Basic Instincts
August 10, 2006

How do doves ever manage to procreate?

Our yard is full of 40-year-old fruit trees, dense with branches and cushiony leaves, but year after year the doves attempt to build a nest on the drainpipe outside our bathroom window. This is not exactly a luxury penthouse, nest-wise; it's a slick metal surface no more that three inches wide that slopes from the roofline back to the wall.

All spring and summer, scrub jays and mockingbirds dance merrily along the back fence, poking bugs down the throats of their squealing new hatchlings. The wretched starlings reproduce like amoebas, pumping out a new generation about every five minutes. But for months, the doves persist in trying to set up housekeeping on that drainpipe.

They come in pairs, as cooing and dewy-eyed as any young lovebirds ready to move in together. Typically, the female settles her feathers down on the pipe, then the male arrives with a payload of twigs in his beak. Most of the time he lands on top of her—not a lot of room on that pipe—bobs his tiny head out over her side and lets loose the twig. Which immediately drops to the ground, far, far below. This happens day after day. We have a nest of twigs, fluff and feathers the size of a Weber grill on the concrete walk beneath the drainpipe. Yet the pipe itself remains as bald as the egg the doves will never get a chance to produce. How can they ever get on base (let alone score a homer) when they can't even build the ballpark? You'd think doves would be as extinct as the Dodo by now.

We felt so sorry for the doves this year we tried to help them out. Art Boy hung a basket from the rafter right next to the drainpipe, with sturdy sides and a wide, flat bottom. Talk about spoiling the mood. Our human cooties must have put the kibosh on the whole deal; the doves abandoned the pipe, the roof, that entire corner of the yard. Well, it was a noble failure, we thought. At least maybe we'd driven them off to find a more suitable perch. Something comfy and private, in a nice tree, perhaps.

But, no. We took the basket down, and within 24 hours, the doves were back on the drainpipe with a fresh load of twigs and optimism, ready to resume their Sisyphean labors. Unable to grasp the consequences of their fruitless actions, they'll keep it up until the first chill of fall chases them off. Their instinct to nest is irresistible.

Human instincts are pretty compelling too: to feed ourselves, find shelter, escape danger, procreate. These desires are coded into our genes, animal survival skills reinforced by Biblical directive. Be fruitful and multiply. Everybody's doing it. But the rules are different for young women just beginning their reproductive lives; those least able to resist these basic instincts are expected to just say no.

Abstinence-only programs are the only kind of sex ed in the schools the present government will fund; teen girls who most need straight information about birth control and STDs are out of luck. Creaky anti-abortion legislation from the Stone Age is being reactivated in places like South Dakota and Louisiana to protect all those poor unborn American babies. (You can bet no one will be fulminating over those precious babies' right to life when they come of age and get shipped off to Iraq.) Meanwhile the female American babies most likely to give birth to them are sent out into the world uneducated and defenseless.

The ancients counseled moderation in all things, but since then, the idea of sensible self-control has gotten all mixed up with issues of morality. Some of our most cherished survival instincts have strayed into the fuzzy grey area of sins to be punished. Moral prohibitions against killing, stealing, or otherwise wreaking havoc on one's neighbor for personal gain, hey, I'm all for them. But take gluttony, once considered as deadly a sin as lust, but evidently devalued these days, judging by the rampant obesity in the land. Those who can't control their urge to eat aren't condemned for it in every pulpit; no one suggests they're beyond God's forgiveness. Not so the judgment on uncontrolled teen sexuality, which is expected to be swift, terrible, and morally justified.

Last month, when a new vaccine to prevent cervical cancer in susceptible younger women was recommended for 11- and 12-year-old girls, conservative groups and even some parents protested the recommendation. See, the cancer-causing virus is sexually transmitted, and the very idea trod on their delicate moral sensibilities. Never mind that the vaccine must be given before sexual activity begins, or it doesn't work. They'd rather risk their daughters' lives than prevent cancer if s-e-x is involved. Better dead than bed, I guess.

The operative word here is prevent. No one is really pro-abortion, but that divisive issue could be significantly declawed if more of us were pro-prevention. Access to contraceptive information—or a life-saving vaccine—doesn't absolve a girl from making a responsible moral choice about her sexuality. But they could be the proverbial ounce of prevention worth a pound of devastating "cure" if she chooses unwisely. Our basic instincts are powerful stuff. Just ask those doves.