Reflections on Rocky

Morris B. Holbrook
Columbia University

This paper applies an approach that the author calls Subjective Personal Introspection (SPI) to the self-reflective examination, inward-looking understanding, and impressionistic evocation of his own consumption experiences as the keeper of a kitten named Rocky Raccoon. Three-dimensional photographs in the form of stereo pairs provide corroborative evidence for the interpretations suggested. In this reflexive, anecdotal, narrative account, Rocky the Cat emerges as a focal point in the author's experiential consumption.

- The cat as a highly intelligent and communicating creature is being studied and observed in considerable depth these days, and many things are being learned by scientists about his behavior that any alert and loving cat owner could have told them years ago (Moyes, 1978, p. 113).

This paper pursues an impressionistic, autobiographical, self-reflective focus that draws strongly on self- interpretation (Denzin, 1989b; Sudnow, 1978), that some social scientists call "Autoethnography" (Denzin, 1989a; Sanders, 1990b) but that I refer to as Subjective Personal Introspection (Holbrook, 1995a). SPI incorporates stories, anecdotes, vignettes, moments of epiphany, essays, and other narratives based on one's own consumption experiences in some area of interest - in the present case, for example, with reference to the companionship of animals in general and of cats in particular. It goes beyond the so-called existential- phenomenological approach (Thompson, Locander, & Pollio, 1989) by adopting the form of the subjective personal introspective essay and by dwelling primarily on the self-reflections of the author (Holbrook, 1995a).

Helpful as I myself happen to find this approach, it has struck terror into the hearts of neopositivistically inclined consumer researchers (Calder & Tybout, 1987) and has even managed to evoke howls of protest from those wishing to construct rigidly codified methods in ethnography (Wallendorf & Brucks, 1993). Thus, when spooked by the specter of SPI, defenders of the tradition have responded with attacks on its purported devotion to "anarchy and paroxysms of self-expression" (Calder & Tybout, 1987, p. 139).

Those of us who value the potential contributions from SPI have, of course, defended it against such reactionary assaults (Gould, 1995; Holbrook, 1995a). This defense argues, for example, that - if participant observation serves well as one route to understanding the lives of others (Headland, Pike, & Harris, 1990; Jorgensen, 1989) - then why not construe SPI as the ultimate form of participant observation aimed at gaining insight into one's own status as a human consumer (Holbrook, 1995a)? In other words, why not regard SPI as a form of participant observation in one's own life? Why not use consumption-oriented SPI as one more window on the human condition?

Accordingly, my purpose here is to apply this approach to my own consumption experiences stemming from the role of cats as pets or, as some might prefer to say, as companions to people. Aspects of these issues have been studied formally by any number of researchers pursuing a variety of aims, concepts, and methods in the study of animal companions (Hearne, 1994; Hirschman, 1994; Holbrook, 1987; Masson & McCarthy, 1995; Moore & Holbrook, 1982; Sanders, 1990a; Serpell, 1986) and of cats in particular (Caras, 1986, 1989; Corey, 1977; George, 1985; Holbrook, in press; Holland, 1994; Milani, 1987; Morris, 1994; Moyes, 1978; Thomas, 1994). The literature in which this work appears is cited at greater length by contributors to other papers in the present special issue. By contrast, I wish to illustrate a more subjective, personal, and introspective approach (Holbrook, 1987, in press). This approach draws on SPI to raise questions and to seek insights into the consumption experiences provided generally by pets and specifically by cats.

When engaged in the sort of introspection attempted in the present essay, the author's exposition benefits from any supplementary evidence that he or she can provide. In particular - as noted by any number of ethnographic anthropologists (Collier, 1967; Collier & Collier, 1986) and visual sociologists (Becker, 1986; Wagner, 1979) - the reader's ability to share the author's lived experiences can be greatly enhanced through the use of photography.

When experienced social scientists who are also skilled photographers aim to produce images which have both documentary reach and aesthetic quality, these can - in combination with verbal text - generate a type of social science understanding which is very rich (Chaplin, 1994, pp. 221-222).

