Felted Orca
In captivity tanks, whales are under-stimulated to the point of life-threatening stress. They’ve been known to self-mutilate after years of life in a swimming pool; it’s as though their captive existence feels so egregiously wrong that it’s painful, and at times seems not even worth living.
Why would such an easy life cause them to suffer? In the ocean, orcas are met with all kinds of toils and troubles: the hunt for food, problems within the pod, parasites, and predators. You’d think the swimming pool would be like a lifelong spa day in comparison!
Orcas’ intuition, intelligence, and bodies are intricately suited to a complex, ever-changing environment. So, when they live in a display tank with highly artificial circumstances, they don’t feel safe and stress-free; they feel constant anxiety.
Proponents of marine parks will point to the leviathans circling around a pool and argue, “They’re living a life of luxury with daily feedings straight into their mouths!”
Getting a sufficient supply of food with nothing to do but perform repetitive tricks might not be demanding, but the chronic boredom of an “easy life” with little stimulation and no challenges is absolutely stressful.
I wonder how many ways we keep ourselves in a proverbial swimming pool, left to swim in circles questioning why it’s not making us happy.
A captive orca has a life of certainty—something that many of us probably dream about. In my 20s, all l I wanted in life was a husband and a reliable 9-5 job. Instead, I lived in constant flux, spinning a wheel of misfortune and landing on any job or situationship that would have me.
But whenever I tried to fit my uncertainties into a tidy wrapped box, or trace my whims along a straight line tilting upwards, I’d lose myself.
That’s not how I was meant to live; that’s not how humans—or whales—are meant to live.
In captivity tanks, whales are under-stimulated to the point of life-threatening stress. They’ve been known to self-mutilate after years of life in a swimming pool; it’s as though their captive existence feels so egregiously wrong that it’s painful, and at times seems not even worth living.
Why would such an easy life cause them to suffer? In the ocean, orcas are met with all kinds of toils and troubles: the hunt for food, problems within the pod, parasites, and predators. You’d think the swimming pool would be like a lifelong spa day in comparison!
Orcas’ intuition, intelligence, and bodies are intricately suited to a complex, ever-changing environment. So, when they live in a display tank with highly artificial circumstances, they don’t feel safe and stress-free; they feel constant anxiety.
Proponents of marine parks will point to the leviathans circling around a pool and argue, “They’re living a life of luxury with daily feedings straight into their mouths!”
Getting a sufficient supply of food with nothing to do but perform repetitive tricks might not be demanding, but the chronic boredom of an “easy life” with little stimulation and no challenges is absolutely stressful.
I wonder how many ways we keep ourselves in a proverbial swimming pool, left to swim in circles questioning why it’s not making us happy.
A captive orca has a life of certainty—something that many of us probably dream about. In my 20s, all l I wanted in life was a husband and a reliable 9-5 job. Instead, I lived in constant flux, spinning a wheel of misfortune and landing on any job or situationship that would have me.
But whenever I tried to fit my uncertainties into a tidy wrapped box, or trace my whims along a straight line tilting upwards, I’d lose myself.
That’s not how I was meant to live; that’s not how humans—or whales—are meant to live.
In captivity tanks, whales are under-stimulated to the point of life-threatening stress. They’ve been known to self-mutilate after years of life in a swimming pool; it’s as though their captive existence feels so egregiously wrong that it’s painful, and at times seems not even worth living.
Why would such an easy life cause them to suffer? In the ocean, orcas are met with all kinds of toils and troubles: the hunt for food, problems within the pod, parasites, and predators. You’d think the swimming pool would be like a lifelong spa day in comparison!
Orcas’ intuition, intelligence, and bodies are intricately suited to a complex, ever-changing environment. So, when they live in a display tank with highly artificial circumstances, they don’t feel safe and stress-free; they feel constant anxiety.
Proponents of marine parks will point to the leviathans circling around a pool and argue, “They’re living a life of luxury with daily feedings straight into their mouths!”
Getting a sufficient supply of food with nothing to do but perform repetitive tricks might not be demanding, but the chronic boredom of an “easy life” with little stimulation and no challenges is absolutely stressful.
I wonder how many ways we keep ourselves in a proverbial swimming pool, left to swim in circles questioning why it’s not making us happy.
A captive orca has a life of certainty—something that many of us probably dream about. In my 20s, all l I wanted in life was a husband and a reliable 9-5 job. Instead, I lived in constant flux, spinning a wheel of misfortune and landing on any job or situationship that would have me.
But whenever I tried to fit my uncertainties into a tidy wrapped box, or trace my whims along a straight line tilting upwards, I’d lose myself.
That’s not how I was meant to live; that’s not how humans—or whales—are meant to live.