Tag: Animals

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Reading Medieval Fables as Trans Narratives: The Ass and the Lion Skin Revisited

In an earlier blog post, I wrote about four fables where animals “dress up” as another species, and looked at these in terms of socioeconomic class—this is what medieval authors like Marie de France, Robert Henryson, and Alexander Neckam were clearly aiming to comment on, and these fables can be seen, I argued, in the context of medieval sumptuary laws and anxiety about social mobility.

From an illustration by John Tenniel, “The ass in the lion’s skin,” 1848. New York Public Library.

I’d now like to revisit the same fables, considering them this time through a different lens: trans experience. This way of interpreting these fables has been on my mind the whole time. In discussing the fables with other people, I have found that they readily come up with trans readings of them (i.e., they suggest to me that the stories about one species wearing the skin or feathers of another can be seen as metaphors for being transgender, and that a trans reading of them could be interesting). As someone who hasn’t really worked in trans studies before, I have felt underequipped, in terms of offering a theoretically-informed take that meaningfully incorporates other scholarship in this area (there is a lot of exciting new work being done in trans medieval studies; see “Further Reading,” below, for a very non-comprehensive selection).

Despite this hesitation on my part, a trans reading of these fables feels far more salient to me right now than a socioeconomic one, and I think there are more urgent ethical stakes; medieval sumptuary laws are obsolete (and were, at the time, apparently rather ineffectual), whereas trans people are currently a hypervisible minority whose rights are under attack.

The thing is, when you look at these fables as trans narratives, they send a bleak message. These fables essentially suggest, as many other fables do as well, that we can never escape certain fundamental, supposedly “natural” categories, and that trying is dangerous and inadvisable. I’d like to look more closely at a couple of versions of a single fable, The Ass and the Lion Skin (Perry Index 188/358), to illustrate how this message is set up, as well as the parallels one could see between what befalls these fictional animal characters and the experiences of trans humans.

The first version I discuss is a Latin prose fable from the thirteenth century, by Odo of Cheriton:

Asini uiderunt quod homines male et dure tractauerunt eos, stimulando, (h)onera imponendo. Viderunt etiam quod timuerunt Leones. Condixerunt ad inuicem quod acciperent pelles leoninas, et sic homines timerent illos. Fecerunt sic. Asini igitur, induti pellibus leoninis, saltabant, discurrebant. Homines fugerunt credentes esse Leones. Tandem Asini inceperunt recanare. Homines diligenter auscultauerunt et dixerunt: Vox ista uox Asinorum est; accedamus proprius. Accesserunt tandem; viderunt caudas illorum et pedes et dixerunt: Certe isti sunt Asini, non Leones, et ceperunt Asinos et multum bene uerberauerunt.1

The donkeys saw that humans treated them badly and harshly, striking them and putting burdens on them. They also saw that they [i.e., the humans] were afraid of lions. They decided amongst themselves to put on lion skins, and that way humans would be afraid of them. They did this. And so the donkeys, wearing lion skins, leapt and ran about. Humans fled, thinking that they were lions. Eventually the donkeys started braying. The humans listened carefully and said: “That sound is the sound of donkeys; let’s get closer.” After a while they got up close; they saw their tails and feet and said, “Clearly these are donkeys, not lions,” and they seized the donkeys and beat them very thoroughly.

Odo’s moral then proceeds to analogize the wayward donkeys to “false men” (homines falsi), particularly those in the Benedictine order; his fables often criticized the clergy.

Odo’s version of this fable differs from others in some respects, e.g., the earliest version, which is also in Latin (Avianus, ca. 400 CE),2 or the late Middle English version in Caxton’s Aesop.3 While in the latter two versions, a single donkey comes across a lion skin by chance, in Odo’s telling, the act of donning lion skins is a collective decision by multiple donkeys, a calculated response to their ill treatment by humans. These donkeys aren’t just taking on the appearance of a different species, they are taking on the appearance of a much higher-status species, in an attempt to protect themselves (lions often stand in for tyrants, rulers, kings, etc. in fables, whereas fable donkeys are typically quite abject). If we are reading species as analogous to gender, here, there are, of course, differences of power and privilege when it comes to gender, too. The fact that women and men are not simply treated differently, but unequally, has induced some feminists to assert that transmasculine identities arise as a response to the social pressures of misogyny (i.e., that transmasc people are trying to “escape” womanhood because being a woman in a patriarchal culture is painful). One troubling implication of this line of thought is that a lot of trans people simply wouldn’t exist as such, in an “ideal” society without gender inequality.