In that direction, I believe that stereographic photos provide a three-dimensional feeling of depth that is especially vivid and therefore helpful in its ability to convey a sense of the relevant consumption experiences. The photographic images that accompany this text present stereo pairs depicting a cat named Rocky engaging in various activities. These photos appear in two montages and are designated in the text by the letters UL (upper left), LL (lower left), UR (upper right), and LR (lower right) for Montages 1 and 2, respectively. For example, "Photo UR2" refers to the stereo pair found in the upper right-hand corner of Montage 2 (and so forth). To view a stereo pair in three dimensions, the reader should look between and past the two images, allowing them to float together and to fuse in one view that conveys a strong sense of spatial depth (Johnstone 1995). As argued elsewhere (Holbrook, 1995b), I believe that stereographic photos provide a 3-D experience that greatly increases the vividness, clarity, realism, and impact of the pictorial representations conventionally associated with ethnographic anthropology or visual sociology. Specifically, in the present case, the stereoscopic images of Rocky help to foster deeper insights into the consumption experiences derived from living with our feline friend. When viewed in three-dimensional depth, the essence of the relevant experiential consumption appears to emerge with enhanced power.

Life With Rocky the Cat

Premonitions and Preparations

During April of 1995, I found myself working on two papers that dealt with the consumption of cats - the first on consumer researchers as cats (Holbrook 1995b); the second on cats as consumers (Holbrook, in press). As I pursued these themes, I found myself increasingly anxious to engage further in the experiential consumption of cats - that is, in consumption experiences based on the role of cats as pets. Our beloved eighteen-year old mongrel cat named Quarter had died a year and a half earlier. As I thought and wrote, rewrote and rethought, waves of Quarter-related memories flooded me and ultimately overwhelmed me with longing for the affection of another furry friend. Thus spurred to action, I began badgering my wife Sally to reconsider our former position that Quarter could never be replaced. I urged her to help us find ourselves a new feline companion.

Sally and I felt that Quarter had been an ideal pet - gentle, loving, calm, frisky, inquisitive, and wise as only a great-souled cat can be. Although he was just a "mutt" of a cat, we believed that his characteristics and appearance most closely resembled the descriptions and pictures presented in cat books under the heading "Maine Coon Cat" (Fireman, 1976; Hornidge, 1991; Morris, 1994). Maine Coon Cats originated in the eponymous State of Maine and often have tabby markings reminiscent of a raccoon - though, contrary to popular legend, they were not developed by cross-breeding cats with raccoons, a biological impossibility. Maine Coons are justly famous for their friendly dispositions, their relaxed comportment, unusual vocalizations, bizarre sleeping positions, intelligence, and sturdiness. They have sweet temperaments, go limp when you scratch under their chins, coo or chirrup in ways that depart dramatically from the conventional meow, doze on their backs with their bellies exposed, think complex thoughts, and often grow to over twenty pounds in size (Hornidge, 1991).

Obviously, we thought, this is the kind of pet that any self-respecting cat fancier would want to own: one that will bound enthusiastically if a little clumsily across the room in its puppy-like desire to loll affectionately at the feet of the latest visitor; the kind that will call out with exquisite pleasure if you run a finger across its tummy as it lies spread-eagled on the couch in the sunshine; one that will curl up by your side, purr appreciatively, and snuggle against your leg as you read the New York Times in the warmth of a Manhattan living room on a wintry Sunday afternoon.

In anticipation of our new kitten's arrival - having decided that we would try to find a male cat to match as closely as possible the estimable attributes of our dear departed Quarter, having pre-selected the Main Coon breed, and having intuited the propitious moment in baby-boomer nostalgia that would precipitate the latest Beatles revival, we chose a name for our prospective kitty even before we had managed to locate a place where we could acquire him: Rocky Raccoon. When Sally finally did find Rocky the Cat, at a pet store called "Fabulous Felines," he did not at all resemble the raccoon-like tabby of our dreams. From the tip of his nose to the end of his tail, he was pure jet black.

But the future Rocky Raccoon stretched out his arms toward Sally. And when she picked him up, he nuzzled her cheek and purred. She fell in love with him. I trusted her judgment and, more, the emotions of both wife and kitten (Masson & McCarthy, 1995; Milani, 1987). As often noted, you do not choose a cat; rather, a cat chooses you (Holland, 1994, p. 135; Moyes, 1978, p. 15). Two days later, Rocky the Cat came to live with us.

Arrival

When people hear the name "Rocky," they usually assume that we named our kitty after one or more of those great real or fictitious prize fighters - Rocky Marciano or Rocky Graziano. Admittedly, Rocky does have the broad shoulders and muscular arms of a Sylvester Stallone in the motion pictures that made that populist actor an international celebrity. But if we had been thinking of boxing champions, we would have had more reason to name our new kitten after our favorite character in the Rocky movies - namely, Apollo Creed. Indeed, Apollo might have served as an appropriately regal - indeed, Olympian - name for Morris and Sally's cat. But Rocky seems to fit him better. It lends itself to such endearments as "Rocko," "Rocky Baby," "Rocky-Feller," "Rockaroo," or sometimes just "Roo" for short.

