I watched a show about animal intelligence this evening, and it got me thinking. One story in particular, about dogs, featured a Doberman that had been living homeless, eating garbage and fending for itself. It was adopted by a woman who took it home and, after gaining its trust, noticed that it had a very odd behavior: It would arrange toys in very specific ways, and the woman, who was not a scientist, keenly noticed this trait and notified someone who did know about such things. After taking great pains to ensure the dog wasn’t coached or was being inadvertently cued by hovering humans, films of the dog showed that it did, indeed, place toys in carefully “thought out” arrangements. Triangles were a favorite, and straight, often parallel lines were also in the dog’s repertoire. Many times, the dog would place the toys (stuffed bears or frogs) in piles of three or four. You might say any dog could do that, but this particular dog would arrange the toys so that all would either be face up or face down. Random you say? Possibly. But the dog had a trick that, in my opinion, exhibited a human-like quality that is simply impossible to ignore. Here’s what happened.
Because the dog had been taken from a solitary life, the woman who adopted it had to have a good deal of patience, especially when it came to common human/dog interactive behavior such as petting. The dog was skittish at first with the woman, and wouldn’t allow her to touch him very much, but he did put his decorating skills on display. Gradually, the apprehension faded, and there came a time when the woman was able to put her arm completely around the dog, giving it a hug, as it were. The amazing arranging dog then added a new flair to its toy placement the very next day: The woman noticed that it had placed several toys in groups of two, and without fail, one of the arms of the random toys was wrapped around the other, as if hugging it.
It’s easy for humans to associate their emotions with that of a dog (Awww, he’s sad, or he’s thinking about dinner), but I found it utterly fascinating that a dog would manipulate its toys to mimic behavior. What was the dog trying to do? Communicate?
We just don’t give animals enough credit sometimes. The last line of the program, spoken about dogs, said “They know us far better than we know them”, and I cannot argue with that, but I wouldn’t confine it to just dogs. I believe the same can be said for cats, and I’ll make my case for it. As usual, I have to tell one story to tell another, so bear with me.
My cat died recently. I’d had him for fifteen years, but I have no idea how old he was. My ex wife brought him home one day, and he looked the same then as he did the day he died, albeit minus a few teeth. I won’t bore you with how wonderful he was; there were times when he pissed me off to no end. He wasn’t nearly as expressive as the artistic dog, but he got his points across. If I left for a week at a time for vacation, or even for a day or two, he would make his statement by pooping in the shower stall. Not a wet, messy spray, but one well-placed little turd left lying on the drain strainer told me that while he could fend for himself for a couple days, he didn’t really like it. He also didn’t like riding in the car, but he resigned himself to it and didn’t freak out. I don’t think he ever communicated as clearly, though, as he did in the last minutes of his life.
In spite of being clawless from the day I first saw him, he was an excellent hunter. He could dispatch mice, crickets, other cats, even dogs nearly 20 times his weight. (Well, not dispatch the dogs, but he could sure back them down.) If another animal was in his territory, he made it known who the top cat was.
It was both interesting and heart-wrenching to see him confront another cat as he lay dying. I’ll spare you my feelings at the time and instead share what I saw. I had taken Mr. Kitty to an emergency vet. He was obviously in great distress, and I knew what was happening. He lay on an exam table, awake but breathing laboriously. The vet had already examined him and confirmed that death was imminent. I agreed that she should give him a shot to put him to sleep, and then she would administer a lethal injection. As we waited for her to return with the first shot, a resident cat at the clinic, which obviously had run of the place, sauntered into the room. Mr. Kitty couldn’t see him (he was busy dying), so I didn’t do anything. Much to my surprise, the “house cat” (a huge animal) jumped right up on the exam table and went nose to nose with my cat. I thought, “Oh, great! He’s dying and he’s going to think he has to fight one more time,” but he didn’t. Mr. Kitty moved his front paws a little, and croaked out a meow, but the other cat just kept on sniffing him. And then, as I watched, both cats closed their eyes and shared a gentle nudge, as if one knew and sympathized with the other. The resident cat then curled up right beside mine, silently waiting, as if at a friend’s deathbed to wait for the final visit.
I was a mess while this happened, and when the vet finally returned, she pooh-poohed the mourning cat who got off the table, with a disgruntled look. She told me the needle she had would put him to sleep in about five minutes, and then she would come back and give him the real one. She injected him and then left us alone. I stroked Mr. Kitty’s head and tried to be soothing in spite of my halting voice. His breaths grew farther apart and within two minutes, he was dead. I sat there for another five minutes with my dead cat waiting for the vet, and when she came back, I told her I didn’t think he’d need the final shot. She felt his pulse, and said, yes, he was gone. I already knew that.
Did the cats share a moment of understanding? I don’t know. But I do know that it’s been a long time since I felt so moved, and we would be foolish to think that only humans are capable of sensing impending death, and more importantly, consoling (in their own way) the dying. I miss my Mr. Kitty, and I could write reams about what I feel when I think of him, but anyone who has ever had a pet already knows that story. We know that our pets (and, of course, family) will all die one day, any day. Just not today.
