The psychologists have given us the concept of
magical thinking, the idea (neurosis)
that one can change things by performing completely unrelated acts. For
instance, sufferers of obsessive-compulsive disorder may attempt to control
their environment and emotions through pointless enumeration, counting every
step or every crack, or useless repetition, washing their hands 20 times or
checking that the lights are off 15 times. Every religious act also involves
magical thinking. As an example, one may pray for rain or dance for rain.
Neither prayer nor dance has any real, measurable effect on the meteorological
variables that determine precipitation, and yet humans have long done both as a
means of swaying the universe to their purpose.
It has been generally supposed that only humans
exhibit magical thinking, as it has been generally assumed that only humans
think. But my cat has shown beyond doubt that the phenomenon is not restricted
to H. sapiens.
Several years ago, I installed a cat door in
the bottom corner of the sliding screen door that leads to the deck. A push
with the head is all it takes for the cat to let herself in or out. For the
first 6 weeks or so, she loved it as much as I did; she could go in and out
dozens of times a day without bothering me. Then the weather changed, and I
started closing the glass door at sundown. My poor cat, who was about 13 at the
time, got very confused. Sometimes her door was there and sometimes it wasn’t.
The mere sight of the rectangle in the corner wasn’t enough to convince her the
door was available, and I would remind her how it worked, lifting it to allow
her to walk through.
As the weeks passed, I noticed my cat doing
something that puzzled me. She would approach the door and stand in front of
the rectangle in the corner. Then she would turn and walk completely around the
easy chair nearest the door before approaching the door again. She then either
“recalled” how to open it and went out or took another turn or two around the
chair first. As fall came on and the screen door was available less and less,
her peregrinations got more elaborate and moved farther afield. Now the journey
involved two easy chairs and an ottoman and three or four repetitions before
she would approach the door and attempt to exit. When I had watched her do this
on numerous occasions, I realized that somehow she had decided that walking
around the furniture made the door open. How she came to this completely
erroneous conclusion is a mystery.
Even after the cat door had been in place for
several years, the odd behavior not only continued, it became even more
elaborate. Every year the cat greeted the appearance of her special door with
joy and used it readily, even though it was only available on warm, sunny days
at first. After a few weeks, something happened in her head, and she began
demanding that I open the screen door for her, which I refused to do (I can be
stubborn, too). It’s possible she simply realized the human wait staff had
gotten lazy and was trying to make me do my job, which is to serve her every
need. I don’t think that’s the case, or not entirely, because soon after she
stopped using her door freely, she started walking around the furniture again.
First one chair, then two, and the journey continued to lengthen as the weeks
went by, eventually encompassing every piece of furniture in the living room
area and two to five repetitions, all to propitiate the door gods and let her
get outside.
What’s really interesting here is that she
exhibited no such behavior on the other side of the door. On the deck side, she
would occasionally sit and wait for me to open it, but if I ignored her long
enough, she would go through without any propitiatory circumambulations. Was
she, at 17, senile? Confused? Just bloody stubborn? Or praying on her paws?
If anyone has an animal that exhibits similar
behavior, I’d love to hear about it.
This is article 30 in a continuing series. © 2012 Christine
C. Janson
