Baxter never really was a city cat. But life with Jen in the woods of Lake Tahoe was, still, quite different from living in Arcadia, California. First of all, back when Jen was a student, most days she spent much of her time away from home. Then there were the roommates, Carrie and Alexa; a constant stream of friends dropping by throughout the day; a decent amount of space to wander; and though there were no other cats in the house, Carrie’s bulldog, Bandit, could be a pest when he got excited. But the biggest difference between then and now was before he had a cat door to come and go as he pleased—to explore the yard, roam through the neighborhood, or hunt for chipmunks and birds in the woods—and now he was an indoor cat. Still, even then, back at their old house, when Jen was not at classes or work, Baxter’s favorite place was by her side.
As Jen explained to her sister on the phone the other night, “I’m sorry, Julie, it’s not worth the chance. This is the real forest, not the old woods back where we lived in Arcadia. He could wander for miles—he could get lost … and even if Bax did find his way home, there’re all sorts of animals out there—I mean serious ones like bobcats, and coyotes, and cougars, and bears. They really could hurt him, even eat him.”
“Cougars.”
“Well … maybe not cougars.”
“Jen. It’s not like you’re living in the Yukon wilderness or—”
“No, Jules, really. He’d just, like, vanish and I’d never … even know.”
“Okay already, I hear you, Jen. It was just an idea …”
And still as the discussion changed to jobs and dating, Baxter cozily stretched in Jen’s lap, while they gazed out into the darkness together.
With only just the two of them, their cabin in the woods was much roomier than they were used to: two bedrooms, two bathrooms (one converted to a darkroom), a small loft—one of their favorite spots—which they reached by climbing a spiral staircase, plenty of closets, and the great room, where the kitchen and living room looked out through picture windows to the thick stand of forest that lay just beyond. There was also a deck on the back of the cabin, from which you could barely make out through the pines the North Shore of Tahoe and Carnelian Bay. The second week in their new home, before the chill of fall set in, Jen wrapped chicken wire around the sides of the deck to give Baxter a place he could go outdoors, just to be in the open air. With the steep slope of the mountainside a good twenty feet below, he seemed content to have the space and never tried to climb the fence or the trees just on the other side. In fact, while Jen worked in the darkroom on her photos, the odds were, when she stepped out for a break, she’d find Baxter sunning on the deck or, if not there, dozing up in the loft.
As fall gave way to winter, though, and the thick Sierra snowpack grew deeper, Baxter discreetly avoided the deck except when Jen would coax him out with his favorite freeze-dried salmon treats. Even then, when the treats were gone, he would spring from Jen’s lap and run across the deck and back inside through the sliding doors to the warmth and comfort of the cabin. Every few steps, he’d stop and shake the snow from his paws with a look of disgust and, once back indoors, he would curl up on the rug and lick at the fur between each toe until the very last snowflake had melted.
Jen wasn’t really certain exactly when Baxter’s “fits” first started. “I think it was maybe like … two or three months ago, ’cause it started snowing in the middle of October … and it wasn’t too long after that, I remember him doing it.”
The bouts in the beginning were so brief—a few seconds—that, at first, Jen thought he was just twitching his tail. As winter set in, though, she noticed the episodes more and more often and lasting much longer.
In a video Jen took of one of his fits, I watch Baxter scramble frantically down the staircase and dash across the kitchen floor, heading toward the bedrooms. About halfway there he freezes, turns, stares at his tail for several seconds, and then takes a few halting steps. All of a sudden, he turns toward his rump and begins to nibble it furiously. After a minute, he finally stops and looks around the kitchen with a vague, distracted gaze. His tail twitches several times and I notice him pant as he turns toward the camera. He takes a step, hesitates, and then charges full speed across the room, almost as if he were being chased. As soon as he comes within reach of the sofa, he leaps onto the cushions and burrows deep into a corner, a tiger lurking furtively within the shadows of his cave. The only trace I see of him is the tip of his tail between two pillows.
