Читать книгу A Test of Patients - Martin Atkinson - Страница 8

Maybe they’re human after all...

Most people, when they have a pet, consider it to be part of the family. Although there may be social benefits to the human members from this relationship, unfortunately this can lead to some behavioural issues if pets are over-humanised. Indeed, some people really seem to believe that their pets have taken on an almost human persona. I’ve always considered myself enough of a realist not to encourage the sort of anthropomorphism that some of my clients seem to indulge in, you know, when pet owners say things like, “he understands every word I say”, and “he thinks he’s human”. I usually nod sagely and say little, not wishing to either condone this misconception or to appear so dismissive that they think I’m the callous, cold hearted cynic I really am!

Our understanding of the function of animals’ cognitive thought processes and how they are determined through evolutionary change and environmental factors, makes us aware that it is pet owners misinterpreting these animal behaviours as apparent human traits. However, every now and again there comes along a certain individual animal, which displays intelligence that is far above the expected level for its species. If this happens to be your own pet, then you are able to rely on your own observations and interpretations rather than those of a misguided, irrational lay owner.

One such animal was a cat called Tigger. Being totally black other than few white chest hairs, it is difficult to know why his previous owner gave him this name, but probably not as irrational as a client of mine who called her cat Blackie when it was in fact totally white. She so named him because, in her own words, “I used to have a cat exactly the same as this only it was black”! Tigger’s owner had brought him in to be euthanased because he was supposedly vicious. Admittedly she bore the scars of several alleged attacks but as he was such a young healthy cat I was unable to put him down and decided, with her permission, to try and re-home him.

He was temporarily housed in the recovery kennels where his angelic looks and friendly demeanour belied his ferocious reputation. Being pet-less and living in the assistant’s bachelor pad, I decided I would give him a home. All went well to start with and he settled in rapidly as a regular pet cat. Then one day, as I was sitting watching the TV with Tigger on my lap, he suddenly sunk his teeth into my leg. “Wait”, I hear you say, “Where are the signs of intelligence in this? Surely here is just a cat showing signs of dominance aggression”.

Well, this is of course true and a reflex smart whack resulted in a surprised look on the cat’s face that said as plain as day, “Hey! noone has done that before. I guess I’d better respect this guy; he’s showing me who the boss is” (Sorry that was pure anthropomorphism). Following this minor showdown and having established who the alpha male in this relationship was, we got on famously henceforth.

The time came when I needed to go on holiday and Tigger was kennelled back at the surgery while I was away. This happened on a couple of occasions before we realised that each time he spent a few days in there, a number of other cats showed symptoms of cat flu, resulting in the conclusion that Tigger must be a carrier. This, of course, didn’t go down especially well with the other patients’ owners or the boss, resulting in Tigger being barred and having to travel with me each time I went away, at least in the UK. Initially I did the recommended thing, sedating him and putting him in a cat basket, which had the result of a stressed and confused cat, who messed itself after a few minutes.

On one occasion I stopped and disposed of the offending faeces into a roadside waste bin. Before I’d even got back in the car, a tramp appeared, assuming, I guess, that I might have chucked out a tasty morsel! I didn’t hang around to observe the aftermath but drove off smartly as I observed him in my rear view mirror, rummaging through the bin. With time I realised that Tigger was much happier, and would settle better, when he was not in a basket and indeed he would just curl up and sleep for most of the journey on a car seat or the rear parcel shelf, occasionally sitting up to observe the passing scenery much to the amusement of passers-by.

This is something that would be frowned upon now and some sort of restraint would be advocated but heck, this was the eighties, the hippie era was only just ending and seat belts for all human passengers were not even compulsory then. The first time we travelled like this to my parent’s home in Birmingham, Tigger jumped out of the car as I opened the door and, after an initial mini-panic that he’d run into the road, I realised he was just sitting waiting for me. He then followed me up the drive to the house, sat until the front door was opened and boldly walked in.

