Pet Theories and Pet Peeves in the Company of Animals by James Serpell; Blackwell; 215 pages; $19.95

By R.Z. Sheppard

James Serpell puts the U.S. gross national pet product at $7.5 billion a year. The figure covers the cost of food and veterinary services for 475 million cats, dogs, birds, rodents, reptiles and aquarium fish. Presumably there are extras such as doggy spas, rhinestone collars, pooper scoopers and what professionals in the domestic-animal world might call alternate-species entombment. The costs are proportionately staggering in the households of the European Community, home to an estimated 91 million nonhuman inhabitants, excluding unwelcome vermin.

None of this makes much practical sense, says Serpell, a research associate in animal behavior at the University of Cambridge. To appreciate his view of human-animal relations, it is necessary to face a tangle of mutual benefits and glaring paradoxes. Why, for example, should one little piggy be indulged as an intelligent pet while another, equally alert, is abstracted as pork- belly futures? Humans are, of course, aggressive carnivores with unusual powers of rationalization. They are also unpredictable in their attachments. Serpell tells of a Texas hairdresser whose four-week-old daughter was killed by the family Rottweiler. Her response after hearing that the beast would have to be destroyed: "I can always have another baby but I can't replace my dog Byron."

In China, during the Ch'ing dynasty, the Emperors' Pekingese were suckled by wet nurses, raised by eunuchs and given royal rank. Tsunayoshi, the "Dog Shogun" of 17th century Japan, distorted his nation's economy to pamper his 100,000 canines. Ovid and Catullus wrote poems to commemorate the deaths of their mistresses' birds, and trendy Romans kept pet turbot. Today a dog's vita can be just as dolce. Three years ago, Lady Beaverbrook booked all the seats in the business section of a jumbo jet so that she and her pooch could travel in solitary comfort.

Such excess, suggests Serpell, leads to the still prevalent view that demonstrative affection for animals is peculiar, if not unnatural. In 16th century Europe, women who talked to animals ran the risk of being incinerated for witchcraft. Today the ardent pet enthusiast is suspected of being a closet misanthrope. Not necessarily. The author's reading of available data tends to a more positive interpretation: "a vague suggestion that some pet-owners, for reasons which are unclear, may have a greater desire for company and friendship and because of this use their pets to augment what they already derive from the companionship of humans." Despite this careful tone, In the Company of Animals is a work of cross-cultural panache. Serpell writes passionately and well about a subject that seems to have fallen between the cracks of specializations. His overview is sweeping and provocative. To wit: in traditional Western thought, God created humans in his own image and animals to serve mankind. This anthropocentric view dominated religion and philosophy for more than 2,000 years, and still exerts a powerful influence. But so do our animal instincts, the cause of psychological conflict and moral ambivalence.

Serpell's pet theories embrace the familiar argument that modern culture has placed artificial barriers between man and the natural world. Like many who confront this idea, he can be nostalgic in his definitions. The hunter- gatherers of the ice age, for example, are idealized as the beneficiaries of a golden period. Animals were considered edible but equal; protein was plentiful, and work hours fewer than they would ever be when Homo sapiens organized into agricultural communities.

The first known pet owner may have lived 12,000 years ago in what is now northern Israel. There, in 1978, archaeologists discovered two Paleolithic skeletons: an aged human with its hand resting on the remains of a five-month- old dog. Serpell interprets this as an affectionate gesture, and only a churl would suggest that the evidence is slender.

Emotional ties between man and beast are well documented, although locating the roots of these bonds is a matter of speculation. Cats and dogs, says Serpell, have characteristics compatible with humans. The wolf, a forerunner of today's dog, has strong pack instincts, an attribute that made attachment to early human groups relatively easy. Cats are highly territorial, making them suitable pets for the permanently settled. Both species share the desirable trait of eliminating their wastes outside their dens. Less tangible is the "cute response." Serpell's sources suggest that the pudgy features of all young mammals elicit sympathetic and nurturing reactions from adults.

Still, a dog's life is subject to cultural differences. What is adorable in Pasadena might be pronounced delicious in Pyongyang. Whether a cat ends up in a lap or a wok is a matter of local custom. There are moments when Serpell seems to harbor a hidden vegetarian agenda. His descriptions of the insensitive technology of pig farming and "porcine stress syndrome" take the fun out of a ham sandwich. Yet In the Company of Animals is not intended to change our habits but to open our minds. Historians, psychologists, sociologists and Lady Beaverbrook may resent Serpell's romp through their territories. Both petted and petless readers should welcome the incursions.