionally distinguish between living beings based on categories of species is nonsensical, immoral, and fails to acknowledge the significance and majesty of all forms of life. That we might, as Gardner suggests, “Bless the pig”—whether it has had its brain stuffed full of wires or been merged with a human—points towards complex notions of human/non-human interaction which might helpfully destabilise simplistic ideas of the superiority of the human race. References Ashley, Bob, Joanne Hollows, Steve Jones and Ben Taylor. Food and Cultural Studies. London and New York: Routledge, 2004. Carroll, Noël. The Philosophy of Horror, or, Paradoxes of the Heart. New York and London: Routledge, 1990. Dwyer, Peter D. and Monica Minnegal. “Person, Place or Pig: Animal Attachments and Human Transactions in New Guinea.” Animals in Person: Cultural Perspectives on Human-Animal Intimacies. Ed. John Knight. 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