The animal in me.

Us Homo sapiens are very keen to pretend we’re different from animals. “Do animals drink flat white?” We ask. “Would an animal use this woodsy-scented texturising hair putty? Or carry this jaunty hand-stitched satchel? No! Then I am not an animal. I am a person. Very different, actually.” Bullshit. Personally, I love feeling close to my animal self. It doesn’t happen often. I am mired in jaunty satchels/flat whites/hair putty. But when it does? How marvellous. Here are just three of the things that remind - or have reminded - me that you and me baby ain’t nothing but mammals: 1. Drinking out of the cold tap in the middle of the night. Most nights, I get the twin calls of nature around 3am. My body wakes me up: “Fluids out!” It shouts. And, simultaneously, “fluids in”. So after a wee, a drink. Yes, I could keep a glass in the bathroom, or by my bed, to equip myself for this all-too-routine occurrence. But I prefer the tap. I prefer to let it run for a minute or so, and then put my head down and suck cool, cool water from its fast-flowing stream. In that moment, I am aware that I stand on a line that reaches through all the other land-dwelling animals on earth. That point? It’s precisely half-way between a bonobo drinking out of a mountain spring, and a Labrador lapping water from a toilet. I am a beast! I am a creature. I am nature! Domesticated… somewhat. 2. Watching pimple-popping videos. Yes, I love them. Not the ones with loads of pus. That’s gross. The ones with the blackheads that look like nothing, but actually contain a sort of capsule of sebum. Like a dear little insect egg hatching from the skin. See? Not gross. I’m not alone. These videos have hundreds of thousands of views on TikTok and they’re not all me. They can’t all be me. Can they? I would assert that pimple-popping fulfils some kind of primeval need for those of us who enjoy them. We’re primates, and we’re supposed to bond by grooming each other. [Sigh, not like that, Ian.] We’re supposed to be checking each other for lumps and bumps, and draining boils and picking off parasites. It’s why a bit of me used to love, love, LOVE when my kids got nits. When my kids were little and they’d come home with the nit letter, I’d say “Oh no!” But I’d mean “oh yes!” Because although it was often inconvenient and time-consuming, oh my god…hunting and gathering those little 6 legged fuckers? Yes please. If they came home without nits, I’d drop them off at school and say, “see that kid scratching - go and give them a kiss! Go on! Just rub your heads together a little bit. Mama wants to bond with you, primate-style.” I’d make sure I had a really expensive nit comb and a vat of really cheap conditioner: corner shop, own brand conditioner of no fixed fragrance. Whatever I could get. If it said “coconut” or “apple” or “jojoba” I was spending too much. I needed the conditioner equivalent of that vodka that’s just labelled POLISH ALCOHOL. What flavour was the conditioner? “Floral”. And then I’d wash the kids, wash their hair and wrap their wet, shivery, little bodies in massive towels while I coated their scalps in Floral-scented hair lubricant and went to work, to free my kids of parasites by hand, as nature intended. Comb, check, wipe. Got one! Comb, check, wipe. Got one! Ape vs arthropod. Gorilla warfare. 3. Giving birth. Yes please. I’ve done it twice and both times, I felt so powerful. I felt connected not only to my own mother and my mother’s mother but also to every other mammal on earth. From the humpback whale to the naked mole rat to the gnu, we’re all the same in this moment. In labour, you can’t escape the heft of your own body. You can’t pretend to be cerebral. Sophistication burns away with the burn of your baby crowning. Abandon ye your playlist! Would a wildebeest listen to Beyonce? (Absolutely yes. If she knew. Taylor Swift? Not so much.) I managed to give birth to my second child in the most animalistic way I could. I was denied my first wish, which was to heave him out of myself on a grubby tartan blanket, in a whelping box, in the cupboard under the stairs. Apparently, we needed the cupboard for some deck chairs and old paint. I compromised on doing it at home, in my sitting room in front of the fire on a Cath Kidston oilcloth. (Because a timeless floral is still a timeless floral). If I could have been guaranteed that birth every time, I would never have stopped having babies. It took ninety minutes all told. Too quick for the midwives to get there. It was just me, the husband, and a doula who calmly looked on as I bestrode my sitting-room, growling and groaning, and as I abandoned all the hard lines of being human in favour of the wet, muscularity of just existing in my body. I was naked, unafraid, stronger than I’ve ever felt before or since. My god, I unwrapped the cord from my baby’s neck myself as he hung out of me. I mean… Fuck me. Why have I ever let anyone tell me what to do ever? Animal me is incredible. No wonder I want to get in touch with her sometimes. Writing this, I’m wildly and acutely aware that I no longer have access to two of these animal selves. I’m never having another baby and unless those babies have lousy babies of their own, I’m unlikely to nit comb anyone else. I’d better keep on drinking out of the tap. I want more, though. If you have any suggestions for everyday contact with the mammal in me, do share. (I’m all over the one that they “do like they do on the Discovery Channel”, by the way). A show of beastliness: Talking of animal selves, my show Octopus, is all about this incredible beast, and my humanity. It’s at The Wardrobe Theatre in Bristol on 12th November and at various dates tbc in 2027. Watch this space. Promised dog apology: If you’re listening to the audio, or watching the video, you’ll need this message: Huge, contrite, apologies to the dog whose “bad behaviour” turned out to be a perfectly reasonable repeated request to be fed at an hour that was in fact, dinner time. Sorry, Diggory. Here’s a video I made of me reading this, because EVERYTHING’S SUPPOSED TO HAVE VIDEO NOW. Please release me from being perceived at every moment of the day. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit louiseleigh.substack.com