In The Ass and the Lion Skin, the wearing of a new skin is not just a matter of appearance; the animal in the lion skin looks different, and they behave differently as well, chasing others as though they were a feline predator instead of an equid beast of burden. Initially, those other characters react to the donkey(s) as if they were indeed a lion, until something gives the donkey away. If we choose to read Odo’s fable through a trans lens (though his aim seems to have been to denounce clerical misbehavior), the fact that it is the donkeys’ brays that give them away might sound familiar to anyone who has dysphoria about their voice not matching their gender identity, and anyone who has been misgendered after starting to speak.

The humans in this fable scrutinize, too, specific physical characteristics—the tail and feet—and on those grounds determine what the donkeys “really” are, and react with violence. I can’t help but think of “transvestigators” who pore over photos of trans people (or cis people that they think might be trans), insisting that a particular feature reveals that the photo’s subject is quintessentially male or female, at odds with their presentation and identity. I also can’t help but think that being “clocked” as trans can indeed be the prelude to experiencing hostility, from hate speech to physical violence.

Not only do the donkeys undergo physical violence, this violence is intended to restore the status quo. It is coupled with a kind of ontological violence—the (re)definition of the target in the dominant party’s terms. “Clearly, these are donkeys, not lions,” the men say before beating them. Even more strikingly, in Avianus’s version, the donkey’s master concludes by saying, “Maybe you can trick strangers with your imitation roar; to me, you will always be a donkey, as you were before” (forsitan ignotos imitato murmure fallas; at mihi, qui quondam, semper asellus eris, lines 17–18). In a trans context, this makes me think of a stubborn family member who insists that they simply can’t perceive or treat their relative as their actual gender identity, because they’ve spent so many years thinking of them as the gender assigned to them at birth.

So, when I look at these “trans-species” fables in terms of transgender experience, my takeaway is depressing. The texts promote a status quo in which no one really can, or should try to, appear or behave outside of the categories “nature” has assigned. They gloss the act of wearing a “new skin” as a form of untenable inauthenticity, and portray the “trans-species” characters as being inevitably put back in their place with violence. These are the lessons we are seemingly meant to learn.

I want to do some kind of reparative reading of these fables, and to find something liberatory or subversive, but I struggle to, because the texts themselves do work in the opposite direction—and transphobes have recognized that. Another famous fable of an animal wearing a different skin—the fable of The Wolf that Dressed in a Sheepskin (Perry Index 451), in which a wolf mimics a sheep in order to better prey on the flock—has been used in recent years by anti-trans authors and cartoonists (who I won’t platform with links—this should be easy to find if you wish). This kind of rhetoric often fixates on transfemininity, in particular, portraying trans women as deceptive and even dangerous. For instance, the trope of predatory men-dressed-as-women attempting to infiltrate women’s bathrooms has been used as an argument for anti-trans “bathroom bans,” which have been passed in 19 US states over the last four years, part of a larger wave of anti-transgender legislation. The “bathroom ban” laws purport to address what is in fact a thoroughly imaginary problem, making bathrooms less safe for anyone who is trans and/or gender non-conforming.

Woodcut of The Ass and the Lion Skin, from a 1479 incunabulum of Heinrich Steinhöwel’s Fables of Aesop.

What do we do with didactic literature, stories that aim to teach lessons—in this case, medieval fables with morals—if the lessons are not ones we want to endorse or to heed, and if the stories themselves are being weaponized against a vulnerable minority? I don’t know. I think one step is to acknowledge that these texts are “naturalizing” social categories by mapping them onto different animal species, in order to suggest that social differences (such as class and gender) are starkly distinct and immutable, impossible to change—as impossible as it would be for a donkey to become a lion, or a wolf to become a sheep. However, as I argued in the previous post, if these social categories actually were “natural,” “biologically innate,” and unalterable, there would be no impetus to tell stories, over and over again, warning people not to act “unnaturally.”

Nonetheless, if we want liberatory or subversive trans fables, we might have to write them, or rewrite them, rather than looking to the medieval versions of these particular texts.

