Feline Observations

The act of owning cats, the act of even deciding to be the sort of person who could stomach the possibility of owning cats, is proof that humans aren’t always the best judge of what is good for them and what is clearly very bad. I say this as a cat owner. I say this as someone who not only loves cats, but needs them in his life, someone who, without cats, would probably whine for the rest of his days, bereft of the feline presence and hating it, like Norma Desmond grieving her career. I’m the guy in the neighborhood who leaves cat food out on the porch, hoping to attract a stray or two, knowing full well that the nearest shifty opossum will eat the food if it can. I’m the guy who can’t sleep if there’s a known stray shivering in the cold outside, and who will, even in inclement weather, throw his coat and slippers on and search for it in the snow. No cat left behind. And yet, I say again, the act of owning cats is proof that humans possess an unhealthy obsession with dysfunction, for what is a cat if not the most mischievous, devious, manipulative creature ever to be invited into our homes?

At this precise moment, one of my cats is attempting to sit on my lap as I write. He’s quite determined to burrow himself into the small space between my legs and the desk at which I work each day. The space isn’t sufficient for his bulk, not that he’s fat. It’s just too small for him. But he’s persistent; nothing else will do. He’s not interested in how his presence is disrupting my work, nor does he care that if he succeeds in his efforts, my arms won’t be free to reach the keyboard. In fact, I’m quite sure he knows this, and since I’ll have nowhere else to put my hands but on him, he probably thinks he will get some pets on top of earning the snug spot he’s so frantically trying to attain. And though I probably will enjoy petting him, he’s not doing it for me; he’s doing it for himself. I don’t factor in. I have never seen him and or any cat ever do anything that wasn’t utterly in that cat’s best interests.

His name is Mayhem, by the way, my cat. That should tell the reader what he is mostly known for. In fact, seldom have I ever seen a cat so live up to his name.

We have a girl, too. She looks almost exactly like Mayhem, except for the morbid obesity. When I speak of her bulk, I am indeed saying she’s fat. She’s so fat that she has to sit down to drink from her water bowl. She lounges at the water bowl like a fat-assed sultan reclining under a tent in the desert as nubile belly dancers heave and haw around him. It’s really a sight to see. She doesn’t have a name. We sort of just call her the Little Girl. Or sometimes Potato. She is Mayhem’s older sister, by about two minutes.

Mayhem thinks he is a lion, I am sure of it. Sometimes, I’ll be at my desk writing, and he’ll come in my study and literally roar. I’m serious; it’s a full roar. But he’s so small that it really only sounds like half an aggressive meow. If he was bigger, I’m sure I would be terrified of it. And he’s utterly fearless; he may not be a lion, but he’s got the heart of one. There is nothing he won’t attack, no sound so loud that it gives him pause, no consequence so great that he won’t risk everything to get what he wants. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t admire him.

The Little Girl is more quiet and reserved, only deigning to make a sound if she absolutely has to. She’s not as sure of herself as her brother is, and if there is even a suggestion that her regular equilibrium will be disturbed, she’ll run under the bed and stay there for hours. She always comes out though, lured by the possibility of treats or cuddles, both of which she craves often. Her ruthless streak is mostly revealed when it comes to her collection of toys. These she guards jealously. I’ve seen her demonstrate far more confidence than she actually feels when her brother tries to steal her toys (which he does all the time, though, in truth, the toys belong to both of them, despite what the Little Girl believes).

Since children aren’t in the picture for my wife and me, we decided some time ago that we were going to keep cats and let them be our kids. I wouldn’t say this choice has always worked out for us, though; our cats seem to suffer strange and untimely fates, a regrettable theme we hope will repeat itself no more.

One of those cats, Orson (a.k.a. The Buddy), came to us as a stray. He was, by far, the most amazing cat I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. He was entirely black—even the pads on his paws were black, although his little cat heart was as white and pure as the proverbial driven snow. Orson was like a dog in all but DNA. He was the most faithful of faithful companions, the kind of cat that craves attention and wants to be wherever his owner is. Orson was also the most talkative cat I’ve ever had. I never did learn to speak Feline, so I was never certain what he was trying to tell me, but he always had something to say, and most of the time it seemed as though it was important to him. Not long after we rescued Orson off the street, we brought him to a vet to get checked out. We were heartbroken to learn that Orson had feline leukemia. The vet assured us that not all cats who have the disease die, though he did concede that most do. He also offered to find Orson a home if this diagnosis was too hard for us to bear, but we wouldn’t hear of it. We kept Orson, knowing what could happen, and we gave him the best life any cat could ask for. We loved him and he loved us, for five years, until the leukemia finally took him down in a matter of days in the summer of 2015. I held his head as he was euthanized, and stared directly into his eyes, and he back into mine, as he died, giving him as much comfort as I could.

Another, Annie (a.k.a. the Kitty), was with us from kittenhood until she was six years old. Annie was a quiet cat, rather moody, and notoriously afraid of strangers, but she was sweet and loving to us. Annie wasn’t always in the mood for cuddles, but on those occasions when she was, it was the absolute best thing in the world, worth waiting for. Her custom was to sleep beneath the covers with us, snuggled between my wife and me for the warmth. Many nights I would wake up to a gentle paw on my back or some fur in my face, but I never complained.

When we purchased our first house in 2018, Annie did not cope with this transition well. Almost as soon as we moved in, she began urinating all over the house. At first, we thought she perhaps was sick, so we took her to a vet. After a full checkout, the vet found nothing physically wrong with Annie, and it was suggested that her behavior was psychological. We tried many remedies: seclusion, pheromone technology, anxiety medication, but nothing stopped Annie from peeing everywhere. This went on for months. Sadly, we eventually came to the difficult decision that Annie had to go, for the safety of our new house, which we had an obligation to protect for those who would live there after us. It broke our hearts, but we surrendered Ann to the Humane Society. Her fate remains unknown because they won’t tell you what happens to the pets you surrender.

