Susan Gordis
Native New Yorkers are, as I’ve said before, a very unique bunch. But we do the same kinds of things that people do wherever they live, we just do it while we’re very close together. When we find ourselves among strangers we impose the context of our surroundings on our interactions. In shoe stores we look at each other’s shoes, in jewelry stores we look at each other’s jewelry, and of course at the veterinary office we look at each other’s pets. In New York even before you get to the veterinarian you have dealt with other people. We do not get to lead our dogs to a car, nor can we just secure a cat carrier in the back seat. (Cat carriers contain ferrets and all sorts of other pets, but somehow they’re always called “cat carriers.”) If you can walk your dog to the office then there’s nothing remarkable to see, but if you are carrying a cat carrier it’s obvious that you have “someone” with you. We are either on the street or in the subway or a bus, or in a taxi.
Some years ago we had a wonderful cat who had been sick from the moment I had brought him home as a kitten. His name was Sherlock. (We named the next incoming cat Watson, because the moment she was installed in the family Sherlock became her confidante and mentor.) Sherlock’s diagnosis after about six months of not being well was lymphosarcoma and he had to have surgery followed by chemotherapy treatments, first every week, then every two weeks, and so on. In order to get him from our apartment to the oncology service at the Animal Medical Center I had to take a taxi.
One freezing cold January morning I was on the corner for an inordinately long time trying to get a taxi. I was concerned that poor Sherlock would be chilled to the bone, but then finally a taxi stopped for us. When I opened the door the driver, seeing me starting to maneuver the carrier into the back seat, whirled around and said, “I Don’t Carry Animals In My Cab!” I got out (I didn’t really have to do that, as the law says the driver must take me if my animal is secured in a carrier) and Sherlock and I waited another long and cold period of time for a second cab to pull up. I was getting into that taxi with my precious cargo no matter what, and when I got the carrier and myself positioned, closed the door and told the driver where he was going to take us, he turned around and said, “It’s nice to have an animal in the car who’s not disguised as a human being.” He went on to ask me about the cat and whether his health was good, and listened sympathetically to the details of Sherlock’s health history. When we got to the Animal Medical Center and I paid the fare he said, “I hope everything will be all right with him.” Of course that driver got a bigger tip than any of the others who had taken the same trip with me and Sherlock.
In New York we have a lot of “celebrities,” that is, the people who would be recognizable all across the country, or perhaps even around the globe. Some of them need to be here for their work, the theater or the ballet or the opera or Wall Street, but many have made this their home. (That’s a very wise choice, in my considered opinion.) New Yorkers seem to inherently understand that celebrity is a double-edged sword, that while it’s wonderful to be successful in your chosen field it’s also nice to be able to go about your busy day without people interfering by telling you their opinion about your most recent undertaking, or how much they admire you (or don’t).
I was once at the veterinarian with one of our cats and I ran into a man I know from elsewhere. (I came to know him because he used to frequent a particular Japanese restaurant where I was also a regular patron and, in true New York fashion, we got into conversation and ended up being friends.) I was sitting and talking with him as my cat and his dog were determining what they thought about one another when a woman came out of one of the examining rooms. She was clearly upset, on the brink of tears, and began to pace and weave her way around the waiting room in an attempt to relieve her distress. She was holding a dog’s leash, so I knew she had come in with her dog. I said, “It’s not easy to wait for your pet out here. Why don’t you come over and mush Duncan?” She came darting over and grabbed hold of Duncan (a very lovable and mushable dog) and it calmed her down immediately. She smiled at Duncan’s father for sharing his dog and at me for having suggested it, and began to tell us what the problem was with her dog and what the doctor’s (and her) concerns were.
Only a minute or two later the veterinarian came out with her dog. Of course mother and pooch were thrilled to be reunited, and she went off to discuss the health particulars with the doctor. My friend and I were still in the waiting room when the woman came to thank us profusely and then left with her dog. We resumed our conversation, and then suddenly I realized that that woman was not familiar to me from seeing her in the veterinary office, as many people were, but is a film actress of some renown. My restaurant friend realized it too (he actually is a jazz musician of significant acclaim), and we exchanged her name and shrugged and went back to talking. In New York we are accustomed to being in situations with famous people, and are glad to be able to treat them simply as people with whom we have something in common, in this case the love of our pets.
I have had dozens and dozens of conversations in the buses with other animal lovers. People tell me the rescues they have made (of which they are dutifully proud), and pets they had in their youth, and the animals who live with them who insist on sleeping in the middle of their bed, or get into creative mischief, or who have invented games they had never seen before. They tell me about their pets’ health, about wondrous or tragic interventions on the part of their veterinarian (or former veterinarian), and about how much their lives have been enriched by sharing them with their belovéd animals. Cat people are all in agreement that we recognize that we do not own our cats (although we’re responsible for all their expenses), as my sweet husband and I define ourselves as the servant couple our cats keep, a maid and a butler to wait on them paw and paw and minister to their every need.
But the very best thing about being in the streets and public conveyances in New York while carrying a cat is the response of the children. The moment a child notices my cat carrier I have an instant friend. (If it’s a shy child then only the cat gets a new friend, but that’s fine too.) I have had children ask me with concern if my cat is going to the doctor, and then talk to the cat about how it’ll be okay, “The doctor is going to make you feel better.” Other children have asked me the name of the kitty, and how old the kitty is, and have then told the kitty how old they are and what it means to be older, or younger, or the same age as other people. (We refer to our cats as people too, but it’s strange for adults to do that while it is quite ordinary when it comes from children.) Other children have told me all about their pets, or the pets of their friends, or both. Still other children who do not have pets tell me how much they would like to have one (or more), and some seize the opportunity to begin to try to reason with their parent(s) about how nice it would be to have an animal in the house. They understand without hesitation that we animal people are all part of an extraordinary group who knows what’s important, and they have no difficulty including me by virtue of traveling with my pet companion.
© 2007 Susan Gordis
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