Linnet Heald
PhD in Medieval Studies
University of Notre Dame

Further Reading:

  1. Latin text from Léopold Hervieux, Les Fabulistes latins depuis le siècle d’Auguste jusqu’à la fin du moyen âge, vol. 4, Eudes de Cheriton et ses dérivés (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1896), pp. 198–99. All translations in this post are mine. ↩︎
  2. Duff, Arnold Mackay, and John Wight Duff, eds. Minor Latin Poets, Volume 2. Loeb Classical Library, vol. 434. Cambridge, Mass: Harvard University Press, 2006, p. 690. ↩︎
  3. Lenaghan, R. T., ed. Caxton’s Aesop: Edited with an Introduction and Notes. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967, p. 179. ↩︎
Tags: animals, Avianus, fables, medieval literature, Odo of Cheriton, transgender , , , , ,

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Medieval Golden Goose Fables: Eggs, Greed, and Demanding Too Much

Getty Museum, MS. Ludwig XV 2, f. 25v.

In the fable of The Goose with the Golden Eggs (Perry Index 87), the titular bird is killed by her foolish owner. This fable warns against seeking great, immediate gain over more modest, long-term gain—particularly when doing the former destroys a valuable, otherwise sustainable resource. The first extant version of this fable is that of Avianus, ca. 400 CE; earlier versions may have featured a hen rather than a goose, as fable scholar Francisco Rodríguez Adrados has argued on metrical grounds.1 But in Avianus, the creature is a goose, and so the tale was transmitted through the Middle Ages and beyond, becoming essentially proverbial.

As is the case with fable in general, medieval versions of The Goose with the Golden Eggs aim at providing a moral lesson to humans through a memorable extended metaphor. The plight of the bird who is killed in this story is not supposed to be the point. Nevertheless, below, I consider the real creatures behind the unrealistic analogy. Can we read the fable somewhat more subversively, as an admonition about the dangers of pushing animals beyond their physical limits?

British Library, Additional MS 42130 (The Luttrell Psalter), f. 166v.

Medieval and Modern Poultry

Chickens have long been kept for their eggs, at least as much as for their meat. Domestic geese, on the other hand, were valued in the Middle Ages mostly for their meat and feathers.2 Their flight feathers were used for quill pens and arrow fletching, amongst other things, while their down was used for insulation.3 When goose eggs did go on the market in the Middle Ages, though, they could be several times more expensive than hen eggs.4 Goose eggs are harder to come by; geese lay fewer eggs than chickens, and their strong pair-bonds make it infeasible to keep a flock with a very large ratio of laying females to males.5 Domestic geese nowadays might lay between 10 and 40 eggs a year, with the yield likely being somewhat lower than this in the Middle Ages;6 a medieval hen, however, might have laid as many as 100 eggs a year, or even more, “not far behind the level attained in the early twentieth century.”7

While domestic geese are still bred and raised for the resources their bodies provide, it is now predominantly chickens, “the most scientifically engineered of livestock,”8 whose eggs are the basis of an industry worth billions. A chicken bred for egg production can lay 300 eggs a year9—triple the rate of medieval chickens, or even early twenty-first century chickens. This high lay rate may be a cause for osteoporosis in the birds, exacerbated further by their inactivity when kept in “conventional” cages.10

The majority of the over 300 million “commercial laying hens” in the United States are housed in “conventional cage environments,” also known as battery farms. These birds are confined exclusively indoors, in tiers of stacked wire cages, several individuals in each cage, with eggs and waste collected via conveyor belts.11 This “convention” has only been widely implemented since the 1950s.12 Such systems were famously criticized by Ruth Harrison in an influential 1964 book, Animal Machines: The New Factory Farming Industry,13 and since then, “factory farming” has only become further entrenched as a normative practice. In 2009, about 95% of commercial laying hens in the US were in “conventional” cages.14 That percentage has dropped to around 66% as of 2022,15 and is continuing to drop; battery cages were outlawed in the European Union in 2012, and are being outlawed in a growing number of US states, because of animal welfare concerns.

Bibliothèque Municipale de Chalon-sur-Saône, MS 14, f. 67v.