“When did you begin to notice episodes like this one?” I ask, looking back from the video to Jen.
“Maybe, at first, once or twice a week, but now he can have two or three in a day.”
“Is there a time they’re more likely to happen?”
“Not really. I’ve tried to figure out a pattern—even plotted them on a chart—and they just don’t seem to make sense to me.”
We look at the chart in his file together.
“One thing I should say, though,” Jen continues, “is that I’ve only seen them during the day.”
Looking up from the chart, I ask, “None at night?”
“Well, maybe he has some while I’m at the café, but I’ve never seen one on my nights off, either. Don’t you think that’s kinda weird?
“And once we’re in bed for the night, Bax loves to snuggle in the covers till it’s morning. So, I’m sure I’d wake up if he had any then.”
From the rest of Baxter’s history, he appears to be a normal cat. He’s social with friends, very affectionate with Jen, eats by grazing on and off throughout the day, and loves to play any time she’s willing.
“His favorite game, by far, is fetch. You really need to see this,” Jen says, as she crumples a sheet of paper and wads it up into a smallish ball. Baxter’s ears perk and his eyes open wide—fully alert, though he doesn’t move a muscle. Jen tosses the ball and his eyes track it with flawless precision as it arcs through the air, lands, and rolls across the floor. When it finally stops, he stares at it, transfixed and frozen; then, all at once, he vaults from his resting place beside me and, within a few bounds, lands on the ball. After batting it back and forth in his front paws, he grabs it with his teeth (ball dangling from between fangs), saunters back to join us, and proudly drops his trophy.
“Cool, huh? He can do that for hours—well, maybe not hours, but you know what I mean.”
I already feel a soft spot for Baxter, and I’ve only been here less than an hour.
Jen can’t remember an incident ever happening while he’s playing ball. “But once one’s started, nothing can stop it. I can’t get him to fetch the ball, or come to me, or even take a piece of salmon. And if I try to hold him or comfort him,” she says with a sigh, “oh, it’s just so pathetic. He just tucks his head in my arms and hides, and I don’t even know what to do but hold him.”
A single tear slips down her cheek and she looks at me as if to say, “Please, help us.” I feel tears fill my eyes, as well.
Baxter’s physical exam doesn’t reveal much. In about a one-inch stripe running from his lower back down to his tail, his long black coat is just a little thinner. I can feel the stubble of some broken hairs where he has bitten at the base of his rump. But his skin there looks completely normal: no redness, bite marks, scabs, or other signs of trauma that I can find. The whole time I’m examining him—completing a neurological exam; gently stretching, flexing, and rotating his joints; carefully listening to his chest and tummy—he stands on the sofa, softly purrs, and looks at me through squinted eyes, willing to endure it all for the attention. Certainly he shows no pain, joint problems, or neurological signs. Yet, from what I’ve learned from Jen, the video, and my physical exam, I can make a tentative diagnosis.
Baxter’s signs are fairly classic for FHS (feline hyperesthesia syndrome)—a bit of hair loss from overgrooming; running away from his tail at times, as if a family of fleas were on board and attacking him; biting at his rump now and then in almost spastic fits; and a slow, insidious onset, starting with short bouts and progressing into full-blown spells that bewilder their families and the cats themselves. Some cats with FHS fiercely guard their tails from others; a gentle touch or reaching toward them can launch them into a frenzied attack. But, many more, like Baxter, are docile.
We really don’t understand what causes FHS or why it happens. From watching cats like Baxter, I believe they’re responding to real sensations. It’s likely they feel pain, or maybe tingling, itching, or burning, but off and on, quite literally—which may be why they seem fine between fits.
Since these cats are feeling real sensations in their bodies, shouldn’t they be seeing a neurologist instead of me? You would think so. As a matter of fact, most cats I’ve seen have done just that. Yet, invariably, neurologists find nothing wrong with these cats’ nerves. There’s no device or fancy test that can give a diagnosis of FHS, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real or that their nerves are simply fine. It’s just that we don’t know where to look as of yet.
