Whether he’s writing about island biogeography, sociobiology, human nature or biodiversity, naturalist Edward O. Wilson tells a cracking good story. He’s a raconteur who compels us to stop for a moment and listen in rapt wonder to his captivating tales of forays into forests, where he uncovers rotted logs or overturns mounds in search of the great variety of species in the ant world. With characteristic passion and humor, Wilson regales us with Tales From the Ant World, combining memoir and scientific discovery into a spellbinding narrative of his lifelong devotion to myrmecology, the study of ants.

Most of us are familiar with the ants that track across our kitchen counters on warm spring days, but few of us take the time to consider those creatures’ lives. Wilson unveils the ant fauna, revealing the astonishing number of ants in the world (more than 15,000 species, and some have estimated that the number is closer to 25,000 or 30,000), their social quirks (pouring out of their “hidden bivouac,” uncoiling like a rope and moving “hard and fast” from “one stronghold to the next”) and their ways of communicating (of all the social insects that communicate by pheromones, ants are the virtuosos of chemical communication). 

Wilson’s absorbing and delightful book shows how extraordinary (and populous!) this common creature really is. As he puts it, “If Homo sapiens had not arisen as an accidental primate species on the grasslands of Africa, and spread worldwide, visitors from other star systems, when they come (and mark my word, they will eventually come), should be inclined to call Earth ‘planet of the ants.’ ” In his enchanting Tales From the Ant World, Wilson encourages readers to feed those ants in your kitchen and observe them. In doing so, you’ll discover a great deal about the social world of insects and, perhaps, about yourselves.

Australian writer Rebecca Giggs opens her book, Fathoms: The World in the Whale, with a disturbing scene: A crowd has gathered to observe the death of a beached whale, a process that can take days as the whale’s insides boil beneath its blubber. As the crowd takes selfies with the heaving leviathan, Giggs approaches an official who might be called upon to euthanize the whale. She learns that whales cannot be euthanized through a shot to their brain or heart; such acts would only increase the creature’s suffering. Instead, a poison informally known as Green Dream must be shot by the gallon into the whale. To avoid contaminating other wildlife, whales euthanized with Green Dream are then hauled to a dump, where they decompose with human waste. As this opening anecdote suggests, Giggs has an eye for unforgettable and disturbing details that probe at the ancient and ongoing relationship between humans and whales.

Whale eyes, whale tongues, whale noises, whale skin: Giggs explores the contours of humans’ obsession with whales over time in terrific specificity. Her investigation is historical, cultural, biological and personal. She has pursued whales herself, visiting decomposing whales, going whale watching and, as a child, reaching out a small hand to touch a whale skeleton in a museum (a skeleton whose provenance she later traces, wondering how so many dead whales came to hang in museums). She travels to Japan to eat whale and discusses them with others—at dinner parties with friends and in small university offices with academics. All of this is engaging. Yet it is Giggs’ poetic and insightful analysis that elevates this book into something unforgettable.

In the whale, Giggs truly does find the world. She finds clues that unlock how humans have engaged nature—tales of greed, aggression, wonder, desperation, longing, nostalgia, love, curiosity and obsession. Her prose, previously published in literary outlets such as Granta, is luminous. “A whale is a wonder,” she writes near the book’s end, “not because it is the world’s biggest animal, but because it augments our moral capacity.” In tracing humankind’s continuing intersection with these alluring creatures, Giggs ultimately uncovers seeds of hope and, planting them in her fertile mind, cultivates a lush landscape that offers remarkable views of nature, humanity and how we might find a way forward together.

The polar explorations of the 19th and 20th centuries are well-chronicled journeys to both the North and South poles, strewn with well-known names such as Shackleton, Peary, Scott, Nansen and Amundsen. Less well known is the first, albeit reluctant, penguin biologist, a British physician named Gregory Murray Levick who accompanied Robert F. Scott on his doomed attempt to reach the South Pole in 1912. This was a man who knew little about—and had even less interest in—studying penguins, preferring instead to eat them whenever necessary (which was often the case).

Yet according to his modern-day counterpart, fellow penguin biologist and author Lloyd Spencer Davis, the rather odd Levick would inspire Davis’ own career choice decades later. In Davis’ enthralling account, A Polar Affair: Antarctica’s Forgotten Hero and the Secret Love Lives of Penguins, he grows to respect and admire Levick, afflicted though Levick was with the rigid Victorian values that put him uncomfortably at odds with the promiscuous Adélie penguins.