Medieval Fables of Golden Geese

Medieval versions of the fable of The Goose with the Golden Eggs imagine that there are firm natural limits to the bird’s production of precious gold eggs, which cannot be exceeded. “Nature had fixed this law for the magnificent bird, that she was not permitted to bear two gifts at the same time,” says Avianus’s Latin verse version (fixerat hanc volucri legem Natura superbae, / ne liceat pariter munera ferre duo, lines 3-4).16 In Avianus’s telling, the goose’s owner is portrayed as impatient and calculating—he is concerned that the “gifts” won’t last and eager to maximize profit from her body:

sed dominus, cupidum sperans vanescere votum,
non tulit exosas in sua lucra moras,
grande ratus pretium volucris de morte referre,
quae tam continuo munere dives erat. (lines 5–8)

(But the master, expecting the greedy offering to disappear, did not endure odious delays to his profits, and thought to withdraw from the death of the bird great value, who had been so continuously rich with gifts).

Upon killing the bird and finding her body devoid of treasure, he considers himself deservedly punished by the gods for his own avarice; the fable’s moral concludes:

sic qui cuncta deos uno male tempore poscunt,
iustius his etiam vota diurna negant. (lines 13–14)

(So, to those who wrongly demand from the gods everything at once, they deny even daily prayers more justly.)

A late medieval Middle English prose version of the fable, in William Caxton’s Aesop (1484), tells the story somewhat differently: the goose’s greedy owner verbally commands her to lay two eggs a day instead of one, and kills her, out of anger, when she protests that she can’t. Caxton’s moral is less pithy, but still expresses the sentiment that the man has only hurt his own interests by killing the goose.

The man of auaryce or couetousnes commaunded and bad to her/ that euery daye she shold leye two egges/ And she sayd to hym/ Certaynly/ my mayster I maye not/ wherfore the man was wrothe with her/ and slewe her/ wherfore he lost that same grete good/ of the whiche dede he was moche sorowful and wrothe/ how be it that it was not tyme to shette the stable whan the horses ben loste/ & gone/ And he is not wyse/ whiche dothe suche a thinge/ wherof he shalle repente hym afterward/ ne he also/ whiche doth his owne dommage for to auenge hym self on somme other/ For by cause that he supposeth to wynne al/ he leseth all that he hath17

(The man, out of avarice or covetousness, commanded and ordered that every day she must lay two eggs. And she said to him, “Truly, my master, I cannot,” and so the man was angry with her and killed her, and so he lost that same great benefit, of which deed he was very sad and angry. Nevertheless, it is too late to shut the stable when the horses are lost and gone, and he is not wise who does something that he will regret afterward, nor is he wise who does himself harm to avenge himself on someone else. For, because he intends to gain everything, he loses all that he has.)

Authors like Avianus and Caxton did not foresee the drastic “improvements” that domesticated birds would undergo through breeding, or the battery farms that would house them nearly immobile in tiny cages, with the aim of maximizing profit. “Today,” says Margaret E. Derry, “we use chickens in a more mechanistic way than all other farm livestock. We follow practices that are not good for the birds and do not necessarily reflect well on us, in spite of the obvious benefits of such practices” (i.e., cheap eggs for human consumption).18 The morals to the two medieval versions of The Goose with the Golden Eggs that I considered above ultimately frame the bird’s violent demise in terms of how this impacts the human killer financially; we are encouraged to view the slaughter as, above all, unwise, because the goose was profitable to her owner, rather than as an act of cruelty or injustice toward the victim. But despite these mercenary morals, the fables’ authors nevertheless presciently suggest that human greed can demand more of animals than they can provide us, and that this is destructive, to them and to us.

