Anthropomorphism and Empathy

For animal lovers, the joy of living with a companion animal is tempered by the knowledge that our pets most likely will die before us. We also know when we bring animals into our lives that some day we ourselves may be the instrument of their death - when disease, old age or some other consideration will compel us to euthanize them. Knowing this does not make the decision of putting a pet to sleep any easier ... ever.

While most pets are euthanized because of disease or debilitation, dogs sometimes are put to sleep because they become a danger to us even when they are young and healthy.  There was a moving essay in Newsweek a week ago by Jonathan Cooperman who had to put his beloved Doberman, Jack to sleep because Jack had become a threat to the safety of his family. Dogs of aggressive breeds like Doberman, Rottweiler and to some extent German Shepherds, sometimes imperceptively cross the line between frisky, exuberant and playful, to dangerous. The pet owner is often slow to recognize the transformation because the dog can remain docile and obedient to one human in the household whom it regards as the alpha animal. Cooperman's dog was one such tragic case. Jack, whom Cooperman called "My Boy" had to be euthanized at the age of four, in the prime of his healthy life when it became clear that he had become a potential threat to his human companions.

"Sometimes there are no words—just a look. Upon my command, my Doberman, Jack, sat obediently in the vet's examining room. Four years old and in his prime, with 115 pounds of strapping muscle, he was at once impressive and intimidating. He sat between the vet and me, wagging his tail.

When I gave him the instruction "paw," he offered that big foot to the vet, who placed a tourniquet on his leg. The medicine was drawn into the syringe and pushed into Jack's vein. Two seconds elapsed, and it was during this extraordinarily brief space of time that Jack gave me that look, one I'd never seen before. I couldn't turn away. Then all that bulk went lifeless, and he was gone.

There were no words. There was no quote that I could take home and put in a diary. There was just that look.

Earlier that morning, Jack had jumped onto the bed (something he was not allowed to do) and attacked my wife, Tracy. He'd given no warning. Even as an experienced Doberman owner, I was amazed by his lightning speed as he bit Tracy three times. I rushed her, shaken and bloody, to the hospital, and it was later that day that Jack and I ended up at the vet's office.

.....We forge special bonds with our pets, and my relationship with Jack was no exception. I called him "my boy," having raised him since he was a pup. When I first got Jack, I owned a sports car, and his idea of going for a ride was jumping into the trunk, then crawling Army style half-way through the dropped-down back seat, so that his hindquarters remained in the trunk as we drove around town. My decision to buy a Jeep as my next vehicle was pretty much influenced by imagining Jack as a passenger. He deserved to be transported in style.

Just before Jack and I went to the vet's, I took him for a long walk and one of our car rides. We played Frisbee and I let him chase squirrels in the park. I wanted his last moments to be normal—and fun. Two hours later he was gone.

So what was Jack trying to convey with that unforgettable look he gave me in the last seconds of his life? Hard to say. Like most pets, he had an assortment of expressions and sounds that spoke loud and clear to me: a quick bark meant he had to go out; pushing his bowl across the floor meant "feed me"; wide paws and a low stance meant "play with me," and my favorite—jumping six feet in the air while banging all four paws against the sliding glass door—meant "I want to come in."

But that last look was something altogether different, and like most people who have been left with a hole in their lives, I find myself filling in the words that were never said. I'd like to believe Jack was saying, "It's OK. I had a good time."

All of us who have gone through the heart wrenching experience of putting a beloved animal to sleep, have wished that we could have fathomed what went through the mind of our pet at the moment before the lethal injection was administered - to know whether they understood.  I know that this will be dismissed by many as unnecessary sentimentality of projecting "human" feelings on to animals. But the very essence of our empathy is to be able to humanize an event and a relationship. How else do we bond with our animals?

Comments

[Karen]

I greatly enjoyed reading your story about Jack the Doberman. I am a firm beliver that animals do have emotion and feelings regardless of what many would dismiss as projecting of "human" feelings. Morgan is my best friend, he my Boxer that just turned 9 years old a few days ago, he's been in my life from the day he was born, as his mom was also my baby. 9 is old for a Boxer and although he's very health I know the day will come when I must say goodbye to him, that sadens me a great deal. But what does make it a little easier is knowing that he does feel and think and he knows as well as I do that he is very loved and has a life that many dogs only dream of.

[Jonathan]

My essay, which was printed in Newsweek Magazine, was difficult at first to write. But the words started flowing and the experience became cathartic. I never really imagined however, the effect that the story would have on others - especially those that have pets that are getting older, or those who have had similar experiences. The responses have been overwhelmingly positive despite the fact that I have now heard equally heartbreaking tales. I am very glad that I could share my story with so many.

[Ruchira Paul]

Jonathan:
Thanks for sharing with us the extraordinary essay about Jack. Those of us who love animals and have had the privilege of reading your essay, will be invariably moved - as Karen says in her comment above and as I did in my post.

It has been an honor to hear from you about the process of writing this difficult story. You accurately and sensitively gave voice to what numerous pet owners and animal lovers have experienced but have struggled to express.

[Joe]

That was indeed a very touching story.

This is at most tangential, but I find animal ethics very troubling. We all do anthropomorphise animals, but to my knowledge (and maybe I'm just behind on the science) we have no way of knowing one way or the other to what extent animals share in the "human" experience. Do they think? (And do the related question, do human beings really "think" in any meaningful way?) Do they have feelings beyond like/dislike, pleasure/pain? And does that matter?

I've been thinking about this one since last spring when it came up in my philosophy seminar and I still don't have an answer. I think it's fairly obviously wrong to cause anything, including even just a mosquito, to suffer for the sake of causing it to suffer. But is it acceptable to kill an animal in order to eat it? (I'm not a vegetarian, at least not yet, but I think it's a legitimate question--you would never see people saying it's okay to kill other people to eat them, and I don't think *similarity* or *likeness* is a good reason in itself to differentiate behavior.) Does it matter how the animal lived, if it was treated with dignity? At least with the American Indians, they would use all parts of the animal they killed, and I think say some sort of prayer for it when they killed it... this sharply contrasts with animals being kept in cages and fattened up and then eventually slaughtered.

With pets it's less of an issue because they're (at the least!) extensions of ourselves and so we tend to treat our pets well--but the underlying principle is probably shared and important.

[Joe]

The other great thing about your story, Jonathan, other than that it's emotionally helpful to find relating experiences to your own, is that people might pay more attention to their pets because of it and maybe some animals on the verge of becoming dangerous will be more closely monitored and some harm can be prevented.

Yuck, that's a long and ugly sentence.