Levick, in fact, was so ambivalent about reporting what he observed in the subcolonies of breeding penguins—the “bawdy behavior of these ‘hooligans’”—that he pasted paper over certain passages in his journal, as if he were embarrassed by what he saw. His assumptions about those “prim and proper, monogamous little creatures that mate for life” were dashed. As for the explorers themselves, Davis quickly adds, “Sexual misdemeanors in the polar regions are not, it would seem, the province of Adélie penguins alone.” The valiant explorers and their many lovers, as Davis writes it, were no strangers to amorous discoveries. Shackleton, for example, “is probably more penguin than he is a man of his word when it comes to marital fidelity.”

With treacherous ice floes entrapping ships, invisible crevasses that became deathtraps, scurvy, frostbite and much, much more, Davis’ Antarctica is a vividly described, unforgiving world of ice and wind—where, by the way, freezing, starving men had to eat their dogs and ponies, and on Sundays gathered for Bible readings and hymns. But not all the dangers were weather-induced. Scott’s wife, Katherine, wrote and exhorted him to die, if necessary, to achieve his goal. Beaten to the pole by Amundsen and doomed by his many mistakes, Scott succumbed to the elements, his frozen body still clutching her letter. 

Somehow, Davis serves it all up with wit and a wry, irrepressible sense of humor, while imparting everything there is to know about penguins.

ALSO IN BOOKPAGE: Read about the 14 most interesting penguin facts from Lloyd Spencer Davis, author of A Polar Affair.

Twenty years ago, bestselling author, journalist and photographer Jon Katz left a busy Manhattan life to buy his first farm in upstate New York. In his new work of nonfiction, Talking to Animals, Katz reflects on two decades of living close to animals. But this new book encompasses much more than Katz recounting how he’s learned to communicate with the animals in his life: unforgettable dogs, as well as a blind pony, a donkey, an old rooster named Winston and a 3,000-pound Swiss steer called Elvis. Talking to Animals is also an autobiography of sorts, a meditation that illuminates the author’s journey from childhood trauma, through divorce, to healing, fulfillment and love.

One of the pleasures of Katz’s writing is getting to know the individual animals that have played such an important part in his life—especially the dogs. From his first puppy, Lucky, who provided solace to a bullied child, to the wonderful Border Collie Rose, who helped Katz learn to live on a farm and take care of lambs, each animal comes alive as fully as a character in fiction. Rose was also part of the dramatic encounter that revealed to Katz the possibilities of communicating with animals in a different way. One evening in the woods, he and Rose found their path blocked by three coyotes. Fearing that the untrained young dog would charge ahead, Katz closed his eyes and painted a picture of what he wanted to happen: “I imagined Rose still, ears up, tail up, back straight.” To his astonishment, Rose followed his visualized command, intimidating the intruders.

Looking back, Katz notes that each animal in his life “has taught me something. Sometimes it is about listening, sometimes about talking. Often it is about me.” Readers who live with and love animals might well say the same—and may find themselves looking at their four-legged companions in new ways.     

Pit bulls used to be beloved family pets, movie stars and even war heroes. But over time, the dogs that had been America’s darlings developed a bad reputation. If you think that’s as it should be because pit bulls are bred to fight, or because their jaws exert more pressure than other dogs, or because they have aggressive temperaments, think again. Pit Bull: The Battle over an American Icon traces the breed’s current pariah status to some shameful and familiar sources.

Author Bronwen Dickey looks at pits throughout history. Their eagerness to learn made them ideal for acting roles, and they were brave companions to Civil War regiments. There’s no statistical support for the notion that pits harm more people than any other breed of dog, and they don’t actually have magical vise-grip jaws (a “fact” not supported by any real evidence). Media hysteria and scapegoating of the urban poor combined to make the pit bull an easy target. In fact, overblown reporting on the dog-fighting phenomenon not only led to an increase in this cruel sport but also gave the activity additional street cred. 

Dickey, a contributing editor at the Oxford American, repeatedly draws parallels between treatment of poor and disenfranchised humans and their dogs, and it’s damning testimony. Animal advocates take pets away from owners they’ve deemed “unfit” when what the owners really need is access to services that many others take for granted. Breed-specific legislation has yet to lead to a decrease in dog bites, but it’s still widely supported. If you’re bitten by a poodle it’s unlikely to be news, but a pit bull “attack” still sells papers in much the same way shark attacks do (one paper called pits “sharks on paws”). As one observer tells Dickey, “As long as there are different classes of people, there will be different classes of dogs.” 

With Dickey’s thorough reporting on a provocative topic, Pit Bull shows how the human need for something to blame can put innocent victims in the crosshairs.

RELATED CONTENT: Read our interview with Dickey about Pit Bull. 

This article was originally published in the May 2016 issue of BookPage. Download the entire issue for the Kindle or Nook.