Rescue

Our two cats are here with me by the fire in the sunroom. They are both black and white, but one is very small, Sugar, and the other big, Harvey. When we adopted Harvey from the shelter he was called "Harley" after the motorbike. He had been in the shelter, in a small cage just barely big enough for him and a litter box, for a year and a half. Before that, he'd been abandoned in an apartment and before that his owner passed away. We were told he was five or six, when really he was eight or older. Now he must be thirteen or so. Paul calls him my "boyfriend" because he is so attached to me and sometimes follows me from room to room.

Each morning the same scenario is played out. Paul and I are sitting on the couch drinking tea. I am doing the crossword, Paul is reading or drawing or preparing to teach his class. From somewhere upstairs, perhaps the guest bedroom, we hear a plaintive, heartbreaking howl. A prolonged cat moan. We promptly reply by calling "Harvey! Harvey! C'mon Harvey!" And then we hear the heavy pounding of his declawed (not by us) paws on the bare wood staircase and Harvey comes bounding, frantically, urgently, into the sunroom. Sometimes he comes directly on to my lap, sometimes he goes to the window seat, or just lounges on top of the couch cushions. I think he is replaying his rescue over and over again. Each day he makes sure we really need him to be here.

Tonight we watched a very poignant, complex examination of children with Reactive Attachment Disorder. Many of the children who were in Eastern European orphanages, where caregivers were so busy they did not have time to do anything other than feed, clothe and change the diapers of babies, have this problem. It is part of Episode I: Family, Friends, Lovers of the wonderful series "This Emotional Life" that was on PBS. (We were able to download portions we missed on TV through the website.) Scientists discovered these children don't produce a particular chemical in their brain when not being touched or loved as babies and so do not produce it later on (as normally raised children do), even when receiving love and attention from their adoptive mothers. Therefore, they do not trust, or react to, affection from their parents.

Abandonment and rescue, affection and disaffection. These are things I think about a lot in relation to animals and people and it strikes me that, like most things, each of us probably exists on some fluctuating continuum, not at either end of a known spectrum. I know for certain I was loved as a child, but interestingly, the very earliest memory I have is of being left, as a baby or young toddler, in a basement laundry room on my back on some sort of table, waiting for my diaper to be changed. My mother had to run upstairs momentarily to attend to someone or something. I remember the feeling of being utterly alone, but also the comforting warmth and sound of the dryer as I lay on my back, looking up at the ceiling.