Animal Alliances

Connie and Morag

Whenever she sensed the least hint of trouble, Keja retreated to a dark shelf in the garden shed where she couldn’t be found. And there was trouble that year for a black cat, my alter ego. My then husband, David, had been in a car accident and, though he was recovering, was terribly frustrated. He couldn’t get after me, but he saw how attached I was to Keja and had it in for her.

Keja was given to me by my sister Solveig when she left to study with the Sufis in France. This intelligent cat was named for a gypsy friend of Jan Yoors described in his book The Gypsies [1967] about his travels with a company of Roma in the 1930’s. (Whereas I always see myself as a Chinese poet living in a hut on a mountainside, Solveig thinks of herself as part of a nomadic company living in a gypsy wagon!)

Keja knew exactly what was going on in our house. There was plenty of space for her to eat and sleep and I knew where she was. When the coast was clear I would go out and call her so she could come in and enjoy a warm lap. She was sensitive and agile and I could not believe what a comfort it was to have her with me. I was taking one day at a time, hoping things would get better. But I began to really fear for her. I put her in a box and drove down to La Honda, many miles from our home.

I sat on the steps of the country store at the Four Corners and asked people whether they could take Keja. Almost immediately a man said that, yes, he could. There were other animals on his place, but he was sure he could take one more. I didn’t think much about this. I was too desperate. I drove to the place where he lived and let Keja out. She crept under the house in the woods and that was the last I saw of her, Keja the gypsy cat.

Animals often bear the brunt of human needs. We process our emotions through our limbic system, which most animals also have. As happens with people we spend time with, our mid brains sync up with animals we know or have under our care. They also drag us back to wholeness when our intellectual hyper-cortex wants to run away with us. I never went out looking for an animal of my own, but I did have intense relationships with several.

A bit later, spurred by Rilke’s lament in The Notebooks of Malte Lauids Brigge [1910], “what sort of life is this, without a house, without dogs,” I managed to buy a small ranch house. Soon enough David brought home a dog. She wasn’t much more than a puppy, half pit bull and very affectionate. She was too rambunctious for guests but I loved her, sneaked her treats and came home from work when I knew she had been alone all day to play with her in the big backyard. Neither husband, house nor dog lasted, however. After 20 years with David, I was done. 

My sister Solveig and her family moved to England and I took over their apartment. It belonged to a cat, Megabyte. This black cat, with white socks and markings, was grown and didn’t much seem to care who lived with her. She was perfectly happy to come and go, bringing in her prize mouse in the middle of the night to play with, and curling up in my lap now and then. When I moved on, we accustomed her to going up one more floor of the back steps for food and making her home with Jon, our neighbor.

When my niece Tara married in England, she also fell in love with Russell’s dog Archie. Archie was older and when I arrived for a visit they had just acquired a puppy, Morag. Four months old, Morag, a black and white border collie, was meant to be trained by Archie in dog etiquette. For a year or so, until Archie’s passing, they made an energetic pack and I learned from them, and from Russell’s family, which can’t exist without dogs. Because what kind of a life is that?

Given my predilection toward permeability, it makes sense that  I would occasionally find myself entwined with beautiful and intelligent animals, feeling their feelings and intuiting their needs. I see it all around me as well. My friend Val’s day revolves around the walks she takes with her dog and the feeding of her chickens. “They get me out of bed!” she says. My younger sister Ann has always relied on cats and dogs to provide humor and warmth in her “too serious” household.

Growing up, I was never a primary caretaker of our family’s animals. We had a series of long-haired miniature collies, golden with white ruffs, Foxy and her daughter Georgie Girl, and her daughter Lady. Then there were several black labs. And yes, I participated in unsuccessful attempts to wear them out throwing sticks into the lake. By this time, there are more cats than energetic dogs, however, and they are often topics of family discussion and photographs.

Our apartment in Los Angeles has no space for animals, but most of our neighbors have dogs. Often tiny ones, chihuahuas and little terriers. Many of these dogs are more bark than bite. I’ve been delighted by the flock of little white mop dogs which comes out to bark at us, and follow us along their fence, as we go past.

Dogs are protection. Our neighborhood was once something of a gangland, so most of the houses are tucked behind iron fences and gates. Signs will insist that one should beware of the dog. Yesterday, on my walk, I had to laugh at one which said, “Never mind the dog. Beware of owner.” 

Dogs and cats are big business these days. We hear of huge sums being spent to keep animals in comfort and alive, something our parents would not have done. It shows us how far we have come economically. But we may also retreat behind our animals, creating little fiefdoms in which we interact more with them than with people. Don refuses to “own” an animal and thinks dogs and cats should run free. This is a result of his early experience of a neglected family dog for whom he felt sorry. 

But I don’t think it is a matter of ownership. Rather we are co-conspirators with animals, filling the corners of our lives with theirs. Our attachment to them may point to the negotiation or understanding of boundaries between our naked, needy inner selves and the outside world.