When Rocky the Cat arrived at our doorstep, he scrambled out of his cardboard carrier before we could even open its top. He then immediately spent about four hours canvasing every square inch of our apartment, while we trailed obediently behind (cf. Milani, 1987, p. 145). I thus rediscovered a basic principle previously obscured by the many years that had passed since our Generation-X son Chris was a small baby on all fours. When compared to a crawling human infant (which it otherwise much resembles in many respects), a three-month-old kitten requires ten times as much effort from people trying to protect it from the potentially disastrous habits of consumption in which babies of all species like to indulge (chewing on lamp cords, eating potted plants, swallowing paper clips, and falling out of windows) (Holland, 1994, p. 178; Hornidge, 1991, p. 92). By the end of our first evening with Rocky, we were completely exhausted by the arduous task of trying to distract him from these dangerous proclivities. We collapsed into bed and fell into a fitful sleep.

On each of the many occasions when I woke during the night, I looked around for Rocky. He sat there, all night long, between our two pillows - staring at us with a quizzical expression on his little face, getting used to his ineffably lazy, new parental surrogates, cutely cocking his preposterously over-sized ears - perhaps happy to be freed from his cage at the pet shop, clearly too excited to rest. Ultimately, I passed into a deeper sleep. When the alarm sounded the next morning and I awakened from my heavy slumbers, I found to my distress that I could scarcely breathe.

Allergies

For many years, I have known that I am allergic to cats. Most cats make me sneeze, make my eyes water, make my skin turn red, swell, and itch painfully if they lick me on a small cut or even a hangnail (thereby replicating for free the "scratch test" for which an allergist charges an unconscionable consultation fee). But, unfortunately, Rocky's allergenic powers over me transcend the merely histaminic or rhinitic. It turns out that Rocky tends to give me rather spectacular attacks of acute asthma.

These asthmatic attacks afflict me especially when Rocky bounces around and stirs up his dander. I suffer excruciatingly whenever Rocky plays energetically in my vicinity, which happens to be his favorite thing to do. It is a measure of my love for Rocky that I am trying to find a way to adapt to this problem.

I have tried nonprescription remedies, which seem to work pretty well so far, but I hate what I find when I read the labels:

May cause drowsiness.... May cause excitability.... nervousness, dizziness or sleeplessness may occur (Dimetapp).... Some users of this product may experience nervousness, tremor, sleeplessness, nausea, and (sic) loss of appetite (Bronkaid and Primatene).

I also make use of the epinephrine inhalers and have even taken to carrying a miniature version around in my pocket. These work remarkably quickly, but I often wonder about their long-term effects, especially after reading the warnings that clarify their potentially disastrous consequences: "Excessive use may cause nervousness and rapid heart beat and, possibly, adverse effects on the heart (Primatene Mist)." Obviously, instead of medicating the patient to subdue incidents of what my dictionary with understatement calls "respiratory embarrassment," it would be better to "fix" the cat.

Toward this end, a fellow cat fancier and colleague at New York University generously supplied me with a bottle of liquid stuff called Allerpet/C. You douse the cat with this magic potion (claimed to be non- toxic), rub it in, let it dry, and gain a few hours or days of comfort via the neutralization of the allergens carried by the cat's saliva that its constant licking has deposited on its hair and skin. The effect of this cat rinse lasts until the little fur ball - by dint of persistent self-washing - has managed to counteract its beneficial properties. In Rocky's case, I patiently wait for his coat to grow to the stage of fully mature luxuriance because, perhaps paradoxically, I have observed myself to be less allergic to long-haired cats. My theory concerning this phenomenon is that the longer hair tends more to trap the saliva-carrying dander and to stop it from floating around the room. Contrary to popular belief, the most damaging cat hairs are the shortest ones that most easily find their way into one's nose or mouth. I fervently wish Rocky the blessings of an ever-deeper and still-shaggier coat of fur.

Beyond the soothing powers of the Allerpet liquid just described, a more radical remedy involves bathing one's cat. But even without my allergies, Rocky would have had to learn to take a bath at a very tender age - fortunately, the time when such learning seems to work best. As noted by Caras (1986), Hearne (1987), and Moyes (1978), one does not properly speak of "training" a cat. The concept of training - so appropriate when applied to the sycophantic dog population - is alien to the individualistic feline personality. With patience and luck your cat will train you.

