Chupacabra = not very coyote-like coyote

We have another chupacabra candidate.



Jerry Ayer pretty much admits that not knowing what to call it is good enough for him. So he might as well call it a chupacabra. And why not? It'll help bring some attention to his taxidermy business.

But the issue of what we expect a chupacabra to be is harder to resolve. From an investigative position I have to say that longer front legs doesn't convince me this isn't a coyote. Some will argue that just looking at it should be enough evidence that it's not a coyote. It doesn't look like one and that's how we decide most animal classifications. This is an OK argument as far as we trust that seeing something provides us with enough information about it to include or exclude it in a class. If we take the time to identify what exactly doesn't look like a coyote, we come up with the same argument. Just more detailed. No fur = we trust it's not a coyote. But long legs? This is why just lookin' can be so easily countered. Because impressions need to survive investigation.

The old saying about looking sounding and... tasting like a duck is really based on an interplay of feature analysis and prototypes. Prototype theory suggests that we have an idea of an ideal duck in mind when we call something a duck. And we know when we see a good example of what we were thinking.¹ Feature analysis works by proposing a checklist of those features common to a set. Proper features might be something like physical characteristics. Size. Shape. Skin/coat type. When distinguishing species, it's safe to say that something [+scales] is not the same species as something [-scales][+fur]. So for any category, feature analysis will suggest that there is a set of features that are necessary and sufficient for classification. So every member of a group is and must be [+F1] [+F2] [+F3]...

But features are tough to lock down. Features like quadriped or biped can be used when categorizing members of some classes. So among other things, a human is [+biped] and a dog is [+quadriped]. But a husky with two legs is still a dog. Even if it was born with two legs. So we can add a set of transitive features. A little mammal born of a dog is also a dog.² Even if it doesn't have some of the features we use to identify dogs. But this is just passing the buck. Such transitive features rely on the premise that the class of one dog is already known. In some cases this is valid. Like the difference between a Ford and a Chrysler.³ But we haven't moved too far with the analysis. We find ourselves stuck with the ultimate feature being tautological. A dog is [+dog].

This question of the chupacabra works by subtraction. The argument is almost explicit that since it's "unlike anything native to Texas" it must be that mysterious chupacabra that we have never before seen. That's not a very strong argument. But we use some of the assumed features of the chupacabra in our analysis. I wrote about this exact topic a couple of years ago.

So now we see that Texas has produced two of what look like the same weird little sucker. And only 130 miles apart. I'll go out on a limb and say that if we find a few more of these creatures that look like bald coyotes with long front legs, a new category will be created. Some name will be suggested. But no one will accept that this is the little monster. The chupacabra will still be an elusive little wingless bat that must remain [+mysterious].

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1. That's too simple to be very helpful. But we'll move on for the sake of space.
2. One big question here: are we sure it's a dog because when born of a dog it must be a dog, or because we trust that it simply will be a dog?
3. Let's avoid the arguments about quality usually heard in the vicinity of a set of truck nuts and bumper sticker of Calvin taking a leak.

Getting your turds wisted

Some of the most offensive jokes I know use an implied spoonerism as the punchline. Certain answers to the question 'What's the different between X and Y' easily evoke the same phrase with some inverted onsets. Especially when the words in the punchline aren't too common or are similar to conspicuously offensive words.

And the relative frequency of spoonerisms as a speech error is good evidence that word sounds are organised in a manner that makes onset inversion one of the easier switches.

But similar sounds can easily invert even if one an onset and the other is a coda. Even if the syllable onset is word internal.

In the office the other day Ed our renaissance scholar was admitting the daunting task of submitting writing to our esteemed professors. One professor--last name Ross--is known for speaking his mind and not suffering foolishness. "I definitely feel the presure...pressure with Ross. I do feel the presure."

Buffy looked over at me. I looked up at her. "You're going into his blog" she announced to Ed.

I've chosen "presure" to represent his pronunciation with the alveolar [s] instead of the postalveolar fricative [ʃ]. I was sad to hear that he didn't actually flip the [s] and [ʃ]. He caught himself before he completed the phrase--corrected the pronunciation of pressure--and proceeded to say "Ross" instead of "Rosh" as I was hoping to hear.

But when I told him that he paused and suggested that he might have in fact said "Rosh."