But, if isn’t in their nerves, could it be it’s in their heads—a misperception, a delusion, a figment of their imagination? That’s the question everyone asks. And so they end up calling me.
Imagine, for a moment, without any warning you suddenly feel a stabbing pain piercing in your lower back, or an awful itch that you can’t quite scratch, or a throbbing, tingling, stinging sensation—almost like when your foot falls asleep—for no reason at all, several times a day. After a few minutes (maybe more), it simply fades away and—sigh—you’re fine … until you feel the next attack. You can’t predict when it will happen, but you know it will, again and again. It’s not hard to understand why these cats are stressed and nervous. So as I care for them, I try to ease their minds and bodies.
There is no single treatment that works for this condition. For some cats, trying to reduce their stress can help to lessen their clinical signs. With other cats, enriching their lives—offering activities to shift their focus—relieves their suffering remarkably. For yet others, nothing but medication can soothe their pain and still their distress.
Because Baxter’s signs were severe, we began with medication while Jen put in place a plan for enriching his environment. Since his problem first began when he became confined inside, she decided to bring a taste of the outdoors to their cabin. Before she even started, though, Baxter’s signs faded and then vanished within a week. No more biting. No running and hiding. Not even the faintest hint of twitching. And, beyond his physical comfort, he was undoubtedly calmer and much happier.
Spring arrived early that year. Before the snowdrifts had fully melted, as soon as Jen could shovel and scrape a swath of deck down to the wood, Baxter made up for his winter confinement. And, in keeping with her plans to make his life more interesting, Jen worked on a few improvements to the deck. On the far side where the pines reached to the cabin with a canopy of shade, Jen built a rather large wood-framed box, filled it with a thick bed of soil, and lined it with lush strips of sod. When Jen’s sister, Julie, visited one weekend, she brought with her a full patio set, which they set up where the sun was fullest. Finally, Jen added two barrels planted with dwarf lemon trees, half a dozen hanging vines, and a small bubbling fountain, which she plugged in near the planter box. And by May, when the last bits of ice had thawed, the once barren deck had become a cat’s oasis.
With Baxter resuming his life outdoors, we weaned him off the medication and, in the months that followed, he never showed another sign of the fits that had plagued him that first winter in Tahoe. Throughout the summer, Baxter and Jen savored their times on the deck together. While Jen ate, read, or just relaxed for an hour, Baxter would sometimes come and sunbathe by her side. Other times, he’d stalk squirrels and birds, from within the reeds of grass that grew tall within the planter box, or batted bubbles and splashed his paws at flies and bugs that landed in the fountain.
In September, winter hit early, and the paradise they loved so much was blanketed again in snow. Even with the planter box, fountain, and trees moved inside, Baxter’s fits returned full force, and the pace at which they worsened was much quicker than the year before. Unable to bear her kitty suffering again, Jen asked if Baxter could resume the medication. And, as if to prove it really worked, within two weeks his fits were gone.
And so the story continued the same, winter and spring, year after year. With the first signs of thawing snow, Jen would wean Baxter off the medication, and he would thrive with his time outdoors until, months later, the winter returned.
I heard from Jen again this fall as we’ve kept in touch every few months or so, through all the years since we first met at their cabin. Baxter died this August at the ripe old age of sixteen. He gracefully passed away in his favorite place, resting in the grass on their deck stretched by her side. We were both especially grateful that their last few months together were in the summer, the time of year that Baxter, certainly, loved the best.
We cried together on the phone that day, but also laughed quite a bit, as Jen thought back to stories of Baxter’s adventures and antics through the years. Eventually, we ran out of words and sat on opposite ends of the phone, lingering in the silence, not sure what was left to say about one cat who, in his lifetime, touched our hearts so deeply. In that moment, before we said good-bye, with thank-yous for everything and promises to keep in touch, I also knew our thanks were even more for Baxter.
