of research biocapital (Franklin and Lock 2003).
As such examples reveal, human-animal relations in science are indeed, as Zeder asserts for other contexts, dyadic, cooperative, mutable, fluid, and capable of transforming both animal and human participants. As she reminds us, domestication is neither a static event nor a state of being; rather, it “is a fluid and nonlinear process that may start, stop, reverse course, or go off on unexpected tangents, with no clear or universal threshold that separates the wild from the domestic” (2012, 166). Disciplines, too, display species preferences: whereas archaeologists’ analyses of domestication most often focus on ungulates (including horses, cattle, llama, reindeer, sheep, etc.), dogs, pigs, and fowl, many contemporary lab scientists are engaged with rodents, NHPs, dogs, and pigs.25
The research mouse is the quintessential example of the laboratory domesticate. As Lisa Raines has documented, lab mice were derived initially from wild field mice and subsequently refined by mouse fanciers (most notably through the efforts of Abbie Lathrop of Granby, Massachusetts, who bred mice—alongside other animals such as ferrets and guinea pigs—for mouse fanciers and, in turn, laboratory researchers) (Raines 1991; Shimkin 1975). Today a plethora of strains are available for purchase from specialized, licensed vendors, as demonstrated by their supply catalogues. One need only consult a web page entitled “Find a Model” of Charles River Laboratories—among the largest suppliers of laboratory rodents in the United States—to encounter an impressive catalogue of mice bearing such names as NIH-III Nude, 129-Elite, B6 Albino, GLUT4, RIP-HAT, THE POUND MOUSE® and Immortomouse®. These are highly specialized genetic mouse strains fashioned for applications in immunologic, transgenic, xenotransplant, cancer, fertility, diabetes, or obesity research.26 Similarly, a competitor, Jackson Labs, produces its own strains of JAX® Mice, offering specialized “portfolios” for cancer transplantation, metabolic, and lupus research.27 In each case, domestication is most certainly driven by, in Zeder’s words, the “intentionality” to transform animals into “productive capital” through selective breeding and genetic manipulation, so that humans indeed assume “a significant level of control” over the reproduction of “resource” animals (2012, 163).
Finally, domesticates have histories. Whereas the archaeologist frequently maps the incorporation of dogs and horses into human societies, lab scientists construct very similar narratives that legitimate the human use of other species. In other words, human-animal partnerships in a range of contexts inspire narratives of natural coevolution. Zeder, for instance, describes the dog as “a classic example of a domestic animal that likely traveled a commensal pathway into domestication” (2012, 172). Yet, as lab narratives attest, one might easily replace the dog with the laboratory mouse. Consider this overview from a widely circulated guide to rodent colony management that can be found on the bookshelves of many laboratories:
Laboratory mice and rats are domesticated animals, as a comparison with wild-caught mice or rats will quickly show. Laboratory mice and rats are fatter, slower, less aggressive, and more amenable to handling than their wild-caught counterparts. As an organism that lives commensally with humans, there have been many opportunities through time for people to establish relationships, good or otherwise, with small beings living in their homes and fields. Mice originated in the Indian subcontinent and spread throughout the world with agriculture and human movement. The original habitat of the Norway rat is the steppes of northern China and Mongolia, and, like mice, rats have spread throughout the world with human migration. (Pritchett-Corning et al. 2015, 6)
Here, mice and rats are understood as coexisting in partnership (or “commensally”) with humans for millennia, their incorporation as valued domesticates enabled by the specialized pursuits of “mouse fanciers” in locations as distant as Japan and China with deep histories that extend back “at least [to] 1100 bce, and perhaps earlier.” Through such narratives, humans and rodents are entwined in a natural progression marked by coevolutionary partnerships. To return to Zeder, the recent “directed” (or, perhaps better phrased here, “redirected”) “pathway” of the lab mouse’s domestication has occurred through a “deliberate and directed process … initiated by humans with the goal of domesticating a free-living animal to obtain a specific resource or set of resources of interest” (2012, 176).
At work here is a retelling of the mouse’s tale through the prism of human-canine bonds, and so we return once again to the dog as an iconic species within science. That is, the dog sets the pace for how to massage the language surrounding the specialized use of mice and other species who are then seen as legitimate, naturalized partners of science whose evolutionary potential seems to push them willingly into laboratory life. During interviews, all sorts of species have been described to me in ways that underscore this process (and in terms that resonate with how we speak of dog breeds): lab animals of a range of species are “docile,” “easy to handle,” and “good natured,” and even those known for their “strength” or “stubbornness” display their “willingness” to “cooperate” and “enjoy the work” that characterizes hours of experimental engagement. I am often told that lab rats, rabbits, ferrets, and monkeys, alongside beagles, “take naturally to” or have been “bred to thrive” in lab settings. In the context of laboratory domestication, research animals are readily imagined as willing partners entwined in a “mutualistic” relationship with humans, an old dog story that has been retooled to incorporate mice and other creatures.
THE INTIMACY OF LABORATORY ENCOUNTERS
Successful encounters with lab animals require significant training and practice. This springs in large part from the realities that one must follow strict protocols when managing, handling, and working around experimental subjects, and that learning takes time and can take a toll on both animal and researcher (Birke, Arluke, and Michael 2007; Friese and Clarke 2012; Macdonald 2014). Lack of familiarity with other species plays a significant role too. Whereas nearly all animal technicians and lab veterinarians I have interviewed grew up around animals (who might have been house pets, hunting breeds, or livestock), few researchers could make such claims. In turn, whereas animal technicians and veterinarians gravitate to lab work because they are inspired by a deep affection for non-human species, researchers are drawn to their work because of the science itself. And although many of their respective activities overlap, an animal technician’s primary concerns are animal care and enrichment, while a researcher’s is mastering approaches that facilitate the generation of quality data.
Animal research entails a specialized set of skills that ultimately shapes one’s professional arc as a scientist. Such mastery never really rests for long in a stable state. One may claim this is so because no two animals are really alike, but research ethics plays a significant role too. To draw on the language of the Three Rs—replacement, reduction, and refinement—quality animal research is constantly undergoing change, and these guiding concepts are equally relevant to research design, species preference, and experimental activities. At the onset of their careers, lab researchers must master a two-pronged approach to animal experiments: as they master specialized skills, they must also learn to do so with emotional detachment. Not unlike novice clinicians, strong sympathetic responses of queasiness, sorrow, guilt, or fear signal that one lacks the emotional backbone to work productively in a lab environment.
Although lay readers might assume that seasoned researchers become hardened to animal welfare, my findings demonstrate the opposite. Instead, my data demonstrate that the most experienced lab personnel often prove to be the most empathetic toward the animals with whom they work. In the words of one senior lab director, he eventually learned over the decades to “to think like a monkey,” a sensibility he strives to impart to his graduate students. This affective register, however, is easily overlooked because it tends to be embedded in the mundane, patterned behaviors of quotidian laboratory practices. Close attention to researchers’ thoughts and actions nevertheless reveals how presumably standardized, orthodox routines can also offer compelling evidence of still other eclectic, contradictory, and affective thought and action. With this in mind I ask: How does one learn to master emotional detachment? How might this affective order shift over time? In turn, how do ideas about the morality