Afflictions

Shortly after Rocky's advent, Sally and I noticed some problems that clearly required immediate veterinarian attention. We found (1) traces of diarrhea and blood in Rocky's stool; (2) nasty-looking stuff in his ears; and (3) some small bumps on the back of his head. Upon careful medical examination, it transpired that Rocky had bad cases of (1) intestinal worms; (2) ear mites; and (3) ringworm fungus. We imagined that these ailments would be serious and difficult to cure in magnitudes decreasing with the order just listed. But such a conjecture would be dead wrong and would actually reverse the course of events that subsequently unfolded. With a couple of doses of a potent liquid medication, squirted into Rocky's mouth with a syringe, the worms disappeared virtually overnight. With several applications of some stuff squeezed from an eye dropper, the ear mites surrendered their grip almost immediately. But the ringworm seemed almost impossible to eradicate - all the more because you cannot put a truly effective fungicide on the skin of a cat without encouraging the woeful creature to lick it off, to swallow it, and thereby to poison itself.

The initial phase of fungus fighting therefore involved the application of a scaled-down medicine called Conofite Lotion (Miconazole Nitrate) directly to the bumps on Rocky's skin. These anointments had the effect of turning the afflicted kitty into a greasy little object of pity who left oil stains wherever he chose to lay his restless head - on our new living-room carpet and on my favorite red-striped shirt. But despite its inconvenience to us, the ringworm remedy posed no apparent problem for the rapidly spreading fungus. To our horror, it continued to engulf our kitten's tiny body, working its way down his back and onto his tail. The vet began talking about the possibility of shaving Rocky from head to foot so as more effectively to apply the Conofite Lotion.

The prospect of turning Rocky the Cat into a feline parody of Telly Savalas or Daniel Benzali struck us as a remedy too extreme to consider lightly. With powerful misgivings, we envisioned the traumatic effects that such draconian measures might produce. Hence, we willingly consented to undertake the doctor's alternative plan - namely, bathing Rocky twice a week in a special medication called Dermazole (Miconazole Shampoo), followed by a thorough rinse with water into which we had dissolved a heavy dose of LymDyp (a lime-scented sulfur concentrate that is as inimical to funguses as it is to people).

Poor Rocky emerged from these semi-weekly sulfur baths smelling like the misbegotten aftermath of an unsuccessful chemistry experiment. He reeked. He could not walk into a room without causing noses to turn. He could not sit on your lap without causing the whole laundry to come back with an evil odor that lasted through several more washings. Rocky the Sulfuric Cat stank as much as it is possible for an animal to stink.

I shudder to contemplate the psychological damage that this ordeal undoubtedly inflicted upon our unfortunate fungus-laden kitty. Imagine the agony felt by an animal famous for his "exquisite sense of smell" (George, 1985, p. 23) - with olfactory capabilities that are universally celebrated for their prodigious sensitivity - who must constantly confront a foul and obnoxious odor that emanates from his own body and that no amount of licking can erase. Imagine further that this sensitive creature is daily coated with a thick layer of pungent goo that tastes terrible to his delicate tongue, deeply offends his refined nostrils, and discourages one and all from touching him, much less picking him up, holding him, caressing him, stroking his chin, fondling his ears, or performing any of the countless other touches of civility and contact that kittens need to make them feel loved (Holland, 1994, p. 193).

Grace

Painfully aware of this problem and heavily influenced by a book called How to Get Your Cat to Do What You Want (Eckstein, 1991), we did all we could to mitigate Rocky's misfortunes. Following the book's advice, we seized every opportunity to pat Rocky; to tell him that he was a very good cat; to praise his great beauty (obscured though it might have been by the lotions and potions just described); and to remind him - over and over again - that we loved him. Never did Rocky hear the words "Bad Cat!" or "Rocky, No!" Instead, whenever Rocky did something wrong such as eating the house plants, destructing a pair of bedroom slippers, or drinking lustily from Sally's glass of beer, we would gently remove him from the source of temptation, tenderly place him elsewhere in the room, and begin telling him what a truly good, beautiful, and loved kitty he was.

