therian_bj

...or how my leopard self shaped my career.

I often mention that my work as an electrician channels my hunting instincts. And, apparently, it is not an exaggeration or a metaphor. Years ago, when I was searching for myself and my place in life, I read a book on training big cats for the circus, and one detail struck me.

It is said that big cats have innate behavior patterns, such as hunting, climbing, and playing. These patterns are the "building blocks" of training. Animal trainers do not force cats to do something "foreign" or unnatural tricks; they redirect instincts. For example, jumping through a ring mimics a hunting lunge, climbing ladders echoes a leopard scaling a tree for safety, rope-walking resembles prowling along branches, and playing with props redirects prey-chasing games.

Training simply deceives the brain, framing tricks as natural through operant conditioning: behavior is reinforced with a reward, increasing the desire to repeat it. Success depends on matching the trick to instincts, minimizing stress, and respecting individual preferences: each leopard has a favorite pattern (some love jumping, others climbing). The trainer adapts to the cat. But if a trick strays too far from instinct, it stresses the animal.

Over my life, I have tried countless jobs. My first one was at an advertising agency in Moscow - pure hell. Boring, lots of communication with colleagues and clients, dress code, and limited privacy for eating. Transferring to the design department helped—less talking, more drawings and calculations—but it was still dull. Then I got part-time gigs installing ad structures. That clicked: climbing, physical work, quiet meals alone up high. The downside? Teamwork with blue-collar crews. My boss wouldn't let me switch full-time, so we clashed, and I quit.

On my next job, I serviced ad structures. It was better - flexible hours, good pay, mostly solo - but too much travel (foreign territory) and the need to visit the office several times a month (I hate offices!).

When I left my hometown after splitting with my mother, I had no education or clear path. That's when I came across that book. Money was tight, so I hustled. I did part-time jobs in warehouses, repaired household electronics, worked as a driver, a salesperson, an administrator in an art studio, tried myself in business, worked as a courier for almost a year, worked remotely as a programmer and vector designer, and didn't refuse part-time jobs in offices for variety. None fit.

Until one day, a friend invited me to work on a construction site with electricity. It was a massive facility - a heating plant in Moscow. The downside? The need to work in a team and obey the boss. I didn't mesh with the crew (a loner like me?), got fired, but fell in love with the trade. I sank my earnings into tools, studied theory all night, and practiced by day. Going freelance as an electrician painted my life in new colors.

When I moved from the metropolis to a remote village, it was already clear who I wanted to work for. The locals welcomed a "city pro" whose skills outshone the locals. Clients pay more, and I deliver. The only snag? Freelance work is patchy. The downtimes between the orders drive me wild: stereotypical behavior, pacing the house, mood swings from apathy to rage, exactly like a caged leopard. Before, I drowned it in alcohol, games, or street "adventures," but I've quit that.

I asked people for advice, and they recommended walking in the fresh air or doing physical activity. Naturally, this did not help: circling my territory isn't work - it's just a daily routine. Physical activity is certainly useful, but what is the point if it does not correspond to natural behavior patterns?

Back when I tried being "human," I thought I felt useless without work. "I just want to help people," - I told myself. But who am I kidding? When I was called to paint a fence or work as a cattleman on a farm, it brought income, but it did not bring satisfaction. Hard work took all my strength; there was none left for stereotypical behavior, but I fell into depression and felt like I was going crazy. Fixing electronics at home was interesting but boring. Remote work was downright stressful: I literally could not sit still and rushed around the house in circles, although they paid me much more for it.

When I got back to my roots and my leopard self, I remembered that book, and everything fell into place. Depriving instincts, which found their way in such "circus" form, caused the same distress as any other caged cat's pacing. Scientific literature was right on this matter: it is not enough to have all the resources for survival; the inability to satisfy instincts is excruciating and harmful to mental health.

Usually, my work begins like this: I receive a phone call. I don't want to pick up the phone, especially if the number is unfamiliar - a strange voice on the phone at home feels like an invasion of my territory. But, overcoming myself, I answer. I am offered a job and I agree. I always agree; I rarely refuse anyone. I arrive at the place of work: I am cautious and tense, feeling uncomfortable in a foreign territory. The first day of work passes sluggishly, and I walk more than I work and am not sure that this job was worth taking on at all. In fact, I am getting used to the foreign territory.

By day two, I'm hooked: tracking a fault feels like stalking prey. It's exciting! I climb ladders, roofs, beams - all of this is very natural, safe, and secretive. I cover distances of many miles at work - like prowling in search of prey. Hauling tools up mimics dragging a kill to a tree. Carrying a heavy load is like dragging a heavy carcass. Jumping structures, balancing on wobbly ladders, squeezing into tight spots - all this is deeply natural and leopardish. Work consumes me: I plan, dream, and lose track of time, sometimes working 16 hours until I'm swaying from exhaustion.

The climax? Flipping the main switch when the work is finished - it is like sinking fangs into the throat of the prey. Click - triumph, euphoria! Spotlights, loud music... all that's missing is applause. All that's left is to pack up my "props" and leave the "arena", freeing it up for other, two-legged artists.

It's easy to see that my job isn't just a way to make money; there are plenty of other ways to make money. It balances strength, dexterity, precision, and focus, matching my instincts. It's no wonder that remote work doesn't suit me - it's just a trick alien to a leopard, like walking on its hind legs. My favorite pattern? Heights, where I feel safe and comfortable.

Of course, there are things in my job that irritate me. The most stressful, unpleasant, boring elements are precisely those that go beyond natural behavior or require suppression of instincts. Making estimates and reports, communicating with clients, driving a car (I don't hate the latter, but I don't enjoy it). When I cross paths with chickens or calves, it's a pain; they taunt my instincts, but I can't pounce, so I take smoke breaks to cool off. Who ever thought that letting a predator into a livestock pen was a good idea?..

All of these are unavoidable costs that I can only minimize. But all of this fades when I look at the photo wallpaper on my smartphone screen and remember that my adopted cub - a cat named Mousie - is waiting for me at home. I return home from work: grimy, dirty, tired. No matter what happens, I always return with prey in my teeth. We eat, nuzzle, purr. And for a moment, I'm whole!

I wanted to share these thoughts with you. It seems that I'm simply built for hunting - without it, I unravel. Now that everything is crystal clear, there is only one question left: what if I can't do this job forever? I can't jump through circus hoops. Maybe you have some ideas?