In the study of child development and psychology, the idea of nature v. nuture has long been argued. As a speech language pathologist, I understand how brain chemistry (often driven by genetics) impacts behavior. And yet, at the same time, behavior is shaped by learning and learning can alter brain chemistry. This is the basis upon which my profession is balanced.
Early in life, children learn from their parents how to interact with the world. Not only do they learn how to interact with other people, they learn how to interact with animals. As I was growing up in the 1970s, my family always had pets. We usually had one dog, several cats, and at various times fish, birds and a rabbit. With six kids and all the animals, life was chaotic. Honestly, I don't know how my parents did it and kept their sanity.
For most of my childhood, we had a Bassett Hound named Maggie. My parents purchased her for my oldest brother, Dan, as a reward for quitting sucking his fingers when he was ten. We all loved Maggie and wanted a chance to have her sleep on our bed at night. My mom put each of our names on a day of the week on the calendar to show who had the pleasure of sharing their bed with Maggie that night. But with six kids and seven days of the week, there was one day left over! I was the one who always fought with Dan over the extra day. Finally, after much bickering, my mom decided that Maggie should have a day (or night) of rest and would get to sleep on her own on the seventh day.
And so I learned that animals should not be fought over, and that they needed time to themselves, away from fawning children. This was one of the first memories I have of learning to respect animals, though there would be many more. My sister, Beth, was given a calico cat whose original name probably only she remembers, but was later known simply as "Momma Cat." Momma Cat had nine litters of kittens before we had her spayed. My mother would always set up a box in the closet of my parents' bedroom when she was expecting. The closet was dark and tapered under the stairs that went to the upper level of our house.
When Momma Cat went into labor, she didn't like to be alone and would meow until one of us would go into the closet and sit with her while she had her kittens. But for the first week or so she would not let us touch them. While the kittens were nursing and we peered over the edge in amazement, she would hold out her paw above them. My mother explained that she was telling us to leave them alone and we were not to touch them until Momma Cat told us it was okay, that they were old enough.
Out of one of her litter of kittens, we kept Peter, who became my cat. Peter was an orange short-haired tabby whose full name, of course, was Peter Pan. He was a sweet cat who would sit in my lap and purr, always seeking out my attention. But when he grew to adulthood, he became a Tom cat, as male cats do. He would stay out at night and come back in the morning hungry and strutting from his escapades. One morning, however, he came home on three legs. The bones in the other leg were shattered and he had a hole in his foot.
When we took him to the vet, she told us he had been shot. Through the grapevine, we would later learn that it was a neighbor down the street who had shot him, tired of listening to his nightly catwerwauling. I remember my father telling the vet that we could not afford the ongoing medical care that Peter would need. He asked her to show us what needed to be done and we would take care of him at home. He needed daily sitz baths and dressing changes, and she did not know whether he would be able to walk on it again. Since Peter was my cat, my Dad insisted that I help. I still remember holding Peter in a towel on my lap while my Dad bathed and changed the dressing on his foot.
Peter's foot healed beautifully and he regained full use of it. He did not even have a lingering limp, though I could still feel the jagged mass of bone splinters underneath his skin. To my relief, once Peter was better, my parents had him fixed. That put an end to his nightly escapades, and I felt that he was safe from my gun-toting neighbor.
Later, when I was in high school, after years of begging, my parents finally agreed to let me have a dog. They had always said that one dog was enough. Maggie was now elderly and Dan had graduated from high school, leaving home years before, so I no longer had to compete for her attention. But I had always wanted "my own" dog.
When I was sixteen, I saved up the money I earned from my summer job and purchased a purebred Bloodhound for $400. His litter was named after the Peanuts gang, and out of the possible boys' names, I picked the name Schroeder for him. He was such an adorable little puppy, but grew to be nearly ninety pounds in adulthood. Although he was my dog, I'm ashamed to say that I remember whining I didn't have time to walk him in the morning. What is amazing, though, is that my mom, who would get up at 5 am every morning to cook us a hot breakfast before we went to school, would take the time to walk Schroeder before she went to work herself. Though I was caught up in being a selfish teenager, I learned that animals depend on us to help care for their needs and that we should make those a priority.
My parents, Terence and Ruth Day, pose with Pongo during a recent visit.
So the question begs to answer: was I born with a brain chemistry that makes me love animals, and dogs in particular? I have always been sensitive and it is quite possible that I was born that way. My parents are also both compassionate individuals. Were they born that way? Who knows? It is probably a combination of both. I do believe that I am a product of my environment and I am grateful to my parents for the many lessons I learned from their example. They taught me both love and compassion toward animals, shaping the kind of pet owner I am today. For that, I owe my deepest gratitude. Thank you, with all my heart.