Adaptability is a state of being that reflects how we adjust to the world as it changes. To adapt we must be flexible: capable of changing ourselves and willing to do so. But, beyond this, for us to adapt, we must also take some course of action—responding somehow differently in what we do or think or feel. As we adapt, we embody a new way of being.
In a world that is always changing, every being must adapt to some degree for their survival. Sometimes whole species adapt together. Every fall around September, as the warmth of the summer fades from the air, ruby-throated hummingbirds abandon the meadows and woods around our home and head southward to Mexico or even farther to Panama, where insects and spiders are plentiful. Weighing barely more than a dime and soaring past at nearly thirty miles an hour, they travel for up to two thousand miles, many flying nonstop across the wide-open seas of the Gulf of Mexico. In the early spring, they rechart their course, returning to court, breed, and nest in our woodlands. To them this remarkable, twice-a-year journey is simply a routine of life in step with nature.
In the course of my work, I find animals adapting more subtly in smaller groups or, often, by themselves. As zoo attendance swells during school breaks and the summer months, a family of three gibbons loiters higher in their habitat to avoid the crowds that throng below. Since the passing of her father from a tragic illness just a month ago, the youngest gibbon clings more closely to her mother. When crowds fade near closing hour and the evening breeze weaves its way through the trees, her older sister lures her from her mother’s side to swing and frolic in the branches near the ground. Each adapts in keeping with the others’ needs and wishes.
Oftentimes, my patients face greater hardships than other animals. Some live in environments that oppressively limit a range of their behaviors. Many cope with circumstances—people, animals, or situations—that they simply find too stressful. Still others struggle with their own limitations: diseases, injuries, or behavioral conditions that cripple their bodies and hinder their lives. For many I see, these hardships happen in concert. What touches me in watching my patients is their willing acceptance of the challenges they meet, regardless of how daunting they would be to me. Some people could proclaim that these animals have no choice. Others might say that they lack the will to resist their fate—they simply surrender to whatever they are given. But what I see in my patients is tolerance, acceptance, and willingness to adapt to whatever life brings them day to day.
An old folktale from Korea speaks to me deeply about adapting. When Yuk On’s husband first returned home from being away for many years at war, she was overjoyed that, at long last, he had returned home safe. After several weeks, however, her relief gave way to worry. Each morning as Tae Hyun woke, Yuk On met him with an adoring smile and a tender kiss to begin their day as she had always done. Where before, in turn, he would wrap her in his arms and hold her, now he stiffened and turned away without a word. During dinner, when they used to share stories and tales about their day, he now sat in stony silence as he picked and nibbled at his food. And at nighttime, if she snuggled close, he shrugged her off and faced the ceiling or rolled away to the edge of the bed, leaving Yuk On to lie alone. In most every way that she could tell, Tae Hyun seemed a different man from the husband who had left for war.
With the passing of each week, Tae Hyun’s manner appeared to worsen, and Yuk On’s worry gave way to a nagging sense of doubt and fear. Her heart ached in loneliness for the husband she knew had loved her so dearly and cherished their marriage as much as she, for Yuk On was certain this ghost did neither. She grieved for her soul mate who was lost in battle, and resented this shadow who took his place.
Late one night as Tae Hyun lay sweating and murmuring in his dreams, Yuk On felt she could not bear another night feeling so alone. She dressed in an overcoat, left their home, and wandered along the streets of the village. After a while, despite the late hour, she came across a small, dimly lit house. Yuk On recognized it at once as the home of Hyeja, a village elder.
“Of course,” she whispered to herself, as she dared to softly knock on the door, for Hyeja was known throughout the village for his special talent with potions and charms. Thinking she heard a faint reply, Yuk On carefully tried the latch and, when it clicked, edged the door open. In front of her, the old man sat wrapped in a blanket and huddled by a fire.
While tending the flames, the old wizard asked, “What brings you here at such an hour, my child?” Then, without turning, he waved for her to join him.
As soon as she sat with him on the floor, Yuk On burst out her entire story, along with her deepest worries and fears. Through it all, the old man listened and, every so often, silently nodded.
