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Sammy is an average-size orange cat with lots of
fur. We were told he was a Persian, but his face
is really too long for that.
Like most cats, including his housemate, Louie,
Sam spends most of his days sleeping, curled up
like the head of a fiddlehead fern. But when he
comes out of his stupor, he's very affectionate.
In the kitchen, he'll paw at my backside until I
move my chair so he can climb up onto my lap. In
bed, he often climbs onto my chest and settles down
for a snooze. I can almost always count on his coming
to my attic office, weaving between my feet as I
type and trying to get up into my lap.
He's also a bit of a scaredy-cat. If I approach
him while he's eating, he'll walk away. Louie, younger
and heavier, chases him around every night about
11:00, leaving clouds of his orange fur hanging
in the air.
Take him to the vet, and he's transformed. If I
move fast enough, I can finagle him into the pet
carrier before he can react. But once he's in the
little room with the stainless steel table, his
inner madman-tiger is unleashed.
Howls. Hisses. Growls. Spitting. Biting. More howls.
More everything. The technician has trouble getting
him out of the carrier and goes off for some bite-proof
gloves. Once on the table, Sam squirms and hisses
so much that we can't get him onto the scale. We
let him dive back into his carrier, where he curls
up in a corner and snarls at us. The tech departs,
saying that Dr. G. will be with him soon. I settle
down with a book, speaking soothingly to Sam from
time to time.
Dr. G., a large, gentle man, arrives. He reaches
for Sam and gets an intensified version of the behavior
he lavished on the tech. More gloves. Then a towel.
Several minutes of wrestling ensue. As Dr. G. finally
pins Sammy the Squirm down on the examining table,
he asks another tech to administer the vaccination
shot. Louder, guttural, primeval growling. Kicking.
Squirming. I look at Sam's eyes: little dark saucers,
dilated pupils of fear and rage.
What causes Sam to go from meek little kitty to
wailing banshee with fangs and super-feline powers?
I suppose it's two things: past unpleasant experiences
at the vet and simply being out of his normal environment.
The latter may be the most important: as a strictly
indoor cat, Sam's life experience is quite circumscribed.
Lessons
And what can we learn from Sam?
How do we react when facing a replay of an unpleasant
experience? What animal survival instincts kick
in when we face a new, unknown, unpleasant situation?
Whoa, wait a minute. We're not animals, are we?
We don't howl and hiss, let alone spit and bite,
when we're stressed out. Oh, sure, we may freak
out occasionally, but most of the time we're too
polite, too socialized, to lash out. We're supposed
to grin and bear it, slough off the challenge as
unimportant, or silently plot our revenge (if needed).
Yeah, sure. Socialization is a good thing, often
keeping us from doing or saying something we might
regret later. Sometimes, however, we internalize
the stress to the point that we have physical maladies
(ulcers, racing pulse, indigestion, insomnia) or
psychological reactions (panic attacks, depression,
compulsions).
Sometimes we don't even realize how stressed we
are. Everything seems normal, including our reactions:
insomnia, heavy drinking, general grouchiness, temper
tantrums. What's insidious is that, unlike Sam,
our socialization or some other mechanism can delay
our reactions so that we can't see an immediate
link between, for instance, being lost in a strange
place and binge drinking, or lashing out at our
kids.
Sammy does not have much, if any socialization
or self-awareness, at least as humans would understand
it, and no need or ability to hide his emotions.
Should we all be more like Sammy, and just let
everything hang out? Wouldn't that be somehow healthier?
I think we can guess what the reaction of our family,
friends, fellow workers, bosses, and local constabulary
might be. In fact, we've probably seen some of the
Sammys of the world as social outcasts, in mental
institutions, or in jail. Socialization and delayed
reactions are what help us get along in our family
and community. But at what personal cost?
Our Inner Sammy
What to do? Can we honor our inner Sammy without
acting on the impulses? What does that honoring
look like? It seems to me that a good first step
is at least to acknowledge that we sometimes want
to howl and spit and bite - out of anger, frustration,
fear, or just the sensation of being lost. We can
recognize that the feelings come from two sources
- outer reality (obvious - like the boss belittling
us in the staff meeting or subtle - like months
of numbness in a relationship) and our inner, visceral
response.
The bad stuff inside us is energy. (You want energy?
It almost took two beefy men to subdue little ten-pound
Sammy.) How can we use the energy and not stuff
it inside so it comes out later at undeserving targets
or eats at us from the inside? Can we use it toward
work? Can we channel it into words or actions that
will remedy an unacceptable situation?
I envy Sammy for his completely out-there, natural
approach to life. But as a human, I have a couple
of additional qualities that it would be a shame
not to take advantage of: self-awareness and the
ability to plan with intention.
Here's the challenge: How can I become more aware
of how external challenges turn into internal discomfort?
How can I move far enough outside myself to do a
reality check on what I've come to consider "normal"?
And then how can I marshal the energy from adversity
to become a more intentional participant in my own
life and happiness?
I'm not very good at either self-awareness or living
a fully intentional life. But watching Sammy gave
me a powerful reminder to keep working on them.
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