Steve Jamnik
Steve Jamnik grew up on farms in Hertfordshire and Essex, studied psychology, then worked as a psychologist in the 1970s before ditching it to work in television.
I have always been surrounded by animals. When I was growing up on farms there were variously cows, bulls, calves, poultry, pigs, rats, mice, stoats, weasels, wood pigeons, pheasants, one hoopoe, deer, squirrels, rabbits, hares, moles, hedgehogs – although rather surprisingly I never saw a fox until I moved to London, when a vixen bedded down in a derelict patch of ground nearby, and I awoke one morning to see three cubs haring round my garden destroying every perennial there was. They were unafraid, and it was possible to pick them up, although I wouldn’t recommend it. Their fur had the consistency of a scrubbing brush, and the vixen didn’t like it one bit, because I could hear her pacing back and forth on the other side of the fence going: ‘Unk-unk-unk’ which I assume is Foxinese for: ‘Put that filthy human being down and come back here.’
We always had a dog. My father liked having one, because it gave him someone to talk to while he was up at the top end of the farm ploughing. And my mother liked having one, because it gave her someone to talk to while my father was up at the top end of the farm ploughing.
There is a distinct difference between the type of person who likes dogs, and the type of person who prefers cats. This is just my opinion, but in my estimation dogs are preferred by extraverts, because the companionship, loyalty and attention you get from a dog appeals to the extravert personality. A dog will look you directly in the eye. So will a cat, but not out of devotion, but rather in order to size you up. A dog expresses joy in its eyes and its mouth. I swear I’ve seen a dog laugh. I’ve never seen a cat laugh. I’ve seen a cat glower at me with a hostile glare which told me unmistakably: ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’
Contrariwise, introverts prefer cats. They like a cat’s independence and aloofness. A cat is never clinging or needy, and doesn’t insist on being taken for a walk every 20 minutes. But if you win the love of a cat, and I have known someone who knew how to do that, the bond forged is quite remarkable. Cats are also very beautiful. They were worshipped as Gods by the Ancient Egyptians, and I know exactly why. Once the grain harvest had been gathered and stored, the cats would make sure that the rodent population was kept to an absolute minimum. That’s why I need a cat. I live in a run down part of town in a creaking, Victorian wreck with suspended wooden floors. The minute I have no cat, I get minute mice.
Of course the price we pay for the love of a cat or a dog is grief. My father was a bad-tempered man, who never showed a vulnerable or sensitive side, but I will never forget the day he had to have his beloved Mandy put down. He seemed crumpled, like an old brown paper bag, and uttered not a word for days. He dug Mandy a special grave beneath a huge horse chestnut tree at the back of our house. He laid her tenderly inside wrapped in her favourite blanket, and placed one of his home grown roses on her, before gently backfilling the grave, leaving the earth slightly proud so that he would always know where she was.
Mandy had a rare intelligence. She was a three-quarters-bred springer spaniel. I don’t know what the other quarter was; the farmer who gave her to my father never said, but he assured my father that Mandy’s mother had been of very good lineage, and that dad ‘wouldn’t be disappointed’, which indeed my father never was. Mandy seemed able to sense his unspoken moods, especially if he was worried about something. She would come and sit on his feet, lean against his shins and gaze up at him with compassion in her brown eyes, as if to say: ‘If I sit on your feet it should help.’
Of course, Mandy couldn’t talk. Dogs don’t have any speech centres in their little canine cortexes, but Mandy understood that human beings make noises at each other and at her, and that the noises meant something, such as: ‘Are you ready for a walk?’ or ‘Mandy! Don’t do that!’ or ‘Where’s mum?’ Mandy would try to reply as best she could. She had no syntax, but she made certain vocalisations in accordance with the intent she wished to convey. ‘Eeeuuurrrooooo-euroooh’ meant: ‘You bet your life I do.’ ‘Yeeawwwwghghgh’ meant: ‘For goodness sake hurry up’ and ‘Yowp yowp yowp’ meant: ‘We’ve got company. I can hear their car driving up.’
She also had the most amazing sense of humour. I was sitting in the garden once tinkering with my bike, and Mandy bounded over and knocked the spanner out of my hand. I ignored her and carried on with my work, and when I had put the mudguard back on and was giving it a polish, Mandy snatched the rag that I was using, and raced around the garden with it in her mouth at about 90 miles an hour, round and round like a mad dervish, and I laughed so much I couldn’t breathe.
I had always assumed that a cat could not make me laugh, but some years ago I was proved wrong. I was out on a country walk which passed through Ayot St Lawrence, and I was inspecting the ruined church, when trotting along the stone wall came a beautiful, long haired, ginger-orange cat, eager to find out what was so interesting. I was wearing my expensive Silhouette spectacles at the time: special spectacles, ultra-light, plastic varifocal lenses, frameless, with springy arms. The cat thrust its face full into mine and began bunting furiously. The cat pushed so hard against my cheek that my spectacles sprang off my face, did a little somersault in the air, and landed on the cat’s head, the arms clipping neatly behind its ears, and the bridge resting on its nose. The astonished cat looked at me in utter disbelief, then calmly accepted the situation, and studied me carefully through the lenses trying to focus – which must have been difficult, because there is no way that my prescription would have matched his. Then I started laughing. I laughed so hard that people came out of the pub to see what all the fuss was about. After I got my breath back, I apologised to the cat, retrieved my spectacles and gave him a tickle. He gave me the evil-eye – that look which only a cat can give: ‘I’ll let you off for now, but this must not happen again,’ and off he marched.
I suppose I could be accused of anthropomorphism, but what I like about having a pet is it won’t criticise me or be sarcastic. No matter how grotesque or smelly I am first thing in the morning, my pet accepts me as I am, and I don’t have to put on airs and graces, or clean pants.
I think pets are important, especially for children, because animals connect us to the natural world. They make us live in the moment, and make the most of that moment. Life is short for a pet, which is the most painful thing they teach us. They appreciate being respected, and treated with dignity and kindness. They also require us to be caring and responsible. We have to feed them, and take them to the vet if they get sick or injured. It can cost a fortune in vets fees, and on occasion I’ve had to sit down on a chair when my vet has presented me with the bill – but it’s just money. I’d only fritter it away on food and rent otherwise.
This article was originally published by the Free Speech Backlash.