“Please help me bring back the dear Tae Hyun that I married,” Yuk On pleaded. Then, before he could respond, she added, “There must be something you could give me to help me fill his heart again—a charm, an amulet … a potion?”
At last, spent from exhaustion, she sat and faced the elder in silence.
“I believe I know a potion that can bloom your husband’s love again,” Hyeja replied in almost a whisper. “But to make it, you must bring me the whisker of a living tiger.”
Yuk On sat in stunned silence, searching his face. Surely she must have heard him wrong.
“A tiger?” she asked.
The old man nodded.
“But that would be impossible!” she blurted. “Certainly, there must be something else—”
“If it is truly your heart’s desire,” the wizard assured her with a smile, “you will find a way, my child.”
Yuk On left Hyeja’s house as lost and desperate as when she’d arrived. Wandering through the roads and alleyways of her village, she felt defeated before she started. Yet, somewhere on her way back home, she fancied a plan that, if it worked, would give her a tiger’s whisker for the potion.
The following morning, as soon as Tae Hyun left their home to work in the fields, Yuk On dashed to the village market to buy several pieces of meat from the butcher. She then rushed home to continue her day.
Late that night, once Tae Hyun had finally nodded off to sleep, Yuk On quietly slipped out of bed, dressed, stuffed the meat in her pack, and fled through the streets of the sleeping village. Once she passed the last house in town, guided by the light of the moon, she followed a rugged, well-worn path winding upward into the mountains.
After an hour of steady hiking, the trail crossed over a rocky ridge. Just ahead, the path dropped into a wooded valley veiled in mist. The air grew moist with the rich scent of cedar and a layer of fir needles blanketed the ground, muffling Yuk On’s footsteps so she could barely hear them, as if the shadows in the trees were conspiring to conceal her.
At the far side of the valley, the trail resumed its upward climb, and Yuk On stopped to take in the scene. The trees and fog gave way to a clearing blanketed with tall grasses and reeds. Along the face of the sheer rock wall, a narrow ledge ran the length of the meadow, and just above it a faint, dark shadow perched overlooking the valley below. In that instant, Yuk On knew she’d reached her destination, for stories of travelers through the years had told of that same shadow just above the glen and the den of a tiger that lay deep within it.
Half-relieved to have found her goal and half-terrified to go any farther, she edged her way around the meadow until she reached the rocky wall. Much too close for Yuk On’s comfort, she could easily see the ledge above and the entrance to the cave just within the shadow. She could feel her heart racing as she left the shelter of the woods and tiptoed through the meadow to a small, barren patch. Carefully, quietly, Yuk On reached into her pack and neatly laid the meat in an offering on the ground. Then, as quickly as she dared, she traced her way back through the grass to take cover in the shadows of the trees that lined the glen.
To Yuk On is seemed that eons passed, as she stood among the brambles and branches in the wood. She began to wonder if the cave had been abandoned or, perhaps, the stories were nothing more than myths, spun long ago by adventure-seeking travelers. But then something—a dark shape—appeared within the shadow. More massive and imposing than she’d dared imagine, it paused for a moment at the edge of the cave. Then it took a step forward and its face came alive. The tiger emerged from the dimness around him, surveying the valley and ridges beyond. His eyes stared intently each place they landed. His whiskers, stiff in every direction, reflected the light of the moon. His ears seemed to point wherever he looked, poised to pick up any nuance of sound. Except for the faint sound of trickling water from a brook that ambled in between the reeds, the valley stared back at the tiger in silence.
The tiger turned his gaze to the forest near Yuk On. His eyes pierced through the darkness around her. His nose seemed to twitch, alert to her fear. And though it seemed hard to believe, Yuk On knew he somehow could smell her presence. Then, leaping from the narrow ledge, he bounded down the rocky wall—far too quickly and easily—and landed in the meadow where she’d left her gift. He turned, snuffled, and chuffed in Yaku’s direction and then at the ground around where he stood. With each sniff, he seemed to consider the meat, the meadow, and Yuk On deliberately.