These patient ministrations appear to have exerted a beneficial effect. Despite his odious regimen of sulfur and ointment, Rocky emerged from his early kittenhood with his gentle personality intact, a sweet disposition, and a loving nature. Not surprisingly, given his early deprivations, he has not yet acquired the talent for controlled relaxation displayed by the skillful lap cats who can just lie there in your arms for hours on end and loudly purr while languorously luxuriating in your soft caresses. Rather we feel that we must now encourage Rocky to acquire these quintessentially feline habits.

Thus, we work constantly on getting Rocky accustomed to being picked up and held. At first, probably anticipating a sulfur dousing, he resisted these efforts by squirming incessantly whenever we tried to hold him. But lately, as shown in Photo UL1, Rocky has learned to relax in our arms, at least for brief periods. He will lie still, sometimes for more than a few moments, in that curiously satisfying way that cats have of allowing you to enjoy the pleasure of providing them with sensuous gratification, before he suddenly remembers that his food waits to be eaten in the next room (a convenient cop-out because we keep his bowl in the bathroom full of dry cereal at all times and feed him just from that source).

At such times, with Sally and only with Sally, Rocky also engages in a type of behavior that young cats associate with their mothers in general and with nursing in particular (George, 1985, p. 45; Milani, 1987, pp. 29, 211; Thomas, 1994, p. 103). He purrs loudly, buries his head in Sally's chest, and kneads both sides of her neck with his fingers. Sally reports that Rocky's arms and hands show great strength, so much so that his demonstrations of affection emulate the motions and perhaps some of the benefits of a vigorous facial massage. I continue to marvel at how such a sharp-clawed animal can execute this intimate maneuver without drawing blood.

Paws and Claws

Early on, heavily under the sway of entreaties propagated by Fabulous Felines (Riddle, 1987), we made an executive decision to delay the eventual necessity of having Rocky's claws removed. Both of our previous cats have been clawless. The first (Suzy) kept her claws for several years until she made the mistake of scratching our beloved baby Chris very close to his right eye; her front claws went the next day. The second (Quarter) did not manage to keep his claws for even a week; on day one in our apartment, he scampered cutely around the room, engaging in what seemed like harmlessly mad dashes to and fro; only later did we discover that he had managed to tear gaping holes in each piece of furniture that had fallen under the sharp spikes of his little feet; both his front and back claws disappeared immediately. Neither cat showed even the slightest ill effects of the declawing (Milani, 1987, p. 188; but cf. Riddle, 1987, p. 39). They evinced no pain after the operation. And because they were house cats with zero chance of encountering any predatory animals in the wild, they did not really need their claws anyway (except insofar as these tools contribute to a cat's self-esteem [Holland, 1994, p. 49]). Indeed, some experts believe that claws can be dangerous to an indoor cat - as when the cat leaps from the sofa but gets its rear claws caught in the fabric, tearing a limb from its joints. Nonetheless, we do not want to remove Rocky's claws and hope to let him keep them, at least until he starts to do some kind of damage that we have not anticipated and cannot control. As recommended by the authorities (Holland, 1994; Riddle, 1987), we keep them trimmed (an adventure for man and beast second only to bathing) and try to distract him from the furniture or carpets via the use of his scratching post and permission to claw at the laces of my shoes.

The reason we feel so protective of Rocky's claws lies in the amazing manner in which he deploys them. When engaged in some playful game such as chasing one of his cat toys, Rocky recklessly flies through the air, claws extended, re-enacting his hereditary role as a lean, mean killing-machine (Milani, 1987, p. 239; Thomas, 1994, p. 20). As this mock ferocity reminds us, kittens play in ways that serve to train them for more serious pursuits like eating insects, chasing mice, and catching birds (George, 1985, p. 66; Milani, 1987, p. 236) - all of which unsavory hobbies or essential skills they gleefully indulge (Hearne, 1994, p. 205) and pleasurably pursue (Masson & McCarthy, 1995, p. 124) at every opportunity, as when Rocky successfully captured and ate a gigantic bumble bee. In these ludic habits of stalking and pouncing (Milani, 1987, p. 213), kittens clearly exhibit their inherent leanings toward the law of the jungle, Nature Red in Tooth and Claw (Hirschman, 1994). At this level, cats are nothing if not natural born killers (Thomas, 1994, pp. 26, 117). They simply are the proverbial "better mousetrap" (Holland, 1994, p. 14). In chasing mice or mouse-like toys (Masson & McCarthy, 1995, p. 144), they display the Funktionslust or "pleasure taken in what one can do best" (p. 13). In play, cats prepare relentlessly but joyfully for the big day when they will encounter some worthy victim that needs killing.

