Appalachian Review

I don’t know where my mother found Socks. Given the number of strays in our poor coal mining county, with no animal shelter or animal control officers, I’m sure it was not difficult. One day kitten Socks just appeared. She was black with white feet, thus her name. I was thrilled. I was five years old and I had several dolls. But I never cared much for dolls with their stupid frozen faces and motionless limbs, [End Page 79] nor was I interested in pretending to take care of a fake baby. Here was a real living toy to play with.

My mother had that No Pets in the House rule, brought over from her eastern Kentucky raising. My father’s dog Candy had been forced upon her, but she would hold firm otherwise. She installed Socks on the back porch with a cardboard box and blanket and food and water bowls. But I was allowed to bring kitten Socks inside every afternoon for play, “until she grows up”, my mom proclaimed. I proceeded to pull out my doll clothes and cram the kitten into them, to force her into my doll carriage and parade her around. When she tried to escape, I put the buggy’s movable hood over her neck to try and hold her down. As she strangled, she scratched my hand to no avail because she was so small. So she did the only thing else she could think of—as soon as I let her go, she fled. Soon enough, she fled at the very sight of me.

I was crushed. Socks didn’t want to play. Even worse, she didn’t like me. I considered this, and then a light bulb came on inside my five year old brain. Socks did not like to play the way I did because she was different from me. Socks was a cat. And Socks didn’t like me because she was afraid of me. She was afraid of me because I was hurting her.

I have since learned that five is the age when most of us learn to empathize with others. A three year old cannot do it; a five year old can. At that time, I felt I had discovered the greatest secret on earth. I had imagined myself into the mind of another being. If they were suffering, I could understand that. And if I wanted someone to like me, I had to be nice to them. This was especially true of animals, who could not speak to beg for kind treatment. When I learned as an adult that Descartes believed animals had no feelings, no more than any machine, I was grieved. Descartes, I thought, had never grown up with a kitten or puppy. He had missed a lesson on empathy when he was five. [End Page 80]

I realized I had dug myself into a deep hole where Socks was concerned. I would have to win her back, and I would have to plan how to do that. One day I went outside and found her sleeping in her box. She didn’t wake until I was upon her, and then she started and squirmed to escape. But I only held her briefly, stroked her head, and then let her go. She ran.

I repeated the experiment a number of times, always on the lookout to catch her sleeping. Her struggles to escape weakened. At last I ventured to pick her up and hold her against my chest, stroking her and whispering to her. Then I quickly let her go. Before long she let me hold her. She purred. I promised her I would never be mean to her again, never force her to wear dolls’ clothes, or ride in the doll baby buggy. She was not a doll; she was an animal, with dignity. I didn’t voice this last part; I didn’t have such a vocabulary then. But I sensed it.