She barely saw him bite at the food. But, within a few gulps, he’d eaten it all. And then he was gone, blending into the reeds, just another shadow in the moonlight. A minute passed and then another—no trace of the tiger—and then he appeared, an outline on the mountainside far upon the ridge.
As soon as she no longer could see the tiger, Yuk On left her hiding place and scampered back the way she came, down the mountain and on to the village. Then, at last, she was home and under the covers without Tae Hyun even knowing she’d been gone. And, in spite of the thrill of her adventure and relief of making it safely home, she fell fast asleep as her head hit the pillow.
In the days and weeks that followed, Yuk On kept to the same routine, hiking late at night to make her offering to the tiger. One night, however, as Yuk On walked into the clearing, she found the tiger perched just above her—stretched along the narrow ledge, watching her arrive. Afraid to take another step, she stopped midstride to weigh her choices: freeze and wait for him to leave, however long that may take; flee and risk the chance that running could spur the tiger to chase her; or slowly retreat and miss a night—but then what? All the while, the tiger stared—focused, waiting, statuesque—as she stood frozen, still as a scarecrow.
In spite of how his gaze unnerved her, Yuk On knew what she must do. Bowing her head, she continued, step by step, to the usual spot, discreetly laid the meat on the ground, and steadily walked back to the forest. When Yuk On turned, she was startled to find the tiger had already left the ledge. Quickly scanning the clearing, half-expecting him to pounce from nowhere, she found him again, standing over her offering. He sniffed at the clearing where Yuk On had stood, paused to consider it, and then ate the snack. While gulping the last bite and licking at his whiskers, he turned to look her way for a moment and then padded off in the other direction.
Each trip from that night on, the tiger already lay on the ledge, surveying the clearing, when Yuk On arrived. Just as before, once she left for the forest, the tiger leapt from his resting place, ate, and shortly wandered off. And then one night he wasn’t there. Yuk On scanned the ledge, the meadow, the mountains, the edge of the forest. No matter where she looked, she couldn’t see the tiger. So, with nothing else to do, she continued to her offering spot to leave the meat just as before. Then, as she turned to leave, she heard him chuff that distinctive breath she’d noticed from across the meadow. Still bent over, she slowly turned to find him standing right beside her, utterly blended within the grass and reeds around him, except for a flash of his eyes and two thin strips of orange and black running in circles around his cheeks and upward toward his forehead. Facing the tiger eye to eye, her heart pounding so loudly that she could hear it pulsing, Yuk On stood, breathed, and turned heroically toward the woods. As she walked back through the meadow, the tiger seemed indifferent, content to focus on his evening snack.
From that point forward, when Yuk On arrived, she found the tiger waiting at her offering spot. Within a week he even ate before she left the meadow for the woods and, when this happened, Yuk On knew it was finally time to take her chance. The following night, as she bent to leave the meat, she pulled a pair of scissors from her pocket. The tiger approached as he had each night before, and when he lowered his head to sniff her offering, she reached toward his muzzle with the scissors. The tiger simply ate, unfazed, and, to Yuk On’s amazement, in her palm lay a whisker. Once he finished eating, the tiger chuffed once more, this time sniffing at Yuk On’s hand, and then without a pause, padded off and upward toward the ridge.
Amazed, relieved, and happier than she’d imagined, Yuk On ran—and almost skipped—the entire way back to the village. As she reached the wizard’s house, she found it dimly lit once more. She knocked and heard his voice, as she had done many nights before. Running to his side and waving the whisker, still clutched in her hand, she burst out, “Here it is! Can you believe it? I have the tiger’s whisker for you!”
Kneeling beside him on the floor, Yuk On proudly laid it in his hands.
Examining the whisker thoughtfully, the old man said, “I can see, indeed, it is a tiger’s whisker; but tell me, my child, how did you come by this?”