  1. Francisco Rodríguez Adrados, The History of the Graeco-Latin Fable (Brill, 2003), vol. 3, p. 113. ↩︎
  2. Philip Slavin, “Goose management and rearing in late medieval eastern England, c.1250–1400,” The Agricultural History Review, vol. 58, no. 1 (2010), p. 4. ↩︎
  3. Dale Serjeantson, “Goose husbandry in Medieval England, and the problem of ageing goose bones,” Acta zoologica cracoviensia, vol. 45 (2002), p. 43. ↩︎
  4. Slavin, “Goose management and rearing,” p. 8. ↩︎
  5. Serjeantson, “Goose husbandry in Medieval England,” p. 41. ↩︎
  6. Slavin, “Goose management and rearing,” p. 16. ↩︎
  7. D. J. Stone, “The Consumption and Supply of Birds in Late Medieval England,” in Food in Medieval England: Diet and Nutrition, ed. C. M. Woolgar, D. Serjeantson, and T. Waldron (Oxford University Press, 2006), p. 154. ↩︎
  8. Margaret E. Derry, Art and Science in Breeding: Creating Better Chickens (University of Toronto Press, 2012), p. 4. ↩︎
  9. United Egg Producers, “Facts & Stats,” accessed January 4, 2025. ↩︎
  10. C. C. Whitehead et al., “Osteoporosis in cage layers,” Poultry Science, vol. 79, 7 (2000), 1033–1041; A. B. Webster, “Welfare implications of avian osteoporosis,” Poultry Science, vol. 83, 2 (2004): 184–92. ↩︎
  11. United Egg Producers, “Hen Housing Diagrams,” accessed January 4, 2025. ↩︎
  12. B. Yilmaz Dikmen et al., “Egg production and welfare of laying hens kept in different housing systems (conventional, enriched cage, and free range),” Poultry Science, vol. 95, 7 (2016), p. 1564. ↩︎
  13. Ruth Harrison, Animal Machines (Vincent Stuart Publishers, 1964). Reprinted with new commentaries 2013 by CAB International. ↩︎
  14. Sara Shields and Ian J. H. Duncan., “A Comparison of the Welfare of Hens in Battery Cages and Alternative Systems” (2009), Impacts on Farm Animals 18, WellBeing International, accessed January 4, 2025. ↩︎
  15. United Egg Producers, “Facts & Stats,” accessed January 4, 2025. ↩︎
  16. Latin text from J. Wright Duff and A. M. Duff, eds., Minor Latin Poets, Volume II: Florus, Hadrian, Nemesianus, Reposianus, Tiberianus, Dicta Catonis, Phoenix, Avianus, Rutilius Namatianus, Others, Loeb Classical Library (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1934), p. 732. All modern English translations in this post are my own. ↩︎
  17. Middle English text from R. T. Lenaghan, ed., Caxton’s Aesop, Edited with an Introduction and Notes (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1967), p. 190. ↩︎
  18. Derry, Art and Science in Breeding, p. 9. ↩︎
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The Raven’s False Greeting: Animal Language and Medieval Fable

Talking animals are a ubiquitous element in fables. They do not evoke wonder from human characters within the narrative, nor seem to require any explanation; this contrasts with other sorts of stories (everything from Marie de France’s Guigemar to contemporary fantasy novels) where the appearance of a talking animal signals the beginning of some rare adventure for humans. Notably, there is, however, one fable I can think of that seems to portray an animal whose ability to talk is liminal. That is, he can utter words, yet he is not really treated as a speaker. His status seems closer to that of a “real” animal who can mimic human speech, and that is in fact key to the story.

The fable in question is ascribed to Phaedrus, the author of the first extant literary fable collection. While Phaedrus wrote in the first century, his five books of fables were the basis for much of the “Romulus” tradition in prose and verse, which flourished in the Middle Ages. The aforementioned fable is called “The Traveler and the Raven” (Viator et corvus). The tale is found in “Perotti’s Appendix,” named for the Italian humanist, Niccolò Perotti (1429–80), who transmitted it; I offer a translation of it below, with the text based on Ben Edwin Perry’s edition.[1]

Manuscript illustration, from the 14th century Luttrell Psalter, of two humans and a horse harrowing a field, with two ravens hovering above them, British Library, Additional MS 42130, fol. 171r .

Quidam per agros devium carpens iter
AVE exaudivit, et moratus paululum,
adesse ut vidit nullum, corripuit gradum.
iterum salutat idem ex occulto sonus.
voce hospitali confirmatus restitit,
ut, quisquis esset, par officium reciperet.
cum circumspectans errore haesisset diu
et perdidisset tempus aliquot milium,
ostendit sese corvus et supervolans
AVE usque ingessit. tum se lusum intelligens
“At male tibi sit” inquit, “ales pessime,
qui festinantis sic detinuisti pedes.”

A certain man, taking a byway through the fields on a journey, heard “Hello!” and lingered for a moment, but when he saw that no one was there, he hastened the pace. Again, the same sound greeted him from some hidden place. He stopped, encouraged by the hospitable voice, so that whoever it was might receive an equal courtesy. When he had remained for a long time, looking around uncertainly, and lost enough time for several miles, a raven showed himself, and flying above him, incessantly repeated “Hello!” Then, realizing he had been tricked, the man said, “Damn you, wretched bird, for delaying my feet like that when I was in a hurry.”

Why did the man perceive the raven’s “hello” as a trick? (The word lusum, in line 10, comes from ludo, to play, and can suggest mockery or deception; I translated it as “tricked.”) Why did he not take this as a genuine greeting?

