When Normal People Are Mean To Animals, What's To Be Done With Ourselves?

My husband tells me a cat has begun hanging around his place of business and the staff has taken to feeding it.

“What does Fluffy think about that?” I ask. She's the Himalayan they rescued 10 years ago.

“She hasn't noticed yet,” he says, his eyebrows arching as they often do when he detects the need for surplus caution.

I brought our dog Keeley to visit him once. Took her off the leash, unaware of Fluffy's presence. She was a rescue herself, with two docile cat-sisters at home. So she didn't know any better when she cornered Fluffy who, naturally, hissed and struck out. Keeley, who was five times Fluffy's size, screeched away terrified, her bowel contents spluttering behind.

For obvious reasons we didn't put them together again.

But Fluffy's cast-iron proprietorialness—-and her latest feline rival--speaks to the potential in all humans to be generous-hearted to animals.

Or at the very least to be kind instead of cruel.

And lately, I needed to be reminded of this--that people aren't inherently hateful. It's when they're hurting that they also hurt others.

How else to explain why Mary Bale, when she walked home from work last month in Coventry, England, put a cat named Lola in a garbage can?

Had Lola's owners not had a surveillance camera, they probably never would have learned why she spent 15 hours imprisoned and covered in her own excrement.

Lola's owners posted the footage on YouTube, and a viewer identified Bale.  Last week, she was charged with two counts of animal cruelty; her court date is set for October 19.

But the reality is, while publicity surrounding Bale's offense may be fading, her motivation for doing what she did probably isn't. Unless she undertakes her own personal inventory, there's a good chance it never will.

And that worries me. Lola wasn't physically harmed, but Bale's story feels more treacherous than the blatant animal cruelty of the Michael Vick variety.

Bale doesn't look like someone who would purposely hurt an animal. And her act appears eerily reminiscent of a scene from an adult animated series like Family Guy.

Actually, what happens on Family Guy is even more sickening. In an episode originally aired on April 19, 2009, they torture and kill a pet cat with a razor.

So I can't help wondering, When did cartoons and normal people become so dangerous?

Didn't Bale understand a cat is a sentient person? Would be crushed once dumped in a garbage truck? At the very least couldn't she feel at her core how mean it is to imprison any creature against its will?

True, our society mistreats animals every day--as commodities in our quest to feed, heal and beautify humans. But there is increasing public pressure to improve the lives of these animals by employing kinder, more responsible practices or eliminating animal use completely. Not perfect, but definitely progress. Proof that humans understand no animal is "just an animal."   They feel pain and fear and stress like us.

In the video footage of Bale, it's apparent that she knew what she was about to do was unacceptable. She glanced up and down the sidewalk while she pet Lola--then picked her up, dropped her in the can, closed the lid and left.

Bale thought before she acted.  But for her, maybe it was too late. Whatever hurt had been building up within her was so far gone she snapped.

And whenever we react in a way that's incongruous to what's actually in front of us--or do things out of character, which is what Bale claimed she did--it can mean we've denied our feelings for too long and, ultimately, displaced them.  Sometimes to a place perceived as more safe, such as a pet or spouse or child.

It's frustrating to think her story fades here.  Hopefully it can be something more. A turning point for her.

An opportunity for myself.

I wouldn't put a pet in a garbage can, but I have and still could unleash hurts and resentments with cruel, avenging words and actions.

But none of us is a lost cause. I can do better tomorrow.

So can Mary Bale.

Skinny, But Not A Freak

"How does that go?" my friend began, a smile creeping onto her face. "Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth?"

"Yes, well, I hope it's skinny people, too," I grumbled, knowing exactly what she was doing. I was in the middle of non-meekly ranting about something I still hadn't accepted, and both of us knew at the rate I was going the only thing I was destined to get was something stress-related.

But I was tired of the media referring to certain celebrities and actresses as "skeletons" and possessing "collarbones that could cut glass."

I was fed up with people assuming that the only reason for these women's thinness was because they engaged in willful starvation or something equally as harmful.

And it wasn't just the media anymore. Recently one of my other friends had decided she didn't like a movie an actress was in because that actress had become "too skinny."

The way my friend was talking, you'd have thought this actress had drowned some puppies--or something just as evil. And I couldn't help wondering: When did being thin become sinful?

Had people forgotten that some humans are genetically thin--and do actually eat at least three meals a day, including fat and carbs?

Whether this actress was naturally lean, I didn't know. But for a 45-year-old woman, I thought she looked strong and healthy--definitely not "too skinny". And before I knew it, I was defending her.

I wish I could say it was for altruistic reasons, but it wasn't. It was because of a stranger's comment years ago, which made this issue feel personal.

I was in my early 30s and working part-time as an on-air host for a visitors'-television channel. For one particular shoot, I was the model for a clothing store.

The store happened to be in between merchandise shipments, so the staff was having difficulty fitting me. When I finally stepped out of the dressing room to show the store's owner the outfit, a look of disgust flooded her face.