"No" I assured him. "I was hoping you would."

"Are you sure?"

"I'm sure. I was disappointed when I heard you pronounce the [s]."

But he did offer another interesting error. When he repeated pressure it flipped back to the alveolar fricative.

That leads me to the following mysteries:

It's not clear that the first [s] was a result of switched segments. He corrected himself and perhaps it was regressive assimilation (over a long distance) from the [s] in Ross. Maybe he was never going to say Rosh. That's not as fun.

The [s] in the last performance of pressure didn't precede an occurrence of Ross--so progressive assimilation from the already pronounced "Ross" is likely. But it's more exciting to think that it was a partially realized inversion--the other half of which was never going to be pronounced. If so then even tho the second "Ross" wasn't going to make it to performance it was still part of the organization and structure of his sentence. And we saw its ghost by the appearance of the coda [s] in the 2nd syllable onset when he said "presure" [pɻɛsɹ̩ ] instead of "pressure" [pɻɛʃɹ̩ ].

An inversion through phonemic haunting perhaps?

_

The chupacabra in all possible worlds....

Phylis Canion of Cuero Texas found this ugly little beast dead on the side of the road. She's been calling it the legendary chupacabra and she's waiting for DNA testing to prove that it's...uh...not a dog?

Is this the mythical chupacabra? It depends on what your definition of is is. Or maybe just your definition of chupacabra. If you mean an odd looking creature with protruding teeth about the size of a small dog--then sure. This is a chupacabra. If you mean a small animal that hunts chickens and is rarely seen--then maybe this is a chupacabra. If you mean the very species of animal that has actually committed rampant goaticide and chickicide and has inspired many tales of demonic blood-sucking creatures from Puerto Rico, Mexico, the U.S. and several other countries--then...well...this and coyotes and wild dogs and foxes and jaguars and panthers and some snakes and birds of prey and mischievous humans are all 'el chupacabra'. Maybe even rats.


Legends are fascinating semantically because they are defined by their Prototypical Properties and yet they are extremely flexible because they often have no well-examined extension by which to create a Typical Denotatum. Necessary Conditions are almost impossible to impose because each speaker has merely chosen which of the Necessary Conditions make up the intention. And extensions are almost always ephemeral and partial. Sightings are merely instances of faith that investigation will not reduce a collection of properties to those belonging only to the extension of another already attested intention.

So Canion really can't expect that the DNA tests will prove that her creature is a chupacabra. There is no extension of that animal or its DNA that can serve as a standard for Necessary Conditions. So far she can only hope that the DNA is not limited to the same properties that are necessary and sufficient to denote the DNA of a dog or some other animal--probably canine. But even if the DNA does limit this to a canine of some sort all is not lost. It might turn out that the chupacabra was a nasty little mutt all along. That would require that some of the previously argued conditions of the chupacabra be discarded.

Because if by chupacabra you mean this



Then no. This is not the chupacabra.

(photos by Eric Gay/AP)
(drawing from here.)

I never said that!

***Please forgive the increasingly dry and technical cant of my posts. School is coming up and I have to get back in the mode of writing like a textbook. My contributions will likely become reflections on my studies - I certainly hope that doesn't shatter the interest of those few of you who do me the favour of checking in to see if you care about what I write.***

Abstract forms are a controversial topic in linguistics. In syntax there are schools of thought that claim our minds work with un-pronounced (un-expressed? un-said?) items all the time.

One simple example of this is the phrase: "I want to eat." According to the minimalist camp there are no fewer than 2 words that are nullified in this phrase. The underlying representation (or the grammatical form that our mind knows but our mouth doesn't express) is closer to this: "I want (for me) to eat."

One argument is that every verb needs to be done by a noun. So the first "I" does the "wanting." Something else needs to do the "eating." So we put a form of "I" in there to do the eating (but because it's an object of the first clause it takes the "me" form). So apparently it's true - "You" can't have your cake and eat it too...

The suggestion is that we know these things and they shape the grammar of the words we utter - even if we never pronounce the null constituents or realize that they're in that crazy little brain of ours. The inevitable argument against such abstractions is countered with the following: Being proficient does not mean that we are able to analyse our proficiency.

