"Not the hoooooooooooook...!"

One of my cats is a large orange cat named Tucker. Tucker is part of a litter of six, the first "entire litter" my ex-wife and I adopted in 1996 after their mother was killed by some redneck who was pissed at his girlfriend, at whose trailer the cats lived in Berryville, Virginia.

Tucker is the best example I can think of (at least in cats) of "false recovered memory." Somehow, he has this memory of me chasing him around the house with an iron hook or something, because he and he alone is quite wary of me, though he's curious about me.

Tucker and I have lived together for over eight years now. His siblings all come and sleep on me at night and follow me around asking for attention. Tucker follows me, too, but at a distance, as if he's trying to keep track of me but ensure an escape route if I express too much interest in talking to him.

I have long tried to figure out what Tucker's problem is. I am pretty sure he expects me to chase him around with that iron hook again, an event for which his ability to recall would be admirable if it weren't for the fact that it never happened. Never did anything to Tucker, even when he's done stuff to deserve getting yelled at. But there he is, paranoid, waiting for his worst fears to be affirmed all over again. Meanwhile, his siblings get to sleep ON the bed (not under it) and can come and lounge on my lap when I watch television, rather than cowering behind the couch waiting for me to pull out the iron hook. His strange, baseless expectations make for a nervous life for a cat.

All of this, of course, goes straight out the window when I am handing out bits of steak or pinches of catnip. Then he and I are old buddies, until the goodies run out and he is once again sure I am going for the hook.

I learn a lot from my cats.