Tiger, Stay Away From My Door

Trends in literature can be terrifyingly prophetic, and one of the latest seems to threaten our whole way of life, if not civilization itself. I refer to the enormous number of books written in the last few years about animals in the home.

These books have titles like Kinkajou in the Kitchen, We Keep Our Llama in the Library, and Lions Make the Nicest Pets. There is even a television program in which two repulsive little chimpanzees are dressed up in frilly clothes and treated as the children of the family.

Is this the logical result of the breakdown of the caste system? And are we to learn to adapt ourselves to the ways of otters, cheetahs, and gorillas? In these books, any adapting that has to be done is not done by the animals.

“I came home to find Midge rather upset,” an author will write. ‘’Feelah [this is the kind of name the animal always has] had very cleverly picked the lock of the cupboard and thrown our set of Crown Derby on the floor.” However, Midge, always a good sport, is ready to go along with the gag. “She had to admit,” he continues, “that it was entirely her fault. She should have packed the china in a basket and swung it from the ceiling.” Good humor is restored. Laughingly, the owners sweep up the shards. That’s one thing they’ll never have to worry about again.

Naturally some hazard is attached to associating with wild beasts. But wounds, no matter how severe, are made light of. Poor Soma, the author’s lioness, didn’t know her own strength. She was terribly sorry, and made up for everything by being extra affectionate and loving.

One diabolical little otter who did mean it was used by its owner to test the animal-loving qualities of his friends. When the otter got near enough to a victim, it would bite savagely through his ear lobe. Only one friend passed the test with flying colors. “Though a look of outrage crossed Katherine’s face, she continued talking as though nothing had happened.”

As time goes on, the homes of animal fanciers begin to look more and more like prehistoric caves. Rugs are the first things to go, of course. Upholstered furniture proves impractical. Pictures and knickknacks are either smashed or hidden away. If you have chosen an otter for your pet, you will be denied the use of your bathtub, because it will be full of live eels.

As if all this weren’t disturbing enough, we are now threatened with the possibility of having these animals talk to us. The writer of a most enthusiastic book about dolphins tells us we are about to break through the sound barrier between animals and human beings. Dolphins are being taught to talk, and we, in turn, to speak their language. The dolphin language will be used as a sort of Rosetta stone to lead us into the languages of other animals. Well, in my opinion, an hour’s conversation with a cow, a rabbit, or even a dog would just about plumb the depths of boredom.

I look back with nostalgia on the days when an animal knew its place. A cat caught mice or curled up in front of the fire. A Newfoundland dog understood that its mission in life was to pull small children out of millraces, and it felt amply rewarded by a pat on the head. Best of all, wild creatures stayed in their native haunts.

Today’s trend has an uglier aspect. We are all familiar with Tobermory, the talking cat; and while perhaps none of us is as vulnerable as the members of Saki’s house party, I can still envisage awkward situations, the least of which would be our having to become vegetarians.

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