It seems that the man was expecting a human speaker, and was disappointed and annoyed to find out that the salutation came from a bird instead. But species difference doesn’t, in and of itself, seem like an adequate explanation, at least in the usual fable context where all sorts of creatures talk. Nor does the explanation for the man’s reaction lie in some perceived status imbalance between the two; reciprocity is expected in greetings, after all, even between parties of unequal standing, and it isn’t mockery for an inferior to greet a superior, or vice versa.

Complicating this is the fact that real birds can imitate human speech—parrots, most famously, but also corvids, including ravens. This raven repeats the same simple word, over and over, as a trained animal might. But the man simultaneously seems to impute malice or mischief to this animal and deny him as a legitimate interlocutor. The raven is capable of toying with him (and ravens have a longstanding, cross-cultural reputation for cleverness and tricks), but he is not capable of (or worthy of?) a conversation.

Manuscript illustration of a raven, from an early 14th century manuscript of Jacob van Maerlant’s Der Naturen Bloeme, British Library, Additional MS 11390, fol. 33r.

A traditional narrative about animal language is that it doesn’t exist—that the sounds that animals make (and this leaves aside non-aural communication, through movement, scent, etc.) are fundamentally different than human speech. Nonetheless, medieval grammarians and philosophers acknowledged that, say, a dog’s bark is not meaningless, that it might convey something of his emotional state, and that humans could pick up on this.[2] Some thinkers, too, suggested that animals can communicate with their own species in their own “language.” For example, says, Roger Bacon, hens can cluck to let their young know that food is near, or to warn them of a predator.[3]

So much for “real-life” animal language. In medieval literature, though, there may also be special talking animals (or humans gifted with a special ability to understand animals, e.g., the man who can translate between species in Culhwch and Olwen, or Canacee, with her magic ring, in Chaucer’s “Squire’s Tale”). In fables, animals’ capacity to speak is typically unremarkable, and conversations readily occur across species lines.

This fable, however, reflects none of the above scenarios. The raven doesn’t caw or croak—he says an intelligible word, in a human language, Latin. And what he says is “Ave,” a greeting. Ave is not far off from Latin avis, “bird,” although the words are etymologically unrelated; in modern Spanish and Portuguese ave means “bird”. Etymology aside, there is still the possibility of wordplay. Is the bird proclaiming what he is all along, without the man realizing it? Is that the “trick”? Was that what the bird really meant to do, or was it apt, but not necessarily done knowingly—is the raven a kind of natural sign who reiterates himself, both by appearing and by unwittingly speaking his own appearance?

In any case, the man doesn’t treat the raven’s “Ave” as a sincere speech-act from an animal who can, unsurprisingly, talk to him—he doesn’t treat it as a greeting, he treats it as a deception. (The opening moral, possibly added by Perotti, emphasizes this, declaring, “People are very often deceived by words,” Verbis saepenumero homines decipi solere).

What accounts for the man’s reaction to the raven? Fables often have talking animals, yes, but fundamentally, fables are didactic, using memorable narratives to get messages across. The raven’s real-life reputation for mischief, but above all his real-life ability to imitate speech, is what is being drawn on here. The raven in “The Traveler and the Raven” is not the genre-typical talking animal, because for him to be an actual, expected interlocutor goes against the point of the fable, which is about how words can deceive.[4] In conveying this point, “The Traveler and the Raven” both acknowledges certain animals as clever and strips a non-human character of his genre-typical linguistic capability.

Linnet Heald
PhD in Medieval Studies
University of Notre Dame

[1] Ben Edwin Perry, ed. and trans., Babrius and Phaedrus, Loeb Classical Library 436 (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 1965), pp. 404–6.

[2] For an analysis of the shifting conceptions of the semiotics of dogs’ barking, from Aristotle to Roger Bacon, see Umberto Eco et al., “On Animal Language in the Medieval Classification of Signs,” in On the Medieval Theory of Signs, ed. Umberto Eco and Constantino Marmo (Amsterdam: Benjamins, 1989), pp. 3–41.

[3] Quoted in Eco et al., “On Animal Language,” p. 36, n. 39.

[4] Fables tend to teach the “mistrust of words,” argues Jill Mann, in From Aesop to Reynard: Beast Literature in Medieval Britain (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), p. 96.