How wonderful it therefore seems when, in the midst of his war games, Rocky makes human contact with Sally or me and somehow manages to retract his claws before he does us bodily harm. On countless occasions, I have seen Rocky begin a lunge toward my hand or arm, teeth bared and claws extended, only to finish his assault by brushing me lightly with the gentlest possible touch. I marvel at the intricate neurological wirings and complex synaptic firings that must occur to enable him to execute this maneuver. All of Rocky's instincts tell him to grasp and to bite. Yet he successfully modifies these innate impulses in mid-course. Instead, the jaw relaxes, the claws retract, and the pads of Rocky's paws feel silky smooth and velvety soft (Milani, 1987, p. 120).

We did not teach Rocky to behave in this manner. Rather, he has always done this. A cynic might say that Rocky acts this way because he fears punishment; but this seems improbable, for he has never been punished. A more charitable view might attribute his restraint to some sort of feline respect for members of the larger human species. But we would like to hope that Rocky's response also reflects a feeling of love (Masson & McCarthy, 1995, pp. 9, 73; Milani, 1987, p. 207; Moyes, 1978, pp. 57, 117; Thomas, 1994, p. 93).

So we shall let Rocky keep his claws. Indeed, Rocky appears to understand that he has impressive paw-related skills and whiles away many hours of each day by engaging in a hobby that he has invented. As captured in Photo LL1, Rocky quietly reposes just outside the closed door that separates the waiting room to Sally's psychotherapy office from the rest of our apartment. When he hears a patient exit the elevator and enter the small waiting area, he lies on his back and pushes his arms under the door with the bottoms of his paws facing upward. Some of the more neurotic patients have initially imagined that they were being attacked by hairy black snakes. Others of longer standing have felt less anxiety because they remember that our former cat Quarter used to do exactly the same thing.

By what sixth sense Rocky might intuit this collective memory remains a topic for fascinated speculation (Thomas, 1994, p. 109). Does this parallel behavior reflect his awareness of some time-honored local tradition? Does it merely represent a remarkable coincidence? More likely it signals the fact that no self-respecting feline could resist such a delightful game - especially when the more generous-spirited patients, taking time out from whatever torments have brought them to the psychotherapy office, reward Rocky by patting his paws.

Fun and Games

Rocky's adventures with Sally's psychotherapy patients illustrate two aspects of his character about which his owner must brag a bit. Rocky is smart and Rocky is creative. He invents clever games that he quickly establishes as firmly entrenched household routines - but always, in the individualistic manner of a cat, routines of his own design, choosing, and implementation. Like an intelligent dog, Rocky the Cat can perform any number of impressive tricks. The difference is that, whereas a dog learns his or her tricks from its master, Rocky devises the tricks he wishes to perform and then teaches them to Sally and me. If we want Rocky to perform some trick for the sake of showing off in a way that pleases us or our friends, he usually ceases immediately. And no amount of coaching or coaxing can persuade him to change his mind (cf. Hearne, 1987).

For example, when Rocky first arrived, we gave him a tin-foil ball to play with. Before long, he brought the ball to me and dropped it at my feet. On a whim, I threw it across the room. Rocky chased it, picked it up in his mouth, and brought it back. We repeated this game hundreds of times. By the end of a week, three-month-old Rocky was fetching the ball as skillfully as a full-grown Golden Retriever (Holland, 1994, p. 202; Moyes, 1978, p. 67.)

But then Rocky began to experiment with the game of "Go Fetch." Sometimes he would rush over to the ball but just lie down next to it. Eventually, one of us would grow tired of waiting, walk over, pick it up, and throw it again. Soon Rocky had taught us to "go fetch" for him.

It occurred to us that this revised routine would be easier to execute if we tied a string to the ball. Before long, Rocky was playing a new game based on chasing a ball at the end of a string, complete with spectacular gymnastics, somersaults, and 180-degree backflips in mid-air. As a minor variation, we introduced a cloth fish attached to a line at the end of a stick. With this new toy as an incentive, Rocky would leap and twirl rapturously in an inspired and even demonic fashion.

One day, Rocky happened to spy the fish near my outstretched feet. He leapt upon it, grabbed it in his mouth, wrapped his arms around my Reeboks, and began kicking the bottoms of their rubber soles with his rear legs in the classic feline fighting tactic (George, 1985, p. 56; Milani, 1987, p. 241). This variation on the game with "Mr. Fish" proved so satisfying to Rocky that he will now participate only if I wear the Reeboks and only if I let him perform his muscle-building exercises by biting the cloth toy while hugging and kicking my shoes. Photo UR1 shows Rocky preparing to engage in this energetic activity.

