My soon-to-be 3 year old son's favorite toy is a four-inch stuffed tiger that he has named "Baby Mao." I've repeatedly tried to call the cat "Chairman Mao," but my son asserts that it is an infant, and infants cannot hold chairs in any organization. And because Mao's speech resembles that of a tongueless castrato, replete with high-pitched mewling and shrieking, I can't really be sure what it's political views are.
In any case, the favorite game around the house is to have me play Mao's puppeteer, meowing for it and engaging in a conversation with myself. Occasionally Max will step in, usually if I assert that Mao is suggesting that Papa take a nap, to clarify my translation of catspeak.
Almost always the game devolves into a scenario where Baby Mao climbs up onto various tall objects and then accidentally falls off, screaming as it falls to its death. Max finds this hilarious. Of course, being cloth and cotton, the cat doesn't actually die, and immediately gets up to climb, and fall, screaming, again. This can go on for quite a while.
While it would be easy to view this as an example of my son relishing in the torture of the weak, I like to think that he's building the foundation of humor, and getting the whole physical comedy thing out of his system. Or learning to laugh at the misfortune of others. Either way, a useful life skill.
In contrast...during a family gathering recently, I was playing this game with Max and his two cousins (we'll call them Akira and Aellie to preserve their anonymity). They're older, seven and four, I think. So not too old, and still enjoying the plight of Baby Mao as it fell to its doom. One of the girls, I'm not sure which, decided it would be fun to compound Mao's fall with a hammer blow to its spine, which led them both to more hysterical laughter. After this happened a couple of times, I got a little concerned at the behavior I might be promoting, and hid the cat under a nearby blanket, saying it was scared and hurt from the beatings. At this sign of weakness, the beatings intensified, the girls hammering at the lump in the blanket where the stuffed cat was hiding. They shrieked and punched, stomping and screaming at the body under the blanket. This went on long enough to demonstrate a focused determination in these children I didn't normally see. In the middle of the display, I looked to Max, who was sporting a stunned look similar to my own. I don't think he was afraid for the cat, though. It seemed more like we were watching a train wreck or a lion tearing apart a carcass.
When they inevitably threw the blanket aside and each grabbed one of the stuffed animal's legs, I did step in, as I knew actual dismemberment of his favorite toy would probably push Max over the edge. After a little resistance, I pried the cat from their fingers and put it into a drawer out of reach. They stood stock still, breathing through their teeth, their eyes tracking the cat as I did it. It was creepy. If I hadn't been 8 times their size, I might have run away.
