Å®ÉúСÊÓƵ

Some weeks ago, I enjoyed watching blackbirds nesting in my garden.
Enjoyed it for a few days, that is, until I opened my curtains to see a
neighbour’s cat sitting among the remains of the nest, spitting out the
final few feathers. It was all I could do to restrain what I considered
was the quite legitimate desire to tear the offending creature limb from
limb.

I wondered later what the reaction to my feelings would be from supporters
of the Cats Protection League, who regard cats as quasi-divine beings. As
a scientist, surely I am above such emotions? Yet the fact is that conservationists
constantly make value judgments about which species are more worthy of protection,
for reasons that are often far from objective. All animals are equal, but
some are definitely more equal than others.

During a recent radio programme on the countryside, an expert was explaining
the requirements of a particularly rare species of ant, confined to a few
heaths in Dorset. At the end of the piece, the interviewer asked why we
should bother to conserve the ant at all. The expert muttered about biodiversity
and the Earth Summit in Rio, but it was all highly unconvincing. Yet imagine
the reaction if you asked Greenpeace why we should protect whales. The question
would be considered heretical – whales are huge, impressive, intelligent
and make nice noises to which you can meditate. Ants are different. Ants
don’t count.

Now consider the dormouse and the black rat. Both rodents are Red Data
Book species and should, therefore, be a priority for conservation. But
while the former had a whole National Dormouse Week devoted to highlighting
its plight, there are plans to eradicate the black rat from one of its last
British strongholds, the island of Lundy off the north coast of Devon, in
order to encourage the puffin, a common enough seabird, to nest. Admittedly,
any species held responsible for spreading a disease that wiped out half
the population of Europe in the Middle Ages is bound to have its image a
little dented, but this is the late 20th century, and we can afford to
be more charitable. Yet while the dormouse is cosseted, the black rat will
disappear, unloved and unmourned.

Rarity, it seems, is not enough. On the catwalk of the wildlife fashion
show, trendiness, good looks and a certain je ne sais quoi is everything.
So, for any species out there that fancies itself in the limelight, here
are a few words of advice.

Be an animal. I’m afraid that if you’re a plant, your chances are slim,
unless you are lucky enough to be an orchid. Not only are you hamstrung
by those awful Latin names botanists use, but most plants lack any kind
of personality or charisma, which makes them difficult to relate to.

Get a backbone. If you’re vertebrally challenged, forget it. You’re
too small, too obscure or just too plain ugly to warrant attention. If you
are a butterfly you might have a chance, but you’ll need the word ‘fritillary’
in your name.

Next, purr. Imagine the sight of a lion striding across the Serengeti,
a tiger in the jungles of Southeast Asia, or a lynx in the vastness of the
northern forests. What do all these have in common? Yes, they’re all cats,
and instantly qualify for protection whatever they do. For the rest of the
animal kingdom, being carnivorous is a risky strategy, especially if your
prey is perceived as a human resource. Here in Wales, thanks to an adorable
image derived from Gavin Maxwell’s Ring of Bright Water, otters can munch
salmon and trout to their hearts’ content, while the goosander, a fish-eating
duck, has earned the wrath of fishermen who regard the river as their exclusive
property. You could specialise in something so small that no one will care,
like mosquitoes or krill, but it’s probably safer to . . .

Go vegetarian. Eating another animal is asking for trouble if your prey
has its own pressure group. A barn owl hunting mice is a source of wonder,
but a magpie demolishing a nest of chaffinches fills people with horror,
despite the fact that there is no scientific evidence that either species
has any long-term effect on its prey. Eat songbirds and you’re really asking
for it. I have even seen letters from the psychopathic wing of the huntin’
and shootin’ brigade suggesting that it’s time to start controlling (that’s
an interesting euphemism) sparrow hawks, on the grounds that they eat sparrows.
All in all, it’s better to eat grass.

Look cute. Take, for example, species introduced from North America
to Britain. They tend to do well and are soon close to driving their native
cousins to extinction. The answer is unavoidable. The interloper has to
go. If you’re a grey squirrel the answer is ‘yes, if only it were possible’.
If you’re a ruddy duck, then it is the subject of furious debate. Both have
been implicated in threatening their European congeners – the red squirrel
and white-headed duck respectively – with oblivion, but while most conservationists
would regard grey squirrels as little more than vermin, plans to stop the
spread of ruddy ducks are deeply controversial in the bird-watching world.
Ruddy ducks are cute, with bright blue beaks, jaunty tails and a mildly
amusing name. It is also on the badge of at least one ornithological society,
which brings me on to . . .

Another ploy is to get some sponsorship. Have your image as the logo
for a conservation organisation and you’ve got it made. Just ask any panda.

Of course, it can be argued that all this is irrelevant in the long
term, since most species will be able to ride on the back of concern for
the lucky few. But at best, there is the risk of presenting conservation
as a series of single species issues, with the risk of quick fix answers
that do not address fundamental problems: ‘if only we could breed more of
‘x’ in captivity for release to the wild, or maybe shoot all its predators,
then all would be well’. In the worst cases, it can bring down irrational
persecution on species not considered worthy of our interest, as has happened
until recently to bats.

Considering how important public support is, I suspect the ‘flagship
species’ is here to stay as the most effective way of capturing imagination,
interest and, most importantly, money. But maybe we could be a little more
radical. National Black Rat Week. Now there’s an idea

Andrew Lucas lives in west Wales and is particularly fond of mayflies.