Bulk

The gymnastics, exercises, and calisthenics just described have helped Rocky grow bigger and stronger. In months, he is still only a kitten. But, assessed by the vet as being in the ninety-fifth percentile for weight in his age group and a member of a breed of cats whose males sometimes grow to over twenty pounds in size, Rocky has already begun to build a case for the reinterpretation of his name as an unintentionally prescient reference to prize fighters.

With broad shoulders and powerful arms, Rocky likes to lie propped up on his elbows with his front feet reaching forward and with his hind legs fully extended, doing his own inimitable impression of the Sphinx, (as illustrated by Photo LR1). This position, quite rare among house cats but common among lions or tigers (Thomas, 1994, p. 33), makes Rocky appear even larger than he is. At only nine months of age, he can pretty much fill up a coffee table, window sill, or desk top.

We contemplate the potentiality of his ultimate corporeal bulk with a mixture of eagerness and dread. For Rocky is not shy about throwing his weight around. Because of my severe allergies, he must sleep outside our bedroom, leaving him free to roam throughout the rest of the apartment during what we assume are his long nights of stealthy expeditions and secretive exploits. From past experience, he knows that if he meows outside our door, we will ignore him completely. (Obviously, we have to; it would be suicidal to reward him even once by paying attention.) But when we have finally finished sleeping, after waiting patiently in the hall, Rocky knows full well how to demand his rights.

The moment Rocky hears the sound of Howard Stern and Robin Quivers on the clock radio at 6:55 a.m., he begins hurling himself at the bedroom door with great thumping thuds that gradually increase in magnitude and frequency until we get up and let him come bounding into the room - ears up, whiskers forward, tail erect, teeth flashing, and eyes aglow - like a panther crashing through the forest. At such times, the observations on interspecies communication via body language (Masson & McCarthy, 1995; Milani, 1987) and the advice contained in the multiple books with titles such as How to Talk to Your Cat (George, 1985; Moyes, 1978) appear superfluous. When Rocky's rights are at stake, he will not be denied.

Anticipation

The early morning routine illustrates another aspect of Rocky's intelligence - his ability to anticipate important events and to plan accordingly. As another example, consider his traveling behavior. Early in Rocky's life, we began placing him in a cat carrier and taking him to the mountains in Pennsylvania or to the beach at Montauk. The former entails a three-hour drive in the car, the latter a four-hour ride on the train. After two of these excursions, Rocky would take one look at the cat carrier and head straight for his litter box. Thus relieved, he can travel serenely all the way to the Poconos or the Hamptons. In the former case, Rocky appears to regard the station wagon as a great place to view the scenery. In the latter, Rocky habitually falls fast asleep the moment the train leaves the station. If Rocky could not anticipate the implications of his cat carrier and make the appropriate litter-related preparations for his impending trips, he would not be able to ride in such comfort (Moyes, 1978, p. 27).

Small Spaces

Speaking of the cat carrier, one particularly endearing activity that Rocky enjoys involves his eagerness to occupy the smallest spaces that will fit his rapidly growing body. As a tiny kitten, he would crawl into a letter holder on the window sill of my study and crouch between my papers, my sweater, and the warm base of a halogen lamp. As he grew, he had to shift his position to the top of the papers, though he would still fit into a space no bigger than a standard manila envelope. More recently, as pictured in Photo UL2, Rocky likes to wedge himself into the crevices among our pieces of computer equipment. In all these positions, Rocky has kept me company by being nearby. But sometimes he likes to grab a little privacy by vaulting to the top of the refrigerator and sprawling across its warm surface. Imagine my surprise when I go to get some ice and find a black furry paw reaching down to help me (George, 1985, p. 68).

Curiosity and Caution

Cats are famous for their inquisitiveness (as in "curiosity killed the cat") mixed with reserve (as in "scaredy cat"). Combining these characteristics, often with a degree of caution that makes them appear timid (Milani, 1987, p. 112) or at least discreet (Thomas, 1994, p. 37), they will curiously approach virtually any novel object that they encounter (George, 1985, p. 83; Hornidge, 1991, p. 93; Milani, 1987, p. 243; Moyes, 1978, p. 85). In particular, Rocky seems to assume that anything unfamiliar introduced into his environment - such as the cardboard box that appears in Photo LL2 - has been put there for his own personal delectation. Sometimes I wonder what selective advantage such potentially dangerous in-bred curiosity might confer (cf. Milani, 1987, p. 244). How can inveterate behavior that typically requires a cat to make use of all "nine lives" enhance its chances for survival? One possible answer, I suppose, is that such stubborn inquisitiveness protects our kitties against dying of boredom (cf. Holland, 1994, p. 206).