Yuk On told him of all she had done in the months since she last saw him. As before, the old man listened and, every so often, quietly nodded. Then, without a word, he tossed the whisker in the fire.
Yuk On watched, too stunned to speak, as the whisker curled and shriveled to nothing but ashes. Then she collapsed at the old man’s feet and sobbed, “How could you do this after all I’ve done? I must have that potion. I must … I must …”
Taking her face into his hands, he wiped the tears from her cheeks and smiled.
“There’s no reason to despair, dear child. You’ve no need for a potion now. In fact, you never needed one.”
Bewildered and confused, she looked in his eyes as he continued, “You alone, with no one’s help, tamed a wild tiger with nothing more than what’s inside you—patience, commitment, and compassion in your heart.” Still smiling, he added, “And a good bit of courage. If you can do this with a tiger, you can do the same with anyone.
“Go to your husband, child, and trust you have all you need within you.”
As Yuk On made her way back through the village, she kept struggling with the old man’s words. All that she had hoped for had fizzled in the flames. How could he compare a wild tiger with her distant husband? But, as Yuk On slipped between the sheets and turned to Tae Hun’s side, she smiled.
It seems part of human nature that we look to others for how they can change—husbands, wives, children, friends, the person in line at the grocery store. Often, as with Yuk On, we do so with good intention. From our viewpoint, we have the answer. If only she would learn, we think, or just move off her position a bit. If only he would stop to look at my perspective for just a moment. If only the old wizard would make a magic potion. But it’s not a matter of changing them. Adapting always begins with us, when we first shift in our perspective.
So often, as humans, we focus on change, just like Yuk On did till the end. It’s easy to empathize with her. We envision how it looks and feels and we want the change to happen now. In doing so, we make it a goal—a point in time, a certain result—something we can measure, or compare, to where we are right now. The world is always changing, though. Our circumstances are never static. Like a boat crossing the ocean, we’re never precisely on the right course. We drift a little off to starboard, then shift our way a bit to port—always correcting, adjusting, refining. Adapting is an ongoing process. There is no endpoint. It’s always evolving.
As I watch animals, I see they get this. It’s not that they don’t have objectives, but they adjust them more willingly than we do. While we hold focused on our goal, animals accept adapting as a process, adjusting their plans according to each situation. Throughout the many months of Yuk On’s journey into the mountains, the tiger adapted with remarkable ease. More than once, he surprised Yuk On by accepting her before she was ready. Trusting his instincts, he adapted to her presence, thoughtfully and with intention.
Baxter touched me deeply, in part because of how he adapted with poise and grace to every situation. As long as he was by Jen’s side, he accepted each day for what it brought. Back in Arcadia, when Jen was at school, he adjusted quite contentedly to roaming the neighborhood and the woods. In those four years, he became quite skilled at stalking chipmunks and hapless birds. Even so, at the end of the day, when Jen returned from class or work, reliably, he’d be back at home, waiting and ready to join her. As an indoor cat in Tahoe, he adjusted with remarkable ease—that is, until his body objected. Even when he was riddled with fits of pain and twitches that relentlessly pursued him, Baxter withstood it all with a calm and loving nature. His greatest comfort in those times was being cradled in Jen’s arms. Throughout his life, he willingly adapted the best he could to each new situation while remembering what mattered most.
The wounded husband, Yuk On, and the wise man are in each of us. Deep within we all have parts that are scared, wise, and desperate for love. Each of these parts stirs within us as we go about our lives with all our plans, hopes, and wishes for the future. Yet, as we put our dreams into action, the world around us is also adapting. We have a choice whether to stay on course, fixed and locked in our intention, trying to change the world and others as needed to meet our goals; or to look around, take stock, and adjust where we are headed.
Likewise, within each of us also lies the tiger—untamed; instinctive; flexible, even before we believe we are ready; capable of accepting and adjusting to whatever happens. The creatures around us can serve to remind us that we hold the wisdom already within for how we can change our lives and open ourselves to new ways of being, if only we are willing to clip a whisker from the tiger.