On subsequent occasions he didn’t bother waiting for me, but went up to the house door by himself and waited. He would follow this routine wherever we went. I was beginning to realise he was an exceptional cat. There are some dogs I wouldn’t trust with such learned behaviour and this notion was reinforced by an incident when we were travelling home one winter’s night.

I was involved in a minor traffic accident on the motorway and had got out to exchange details with the other driver. I drove home, but when I arrived, Tigger was nowhere to be seen. After a frantic and fruitless search, I had to conclude that he must have jumped out the car when the accident occurred. I retraced my journey as quickly as possible, fearing the worst. Fortunately I’d formed a pretty good cognitive map as to the location of the incident and was able to pull onto the hard shoulder within yards of it. Thankfully there was no evidence of road-kill on the carriageway, but the grass was very long and in the dark there would be little possibility of spotting a black cat. No worry, within just a few seconds of pulling up and one call there was meow, a soft furry shape brushed against my legs and there was Tigger. I’d been gone at least an hour, but he’d had the sense to stay put and trusted me to return for him.

Tigger’s finest hour, however, came one Christmas holiday. We’d travelled to Birmingham for the festive season now with an additional companion – Mummy Cat. Mummy Cat was so called because, surprise, surprise, she was an abandoned mother with a litter of kittens, and as with most veterinary staff pets, was yet another in need of re-homing. Mummy Cat was the intellectual antithesis of Tigger and could not be trusted with any of the freedom he enjoyed. Tigger could be let out as soon as we arrived wherever I went and I knew that as soon as I called him, even if he was nowhere to be seen, he’d come back within minutes, but no such privilege could be afforded to Mummy Cat.

However, towards the end of the week she seemed settled and it was deemed safe to let her out. When night fell, even after repeated calling, she was nowhere to be seen and it was starting to snow heavily so we were concerned. Tigger had, as usual, returned when summoned and come in for a feed and settled down for the night. We awoke next day to a foot of snow. I called intermittently all day for Mummy Cat but to no avail. I had resorted to clambering over garden fences calling her name continuously with no results. In the search I’d even put my foot through someone’s cold-frame that was buried in the snow and cut my leg.

As dusk fell on the second night, it was nearly time to return south and I began to be really worried that Mummy Cat had perished in the cold. It was getting late and looking like I’d have to go back without her, but I tried one last time. Tigger hadn’t bothered going out much because of the weather and had slept most of the day. By now he had risen from his slumber and, having been alerted by the commotion, came out to join me at the bottom of the garden. I looked at him and said, “go and find Mummy Cat, Tigger”.

To my amazement he stumbled off into the snow, now deeper than the length of his legs, meowing as he went until, after just a few seconds, a little head popped up out of a snow-covered bush just yards from where we’d been standing. It was Mummy Cat and she just walked out and followed Tigger back to me. He sat there with a smug look of, “aren’t I a clever boy? Why couldn’t you manage that?”, and she just looked relieved. If I hadn’t seen this with my own eyes I’d have dismissed it as a coincidence and maybe it was, but I’m prepared to believe he understood the predicament, if not my words. I’ve not experienced a cat as intelligent as him before or since. He would fetch things when instructed and play and retrieve just like a dog so long as it suited him – well he was a cat after all! He seemed to express emotions of pleasure and disappointment, guilt and disdain, just as a child would. If I went a way for just a day or two with someone else caring for him he would be obviously delighted to see me on my return, but if I went away for longer he would give me the cold shoulder for a few hours, seeming to say, “You left me on my own for too long so I’m not going to give you the pleasure of an emotional reunion until it suits me”. Even so the sceptic in me tends to concede that all this is just too anthropomorphic and was more likely the pet owner’s classical misinterpretation of basic animal body language... but I’m not so sure.

So to all vets reading this: remember this tale when you dismiss Mrs Smith’s assertion that Fluffy or Spot is really human and understands everything she says. Don’t scoff too much – she might just be right.