In phonology there are some proposed abstract forms that may change our phonemic inventory if we believe they exist. It's a very technical argument and I apologize that I don't have the skill to explain it in an interesting manner. Let's start with a question and just hope that you care to find the answer. Here's the setup to the question. Of all the sounds in the English inventory there is only one that never occurs at the beginning of a word: the eng. This is that nasal sound that we put at the end of sing thing ring wing and just before the /k/ in sink think rink and wink. Every other consonant is possible at the beginning of a word. Why does this never occur initially? Some propose an abstract representation of all those -ing words.

The argument goes like this. The nasal in those words is underlyingly the same as the /n/ in sin thin or win. But because it comes before a /g/ it moves back to assimilate in place (just like the /n/ moves forward to assimilate to a /p/ in a phrase such as "ten people." Trust me - in normal speech you say "tem people." No one ever believes us when we tell them this). After the assimilation the /g/ is deleted - perhaps due to some special rule that deletes a voiced velar /g/ after a nasal /n/. And we see some evidence that this rule is not applied all the time. You may have heard someone from New York talk about "Long-Gisland." This is not proof - just evidence. So perhaps the eng never occurs at the beginning of a word because it's not an actual phoneme of the English language - it's just an allophone. There are no words that begin with ng- or nk-. Those would be the only clusters that would create the eng consonant.

(The real controversy in this is the distinction between dynamic and static phonological data - are we talking about language just as it is today or are we talking about language as it changes over years and years?)

And then we come to the /h/. This sound never occurs at the end of a word.¹ But this isn't so strange because the /h/ is a fickle sound that has disappeared in many places.² take for instance the common pronunciations of vehicle and vehement. Consider also the /h/ sound that used to be found at the beginning of which and whether. And then we have the fast-speech habit of dropping initially.

Tell 'im we're leaving?
Does 'e care?
Well 'e said 'e wanted to see 'er...

(Calling attention to such habits is why Eliza Doolittle was trained with the phrase "In Hartford, Hereford, and Hampshire Hurricanes hardly happen.")

Here is the most startling discovery about English I've made in the last several years (I didn't actually discover this - I merely learned it while doing some research). When we say "'em" for the plural third person (e.g. "Those people look hungry. Give 'em some pickles.") we are not deleting the initial th- of them. The evidence? There is no other word that begins with th- that we pronounce without that onset. We never say -

Where are 'ey going?
Is 'is the right place?
I'd like some of 'ose over 'ere?

By observation of the lack of this process we conclude that the 'em we say is not a shortened form of them. We are in fact deleting the initial /h/ of an older form hem that was more common in Middle English. So for most of our lives we've been using the shortened form of a word we had no idea we knew.

Again - analysis must reveal those things that proficiency hides even from the proficient.

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An allophone is an alternation of a single phoneme that is not recognized as a distinctive part of the phonemic inventory - i.e. the hear interprets the two sounds as the same sound. The clearest class of allophonic alternation is the difference change in the /t/ in tack and stack. In tack there is a puff of air after the /t/ that we call aspiration. In stack there is no similar puff of air. But the ear does not consider these two different sounds because they are merely allophonic. Two distinct phonemes would change the meaning of the word and be heard as different. So "lock" and "rock" begin with different phonemes in English. But not every language hears the difference. In some Asian languages these would merely be allophonic and be heard as the same word. --Go back to reading--

1. Well this isn't completely true. Loch is sometimes pronounced with the final /h/. This word comes from the Old Irish and into the Scottish Gaelic and has preserved a phoneme that is for all intents and purposes obsolete in the U.S. We can see this effect in the American use of the word - homophonic with lock. To our phonological ear the heavy /h/ is merely the product of a brogue. We would no more likely use that sound than we would rrroll our arrrs. Most Americans only know these sounds as the tricks to sounding like groundskeeper Willie.

"Eef elected merrr, mi fairst act wull be tuh kill theh whole lot of yuh - and boorrn yer toon to cindairs!"
--Go back to reading--

2. And sometimes we throw it in somewhere just to clarify borders. I remember in high school choir one kid had to sing the phrase "ever more and ever more." He always took a breath before the "and." This left him thinking that he had to accentuate the beginning of "and." So it always sounded like "hand." With a little choral training he would have learned that the proper syllabification could best be written "ever mo -ran -dever more."--Go back to reading--