Bud Herron
For years I have struggled to figure out whether our family cat, Shaggy, is a loving and nurturing parent or a psychopathic killer.
He has either been protecting and cuddling an adopted, stuffed monkey or repeatedly killing it and proudly presenting it as a trophy of his hunting prowess. Either way, Shaggy spends a sizable portion of his time moving the monkey about the house — floor to floor and room to room.
Most of the time, my wife Ann and I don’t see the actual change of location. The monkey just appears in a new place.
At other times, we hear Shaggy making a sound somewhat like a baby crying. Then he walks into a room with the monkey in his mouth, plops it down on the floor, gives it one more cry for good measure and walks away.
We have no idea where the monkey came from, but Shaggy is 7 years old now and has had it since he was a kitten.
When my daughter first saw him with the monkey, she said, “Oh, look, he thinks that thing is his baby.”
Ann, a bit more cynical, took one look and countered, “No, he thinks it is his prey and he has just killed it.”
Since that day, the monkey has officially been named “Baby Dead Thing” in an attempt to cover both possibilities.
Shaggy has not come forward with any clues about whether he considers the monkey his child or his lunch. And Shaggy’s litter-mate brother, Scooby, has been little or no help in solving the puzzle. He simply ignores Baby Dead Thing and the whole drama.
Yet, I would like to know what is inside Shaggy’s head. For instance, why does he cry when he carries it about. Is the cry a sign of overwhelming affection or a cry of victory from the kill? Or, is it a cry of remorse after his feline instincts lead him to “monkeycide” then regret and self condemnation?
He obviously needs therapy, but psychologists specializing in animals are hard to find — although they do exist.
I once hired a reporter at The Republic whose wealthy Manhattan family had a poodle with what a dog psychologist in New York City diagnosed as “extreme anxiety” from some sort of emotional trauma. The dog had begun to lose its hair and was refusing to leave the house to take the necessary walks for “comfort breaks.”
After several months of outpatient consultation and treatment, the poodle was no better, so the psychologist suggested commitment to a residential clinic in Connecticut for intensive therapy. (I have no idea whether the treatments mainly involved talk therapy, drug therapy, electroshock therapy or some combination.)
The treatments were very expensive — along with the cost of family members’ stays at a Connecticut hotel on weekend visitation days.
I feel sad I do not have the financial resources of my former reporter’s family and, therefore, cannot send Shaggy to Connecticut for residential treatment. Such treatment might bring him peace of mind and possibly stop him from scratching holes in the back of my favorite chair.
The treatment for the Manhattan poodle was successful. It took about six months. His hair returned, and his fear of going outside ended.
The week after returning from the clinic, he was outside at dawn — rain or shine — for his routine of fire plug hydration. Unfortunately, however, one morning a week later, he felt so frisky he broke loose from his leash and chased a pigeon under a bus.
Sadly, he did not survive, although the pigeon escaped with only a few ruffled feathers.
The poor dog’s untimely fate somehow gives me less guilt about not being able to afford proper treatment for Shaggy’s illness. Who knows what new problems sanity might bring for a cat?