"No! No! Your chest! Your shoulders!"

She whirled away from me, snatched a scarf the size of a sofa from one of her staff, bound it around my neck and shoulders, and commanded, "Hide your bones."

That's when my center shifted from inside of me to somebody else that I didn't even know and I felt like the freak I assumed she thought I was.

I had never felt that way about myself before. My whole family is genetically slender, so it had always felt natural to me. And as for my shoulders and collarbone, I'd never even noticed them before. But ever since then, they have felt like something that needed to be hidden.

Recently, after telling a close friend how much my bony shoulders bothered me, she asked me why I didn't simply put on some weight; then they wouldn't be bony anymore.

But I wasn't looking for advice on how to change what was natural about me in order to make others happy. What I was looking for was how to accept what was natural about me--even if it was different--in order to make myself happy and not feel like a freak.

There's a philosophical question that goes, "When you dance with a gorilla, how do you know when the dance is over?"

The answer is, "When the gorilla says so."

That's how it is with this resentment of mine. It's so big and powerful it will always rule my thoughts and feelings as long as I choose to let it.

If I want to be at peace with this body, grateful for the health and strength of it--instead of embarrassed because it doesn't match up to what some people think is beautiful or normal--no one can help me but me.

I have two choices really: I can keep wincing and whining or I can gather the meekness within me, the inner strength and humility, which makes me immune to getting hurt by what others think or say.

So I can gain the possession and control of my peace in this life on this earth.

And let the gorilla go.

QUESTION: Are you at peace with the natural shape and size of your body and, if not, why?

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I'd Be Fine If...

A friend said I looked exuberant in a recent photograph. Exuberant. What a contrast between the me I am becoming at 49 and the me I was 10 or so years ago, when I sometimes evidently appeared so glum that even strangers, bless their hearts, would walk up to me and say, “Smile.”

Not that it did any good. Instead of being inspired to look up from the ground and acknowledge other people once in a while—people who might already feel invisible enough—I felt attacked and withdrew even more.

In my defense, my face does naturally have a hound-dog quality about it. Everything--my eyebrows, eyes and mouth--it all slopes downward. So I wasn't frowning, I told myself. And no, I did not have a pretty good anger issue brewing inside of me, anger that over time had fermented then flattened to resentment.

I would scream about my job alone in my car so I didn't scare my neighbors, and the love of my life seemed forever inclined to not get married. The world felt unfair, demanding, and infuriating. People seemed mean, thoughtless, and rude. But no, I was not frowning.

Even as I write this I am still amazed at how I believed that the reason for my state was that everybody else was so screwed up.

I remember once ranting about my job to my mother and, her eyes as wide as quarters, her suggesting, “Why don't you just be peaceful?”

Be peaceful? Be peaceful? Wasn't it obvious if I could do "peaceful" I wouldn't be standing there whining?

By the time I was 39 I was finally married to that love of my life and doing what I had always wanted, writing. But I was still walking around staring at the ground and blaming the world for the things I didn't want and the things I wanted but still didn't have. My wants seemed to multiply as soon as a want got granted.

And then I got a want I hadn't expected. Her name was Jane. You'd have thought she had it all, with her attitude. And she did. All the challenging stuff. The unhappy marriage to an alcoholic husband, insane mother, kleptomania, weight issues, low self esteem. She was also pretty, smart, generous, funny and had a great career, although one she hated.

But Jane refused to blame anyone but herself for her mental state or her circumstances. And if Jane had gotten herself into all of this then Jane—with the help of God, a counselor, 12-step meetings and whatever else it took—would get herself out of it, too.

Jane had the spirit and determination of a fighter, but she was a lover. She loved others even with their imperfections and herself enough to work hard at getting well. And that love, even in the midst of her temporary bouts of frustration with herself, absolutely radiated from her, soothing me like the warm fire I had needed and never knew.

Gradually, because of Jane's example and that of others like her—their gratitude, answerableness, acceptance of others and self-effacing humor—I am learning to change my attitude. One day five or so years ago I even noticed I wasn't looking at the ground as much. I was looking strangers in the eye and it felt good.

I haven't seen Jane in awhile, not since she got divorced, moved away and remarried, so I decided to send her an e-mail. Within a day she e-mailed me back.

She said she's divorced again, but has left that career she hated to do the kind of work she enjoys. And I could tell her humor is as strong as ever, as is her forgiveness.

And again she showed me something I needed to see: that if Jane can keep trying and stumbling and forgiving herself then I can, too.

As much as I wish I didn't, I do sometimes fall back into feeling sorry for myself. But at least I don't do it as often anymore or for as long and that's good.

It really does help when I focus on what I have instead of what I don't--something to do with filling my brain with positive thoughts so there isn't any space for the negative.

Smiling doesn't hurt either.

Question: How are you or are you not taking responsibility for your mind-set?

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