April 2007 | Back to Table of Contents
End Notes
The Legend of Clark Jones
By Harold Londer, M.D.
A canary teached responsibility, but cats are pure pleasure.
When I was a boy, my parents got my brother and me a canary. We named him Clark Jones. My mother gave us Clark to teach us responsibility; my brother and I were to change the newspaper on the bottom of the cage. I guess I am a reasonably responsible adult so, at some level, Clark was a success. He lived for a number of years, happily singing away and pecking at my fingers when I put them through the cage bars. (I wasn’t that responsible a kid!) Clark eventually went blind and passed away. To this day, my brother and I argue about which one of us Clark loved more.
I was petless for many years after Clark’s death. To be honest, I never really felt that I was missing much. For one thing, I could walk around any lake without having to remember to bring a baggie. When I married, Jan came with two cats: Pablo and Sheba. They were clearly her pets, though, over the years, I felt increasingly attached to them. I was never sure if they truly accepted me, or if I truly appreciated them. Oh, they were nice little creatures, but I never sensed a true emotional bond like the one I had with Clark. Yet on the day we had to put Sheba down—she was 16 years old and deteriorating rapidly—I was surprised by the sadness I felt. (The vet caught us off guard when she asked if we wanted an autopsy. Being physicians, we could not say “No.” A few months later, we received a postcard saying that Sheba had died of an adenocarcinoma of the lung. I swear, she never smoked.)
Not long after, Pablo began an obvious, rapid decline. One morning, he looked weaker. Jan and I went to work, and when Jan came home, she found her friend and companion had passed away. He was lying on the floor of my closet, nestled among my dirty clothes. We read that pets, not unlike humans, will often go to a place where they feel comfortable and familiar when the time approaches. The fact that Pablo went to my closet floor hit home. I think the little guy was more attached to me, and I to him, than I had realized. I was petless again.
More than 60 percent of the U.S. population owns a pet. As physicians, we need to analyze the medical consequences of this phenomenon (and I don’t mean dog bites, cat scratch fever, or bird flu). If you read the lay literature, the general feeling is that owning pets is associated with increased longevity and good health.
I tried to find some objective data. In the 1980s, a Brandeis University researcher published several papers looking at pet ownership and survival after myocardial infarction. One study purported to show a one-year survival rate after a heart attack of 6 percent in people who didn’t own pets versus 28 percent in patients who did. Another researcher showed that pet owners tend to have lower cholesterol and triglyceride levels compared with people who didn’t have pets, even when matched for diet, weight, and smoking. Another study showed a drop in use of drugs in nursing homes when pets were introduced into treatment plans. Animals have been shown to be able to predict seizures, alert to hypoglycemia, control freezing in Parkinson’s patients, and detect cancer. In one randomized study, people with dogs in their homes had significantly lower resting and ambulatory blood pressure rates and were less reactive to stress.
About 18 months ago, Trixie Bell and C.W. came to our home from the Wright County Humane Society. Eight weeks old and from the same litter (“womb-mates”), they were found abandoned on a truck. We renamed them Socrates and Sophia. Jan and I have filled our house with climbing trees, cat toys, and books on cats. They are my little buddies. I am not sure if they are improving my blood pressure readings or if they would know what to do if I had a seizure or a hypoglycemic episode, but I have begun anew to appreciate pet ownership.
When I arrive home after a long day at the office, Socrates and Sophia are there to greet me. I am not sure if they appreciate the treat I give them as much as I enjoy watching them gobble it down. I grab the mail and lie down on the couch. Socrates jumps on my lap. He nuzzles against me, and he begins to purr. It really is a stress-reducing moment. I think of Clark Jones. He would be proud of me ... if he didn’t know they were cats! MM
Harold Londer is medical director of the Hubert Humphrey Cancer Center in Minneapolis. A version of this story appeared in the North Memorial Medical Center Staff News.