Ritual

Rocky devotes a considerable part of each day to ritualistic activities that he invents for himself and then repeats with a dedication bordering on fanaticism (George, 1985, p. 29; Thomas, 1994, p. 179). As noted earlier (Photo LL1), one such daily routine involves the door to Sally's waiting room. Photo UR2 represents another target for Rocky's obsessive fascination - the bathroom sink, where he lies or sits by the hour in hopes that he can find a dripping faucet. One might think that Rocky's ostensible dislike for being bathed would produce a fear of plumbing - but not so. Rather the bathroom remains his favorite room in the house. Not coincidentally, the bathroom also contains Rocky's water dish, where he likes to deposit his toys, especially the fluffy, absorbent ones, for safekeeping. This love-hate relationship with the bath illustrates a "predilection for playing with water" (Hornidge, 1991, p. 43) attributed to the Maine Coon breed in general (Holland, 1994, p. 144).

Beauty

Finally, Subjective Personal Introspection suggests that people love their cats generally - and that we love Rocky specifically - in part because of their great beauty (cf. Hirschman, 1994). Indeed, apart from the unfortunate visual effects of the unattractive fungus medication, Rocky's physical appearance has ranged from wonderfully cute to astonishingly graceful to supremely elegant. Thus, in Photo LR2, we find Beauty admiring Beauty as Rocky intently watches the snowflakes fall during the famous Blizzard of 1996, seated atop the warm radiator and set against the stark pattern of the leafless trees in the park below. Coming upon this peaceful scene during a morning's coffee break, who could resist admiring and loving such a beautiful creature?

Conclusion

I hope that I have managed to convey some sense of the remarkable affection and rapport that potentially can and often does exist between human consumers and their pets in general or their feline friends in particular (cf. Ahuvia, 1995). I choose the term "friend" carefully. For Rocky the Cat is far more than a pet. He is sometimes naughty, sometimes cranky, sometimes uncooperative. But - like a fellow person, who may also be naughty, cranky, or uncooperative - he is a "friend" in the true sense of that word (Hirschman, 1994; Sanders, 1990a). He follows Sally and me around the apartment, wherever we wander, often just for the sake of sitting and watching us go about our daily lives (Caras, 1989). Each evening after dinner he sits and watches me do the dishes - just to keep me company. When I struggle through my calisthenics, he sometimes lies behind my head on the exercise mat, oblivious to the throat-choking consequences of his allergy-inducing effect on me. As I write this essay, he doses peacefully by my side, curled into a big ball of cat fur. In these and countless other ways, Rocky becomes an inextricable part of our daily lives as consumers. And sometimes he manages to transform our shared life of consumption into something truly extraordinary or even magical.

Consider, for example, the occasions of Rocky in the bath. Because of my allergies, we must bathe Rocky on a regular basis. But cats do not like to be drenched with water, lathered with "no tears" baby shampoo, rinsed under a hose, bundled into a bath towel, and dried with an electric hairblower.

Rocky is no exception. At first, he resists mightily. Indeed, it takes two of us to hold him down. But, as the event unfolds, I am astonished by the philosophical composure with which Rocky settles down, retracts his claws, and submits himself to our will.

I do not know if mere words or even three-dimensional photographs can convey the emotional strength of the consumption experiences that we feel at times like these. Dear reader, you have not lived until you have bathed a trembling, squirming, struggling kitten: soaked his writhing body with warm water; rubbed him gently from top to bottom with soapy bubbles; rinsed him clean and sweet-smelling from head to foot; tenderly cradled him in your own large fluffy towel; blown him dry and, oh, so ineffably soft to the touch. And felt him quietly purring in your arms.

Note

1. Correspondence should be sent to Morris B. Holbrook, W. T. Dillard Professor of Marketing, Graduate School of Business, Columbia University, New York, NY 10027, (212-873-7324). The author thanks Stephen Brown, Beth Hirschman, and Clint Sanders for their inspiration, encouragement, and help in writing this paper. He also gratefully acknowledges the support of the Columbia Business School's Faculty Research Fund.

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