Empathy and the fence post

Not one to ignore the curiosity of cats given they can hear, see, and smell better than any mortal, I can be a johnny-come-lately in investigating too whatever captures their attention. During a sojourn into the backyard with Willis and Babycakes — a regular morning happening much like letting your dog out to do his or her business — both cats immediately went to a fence post, part of a hard plastic/vinyl Lego-like connecting white structure that runs behind my property separating mowed lawns from the wild underbrush lining a tiny stream.

The cats took turns sniffing at the bottom of the post as I settled into a chair and surveyed the blue Florida sky. Neither cat stayed long, and I assumed they were evaluating the scent of some passing animal, another cat perhaps, or a squirrel or possum or the droppings of that big raccoon that occasionally appears in the pre-dawn hours. My premise seemed so putative that I didn't get up from my chair. Then I heard the scratching. "No," I told myself, not from inside the post. The scratching stopped when I got up from my chair to focus my attention on the post. I checked the top. The decorative cap was missing. Not quite tall enough to see into the six-foot tall post, I retrieved a mirror from my bathroom to angle downward and small flashlight to shine inside. I couldn't see far enough down. Maybe the scratching came from the other side of the fence, not inside, I told myself.

As if I was projecting into the future since neighborhood squirrels traversed the yards by running along the top of the fence, I got an empty plastic flowerpot, crushed it to fit, and placed it atop the opening on the post. The act momentarily seemed pointless since such agile creatures surely wouldn't fall into an opening atop the fence — unless it was a young squirrel newly pushed out into the world. I went back to my chair unable to avoid staring at the fence post. Within a few minutes the scratching began again. I went to the post, tapped the bottom. Hearing nothing, I stepped away then scratching answered my tap. The cats came back and casually sniffed again as if to say, "See dummy, something's in there."

What to do?

Instead of the chair, I went inside, made coffee, sat at my desk, then got up to pace the living room and repeatedly told myself, "Sorry, whatever, I don't think I can cut through the post and get you out. You're on your own." The assertion couldn't get pass the empathy part of my brain.

The older I get it seems my empathy is easily triggered and a match for my well-ingrained cynicism. Giving a buck or two to people holding dolorous cardboard signs remains with me despite the impending doom of the world. How can that be? If you believe humanity is in a dark place, caught in a reptilian mindset of devouring the opportunities set before it why take action based on a connection felt to be all-embracing? Trying to answer that question intellectually seems like being stuck in a form of hapless kabuki. Using a rationale such as saying the universal is presenting you a perennial question appears to mock the spirituality modern humans constantly overplay in attempts to explain just about anything. Science could offer a more perspicuous path. Yet empathy seems to be woefully understudied except its lacking in studies concerning autism, schizophrenia, and other personality disorders. Still, researchers have concluded that "the average person in 2009 being less empathic than 75% of individuals in 1979," according to the Psychiatric Times.

More pertinent to the animal caught in my fence post comes from Anthrozoos, "a multidisciplinary journal of interactions between people and other animals." Researchers there conclude "... people feel at least as much empathy for animals as for humans. We suggest that an animal target elicits a great deal of empathy partly because it is perceived as not being responsible for having caused the need situation." Whether empathy for animals translates to more empathy for humans is still being researched. In my case, if I can get passed my cynicism and low bar of faith in fellow humans, the answer is yes.

But on this morning, I concluded I had to stop the impending doom of whatever animal was caught in my fence post. I went to my laundry room, which serves as a catch-all for whatever tools I have. A pile of small-diameter rope caught my eye. The trapped animal has claws, evident by its scratching. Maybe if I lowered the rope to the bottom of the post the animal could have a grip and pull itself out. The smooth surface of the fence offered nothing to grab on to. I tied a small rock to one end of rope so it would drop to the bottom of the post. Pride in myself for my ingenuity rose within me. I removed the stuffed flowerpot from the top and heard the rock hit the bottom. Like announcing to buried coal miners that help was on its way, I tapped the bottom of the post and waited.

An hour later, with the kitchen cleaned and another cup of coffee downed, I went to check the fence post. In a squat, I listened. Apparently, my presence known, the scratching began again. "Come on," I yelled, "the rope is there, climb out!" No response. The interspecies language barrier remained intact. I decided I would have to break through the hard plastic of the fence post to let the critter out. I went back to the laundry room and began to rummage through three different toolboxes. The most obvious tool needed was a saw to cut the plastic. I found two small hacksaw blades without support handles leaving them flimsy. Still, maybe to start the sawing I could use a chisel to drive a hole into the post. I took a hammer, the saw blades, and chisel to the post. A few blows into the post proved fruitless and did nothing except terrify the animal inside. I went to my refrigerator, got a beer, went to the backyard chair, and stared at the fence post. Half the beer downed, I went back to the toolboxes and gathered up a small crowbar, needle-nose pliers, a folding saw used to cut tree limbs, and for some reason, a large open-ended wretch. Considering these newly acquired tools, it looked like I would just have to use them to beat and tear apart the plastic into submission. Then, I spied the electric drill.

With the biggest drill bit I could find, I plugged the electric drill into a long extension cord and leaned into the plastic. The first time around when the drill broke through, I worried that I might have hit the animal. A few strange sounds came back to me (which I later surmised came from a young squirrel), so I began to anticipate the breakthrough to avoid injury. It was tough and noisy going, and to any neighbor it must have looked like I was somewhat disturbed and taking it out on the fence. An hour or so into it I managed to drill a series of tight concentric holes. Abandoning the use of the chisel, I took the open end of the open-ended wrench, got it inside, and began peeling back the plastic to enlarge the hole. That gave me room for the tree limb saw. At one point a patch of brown fur pressed up against the hole. "Hang tight little buddy," I whispered into the hole.

It was slow going. I wanted to make the hold as big as possible, so I kept drilling, sawing, and pulling the plastic back. By now, the evening was upon me, the mosquitoes harassing my sweaty body and I was tired. I thought about waiting until morning to resume the task. Guilt associated with a vison of a near-death starving small animal at the bottom of my fence post drove me on. At dark, the hole, jagged and looking like a beaver took to it, I decided it was big enough and went back inside leaving the tools scattered in the grass. Another beer later I took a flashlight and went to the post. No dead animal body and no scratching to be heard. I decided that the animal had avoided my clumsy drilling and escaped.

A few days later the female squirrel that comes to my screened-in porch for peanuts loudly announced her presence. I wanted to believe she was thanking me for freeing one of her kids, but she was there only to annoy my cats.