There is a reason animals are so often studied and their lessons applied to people. Animal learning and development is analogous to that of humans, and some of the most important basics apply to both. So with that in mind, I would like to share insights from my longitudinal study of Quigley the cat from 2010 to 2025.
But first, some background. During my first year of marriage, I made one of the biggest mistakes of my life. My wife and I needed more cat food, and we stopped into Petsmart. “Ooh, they have kittens,” I said naively.
My wife, always the voice of reason, replied, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Let’s just look,” I said. She raised her eyebrows playfully. With the foresight of a toddler, I forged ahead and was quickly overcome by the cuteness, separated from it only by a thin pane of glass. But my inner toddler was insatiable. “Maybe we could just play with one,” I suggested. That’s when Quigley and I met.
He was adorable in the cage, but he was even better when we took him out to play. Fearless but affectionate, he played when we wanted to play and snuggled when we wanted to snuggle. And when I flipped him on his back — a very vulnerable position for a cat — he just purred and playfully pawed at my hands. That was when I knew I was taking him home.
At first, I was delighted. Quigley was cute enough to forgive even his utterly revolting habit of carrying his dried turds around in his mouth and using them as toys, which he thankfully grew out of. He also had his heart-melting attributes, like how I trained him to be held like a baby in my arms. He loved it so much he would occasionally leap into my embrace, feet up, sometimes when I wasn’t even ready. Fortunately, I never dropped him, so he didn’t know any better.
Despite his endearing qualities, that cat tested my patience to its limits. He caused literally thousands of dollars in damage, mauling every conceivable upholstered surface. No training could deter him nor any cat post lure him away. Add to that his wanton vomiting, a ritual he observed at least once daily but usually more. There was no discernible cause, as the wretch didn’t know want and was only scarcely acquainted with illness.
Commitment and Change
When he first began clawing at our new couch, I was determined to change him. Surely, I thought, my determination, resources, and intellect are superior to this cat’s instinctual clothlust. I tried everything. The spray bottle was first, hilarious but wholly ineffective at interrupting his drive to destroy. Then decoys: abundant scratching posts. But cardboard and twine could not satisfy his expensive tastes. Fabric treatments with “deterrent” scents fell short, as did temporary coverings fail to decondition his appetites. Finally, I gave in. This was my reality. We were “those people,” the ones whose pets determine the condition of their home. Our principles required us to fulfill our adoptive commitment to Quigley, and inanimate belongings were a lesser priority than keeping him and his unbreakable will.
When we initially decided to commit ourselves to Quigley, I had no idea what I was in for. He seemed to be the perfect cat. But when the “honeymoon period” ended, all sorts of questions swirled. Had I made a mistake? How had I missed the red flags? We simply did not seem compatible anymore. Or perhaps I was not meant to be a pet owner at all. Maybe the problem was me. Then I was faced with a decision, and much to my chagrin, changing him was not one of my options. My options were divorce (from him — not my wife) or adjustment. We did not want to consider divorce, so I was left with the difficult, painful, and humbling path of change.
It took longer than I expected. It began with a decision: this is the cat I committed to, so I am choosing to love him as he is. Then I worked to make things a bit more livable for myself. As we slowly worked to replace the things he had destroyed, we found objects less prone to be damaged by his claws. We studied patterns of what appealed to his most undesirable tendencies, then we worked preemptively to avoid triggering circumstances. As things improved but he experienced relapses, I tried to remind myself how much better things had gotten.
I also worked on my reactions. Before, I noticed it used to make me angry when he would claw at furniture. But this is who he was, and I realized my angry reaction was not inspiring change in him — the only one it was changing was me. I could feel my blood boil and my pulse rise. Why was I getting so upset about something that would always be this way? When I felt the anger returning, I would take deep breaths and set my mind on the thoughts I wanted to cultivate. Sometimes I would even choose to go and pet him shortly after correcting him, a practicing of the love I wanted to feel and express.
