The Fate of Dancing Bear

I wasn’t a demented kid; I never really tortured animals or anything. I just had one, well I guess two, animal torturing experiences.

I’ve never liked cats. In fact, until now, I’ve never realized how much I must have disliked cats.
My first illuminating experience took place when I was 8 or 9. Someone had told me, or I read somewhere, that when cats jump down from high places, they always land on their feet and never hurt themselves. Being the young, scientific, and curious kid that I was, I decided to perform an experiment. My hypothesis was that cats didn’t always land on their feet. It must’ve been just an old wives’ tale because how could an up-side-down cat flip over and land on his feet every time? I didn’t want this test to be too easy, so I lugged my cat, Dancing Bear, to the back deck, about one storey above ground, and prepared.

Now, let’s pause and see this from my perspective. Although I’ve never been a cat person and there are a few cats that I’ve definitely felt a strong aversion to, I actually liked Dancing Bear. He was my cat and he thought he was a dog, so his personality was clearly much more appealing. So, I stood on the deck with a firm grasp on a rather fluffy cat and I looked down. This was the moment where I should have begun to question the purpose of my experiment. I honestly didn’t want to hurt my cat and I certainly didn’t want to get in trouble, but I was curious, really curious. An inquisitive mind and boredom often combine to create dangerous situations. I took a few steps closer to the railing and looked down. The hillside below the deck looked very, very far away. Dancing Bear began to squirm. As I struggled to keep him calm, I felt the rough texture of the deck railing through my T-shirt and the soft fur of my cat and hesitated. But just for a few seconds. Rather than contemplate the ethics of my plan, I began to work through the logistics.

Initially, I thought I should drop him feet first to see how he survived, but then I realized I would never catch him again after the first drop—so I had to go all out. So, before my conscience had a chance to engage, I flipped Dancing Bear over and dropped him.

What a disappointment! It was a total waste. At the very moment I let go, my mother walked out onto the deck and used that tone on me that all mothers have. “Sarah Grimke Taylor! Just what are you DOING?!” Her tone was so deep and harsh and terrifying that I got distracted and missed Dancing Bear’s landing.

I never got to see if he landed on his feet, and I never dared to attempt an experiment like that again. Well, never at my mother’s house. I just twirled some kittens around by their arms at my dad’s once, and well I also spun the mean mother cat Toby (that my step-mother loved) around in the bottom of a trash can. It was really cool to see how she stuck to the bottom of the can, but I shouldn’t dwell on that.

The important point is that I found Dancing Bear sleeping on the couch a few hours later and he looked just fine.

Nevertheless, I did learn something important from this experiment. Science and the quest for knowledge are noble causes, but we all must strive to keep science and entertainment separate. Although science is rarely boring, science is a perilous cure for boredom.

As I reflect back, I realize that these incidents might have been the activities of a young psychopath, but luckily my cat experimenting days ended by the fifth grade. For some reason, I just lost interest. Truthfully, I think the fact that I’m telling you this shows more about my personality than the fact that I had a cat-torturing streak in my life. Why am I so willing to discuss things that should be left unsaid?