After years of this slow progress, I realized something: I had grown to appreciate Quigley in a new and deeper way. I loved him not only for how he looked or even how he made me feel while I was snuggling him or playing with him; I also loved him because of what we had been through together. Our lives had grown together, and we had been with one another through virtually my entire adulthood. Ours was an easy connectedness built on deep trust, understanding, and unconditional love. What once had felt like the greatest mistake of my life had turned into something very rich and deep, something that can only grow over a long period of time and on the other side of hardship.
Without being tested, one cannot know the limits of love. What seems like love could be the shallow reflection of a puddle, which has a certain romantic appeal but once disturbed quickly evaporates. But long-lasting, committed love contains untold depths. A lifetime is far insufficient to explore it, to catalogue or comprehend its wonders. Even in a roiling, turbulent storm, the sea nurtures legions underneath the surface whose wellbeing is undisturbed by the passing tempest. And no, I’m not talking about a cat anymore.
You Are Not a Cat
One of my other favorite observations about Quigley relates to his attachment style and his lack of exposure to trauma. Quigley never knew mistreatment. For not knowing better, he trusted every single person he ever met. As a result, he went through life with an incredible kind of pre-Fall, Garden-of-Edenesque posture. When the doorbell rang, Quigley ran to greet the visitor, regardless of whether he had met them or not. Generous with his affection, Quigley made fast friends with nearly everyone.
And in those rare cases when a person was allergic to or detested cats, Quigley was unbothered. He never took it personally; those people never seemed to discourage Quigley from befriending the next visitor.
Quigley’s style was quite different from my sister-in-law’s cats, Penny and Pippa, who tragically experienced abuse as kittens, which also happens to be when both feline and human brains develop the template for how to engage in relationships. My sister-in-law adopted these kittens, rescuing them from their abusers, but the effects of their abuse will be obvious lifelong.
Although my sister-in-law entertains many visitors, few of them have ever laid eyes on her cats. If a visitor stays long enough and quiet enough, one of the elusive creatures may slink by, hissing along the way. Only a couple of her visitors have stayed long enough to touch the braver of the pair, Penny, but even in so doing, Penny’s response makes clear her persistent antisocial preference.
While these cats for me represent the far end of the traumatized feline spectrum, there is reason for hope. Do they experience far more maladaptive anxiety, fear, and avoidance than Quigley? Unquestionably. But the vast majority of their sheltered life is still filled with healthy relationships with one another and with my sister-in-law, with whom they are very affectionate. Even people who have experienced a great deal of trauma can enjoy healthy bonds. Furthermore, I believe Penny and Pippa could undergo an intensive therapy program where through enough treatment, their trauma responses could be deconditioned and they could learn to rewire their template for humans, instead coming to a default of trust. For these cats, though, it would take a ridiculous amount of time and resources.
The good news is, you are not a cat. You have access to a different layer of skills. A cat is motivated by base instincts that make reprogramming difficult because the cat does not “want” to get better. A person, however, has access to faith, hope, and reason. Your desire to get better is powerful, and your ability to suspend disbelief so you can try something uncomfortable but good can make all the difference. You can see the long-term goal, and this can motivate you to much faster progress.
You might find the utopian description of my cat unrealistic for a person, especially if you don’t feel about people the way Quigley did. However, essentially what I’m describing in him is referred to in my field as “secure attachment,” and it is possible in people. I believe it is even possible to rewire your brain so you can experience secure attachment even if it is not the attachment style you currently tend toward.
It is possible to learn not to be governed by your anxieties and to increasingly shift your default to a healthy trust. It is possible to go through life more like Quigley and less like Penny and Pippa. And you do not have to be oblivious like Quigley, who would have lasted two seconds out in the wild. You can be intelligent and wise enough to not be disproportionately taken advantage of but free enough to enjoy relationships and feel a general sense of peace, wise as a serpent and gentle as a dove (Matthew 10:16).
Thank God you are not a cat.
May God lead you to deeper, better relationships with others, with Him, and with yourself. May you relish the strength God has given you and feel the inner warmth of his loving care as you face the tempest of growth with determined grin. May God whisper untold blessings in the very fire of the crucible. May your hard-won sanctification bring Him echoing glory. And may the space between those echoes be the quiet peace and rest of a soul that has toiled valiantly for magnificent cause.
In loving memory of Quigley (2010-2025).