We’ve had other cats who suffered similar fates, and for a while, we began to wonder if perhaps we were bad cat parents or something. Most of the time, we know this isn’t true. But in those times when bad memories of Orson and Annie surface, I begin to question my worthiness to own cats.

The cat is among the strangest creatures on this Earth. Having watched them closely for the last twenty years, I really believe they are paradoxically the smartest and the stupidest animals alive. I have seen cats exhibit the most Machiavellian sense of cunning strategy as they study their victim for a weakness and then strike with all the telltale signs of artful premeditation. I have seen a cat alter its course mid-chase, somehow cognizant of an obstruction it couldn’t have known was there. And I have seen a cat study the mechanics of a doorknob or a faucet, then apply what he’s learned to open the door or turn on the water. And yet, I’ve also seen a cat duped into believing my hand was a spider. I’ve seen a cat savagely attack his own tail with a look of remorseless homicide in his eyes. And I’ve seen a cat tricked into chasing a laser light that is clearly not a bug, a light that is obviously being manipulated by the movement of my hand.

The cat is the only mammal I can think of that is somehow able to blend psychopathic tendencies with absolute cuteness. I once saw a recently-fed cat lazily swat at a bird flying too low overhead. Somehow, the fat cat managed to snag it. I watched as he mutilated and killed the bird, then casually walked away with no intention of eating it and no decent sense of guilt over what had just happened. This was boredom-induced murder, pure and simple. But that cat was all purrs and cuddles when I went outside to greet it. It was difficult to reconcile this doting little guy with the savage assassin who had just snuffed out the life of a harmless sparrow for no other reason than because he could. I also watched one of my own cats grab a baby rabbit by the neck once. He proceeded to swing his head back and forth in an effort to beat the baby rabbit against a garage door, to its death. But later that day this cat fell asleep upside-down in my arms, his face nuzzled against my neck, cooing like a newborn baby. And if I move my hand just so under the covers to entice my cat’s attention, he’ll pounce and try to destroy whatever he thinks is moving. He doesn’t even pause to question what he’s killing. It could be a kitten, for all he knows, a member of his own kind.

Somehow, the cat is able to commit horrendous acts of evil while still eliciting our deepest affection. That is an impressive achievement, for when women fall in love with killers on death row (which happens a lot), we comment on how messed-up the human psyche can be. But do we stop loving our bloodthirsty, impenitent cats? No, we sleep with them at night, snuggled up with their wickedness and accepting it. How did cats pull that off? Is it just because they are soft? I wonder.

Cat owners must condition themselves to endure a modest dose of daily abuse. Your cat, no matter how much you think it loves you, isn’t the slightest bit interested in your wellbeing or your comfort or even your thoughts and feelings. Your cat may love you, but he doesn’t really know who you are, nor does he have any desire to find out. No cat anywhere—not even Orson, the best cat I ever knew—has ever shown concern for how my day is going or whether I’ve had enough to eat. But my cat will mercilessly reproach me if his food bowl isn’t filled in a timely fashion. Never once have I seen a cat look at me with gratitude as I put food in his bowl. If anything, he watches disgruntledly as I do it, as though he’s being put out by this whole business. And while he may enjoy me scratching behind his ears or rubbing his belly, when he’s had enough, does he politely indicate this? No, the teeth and the claws come out and he assaults the hand that feeds him, never once entertaining the thought that his behavior might jeopardize future meals.

As to the charms of owning a cat, I suppose I could discuss the benefits of the cat cuddle, or the sublimity of falling asleep to a purr, or the connection you feel when your cat exhibits an action you construe as unconditional love. But the truth is that he’s cuddling you because it’s warm; he’s purring because he’s comfortable, and he acts loving because he knows just how to play you. We who invite cats into our homes and lives know all of this… yet we do it anyway, without hesitation. Of course we do, for does anything compare to the felicity of owning a cat?

I sometimes watch my cats while pondering the definitions of morality and ethical behavior. Mayhem and the Little Girl are especially suited for this; they have an open, unashamed ruthlessness that serves my contemplations well. Sometimes I will give them both cat treats, and one will boldly steal the other’s without a second thought. This makes it hard for me to believe they care about each other. And while they do sometimes lick each other or sleep intertwined (for the warmth, no doubt), do they really care about one another? I am not sure. If the treats in my hand were the last scraps of cat food left on Earth and it was starvation after that, they would still try to steal from each other, prompting me to wonder if they’re even capable of feeling concern for each other. We love to anthropomorphize our pets and convince ourselves that they feel what we feel, but do they? I wonder. Moreover, if it’s no sin for Mayhem to steal his sister’s food, why is it a sin for me to steal my neighbor’s? It is, though. I find this quite interesting. I understand we humans, through the use of reason, which a cat doesn’t have, hold ourselves to a higher standard—indeed, that is the very definition of being civilized, to overcome our base natures and willingly adhere to ideals that are better than us. Still, when I watch my cats excel at ruthlessness without the fear of being smote, I am always duly impressed.

The cat, for the most part, possesses a calm self-assurance and the remarkable ability to be what it is without deviance or doubt. To wit, you never see a cat trying to be something other than a cat, nor does he apologize for what being a cat implies. I’m reminded of Albert Camus, who said: “Man is the only creature who refuses to be what he is.” One wonders whether Camus was praising or shaming his own species, or both.

Cats aren’t really domesticated; they just pretend like they are because cooperation with humans has its benefits, and the cat is shrewd. My cats could claw my jugular while I sleep any time they want. Nothing stops them from killing me. I’ve seen that look in a cat’s eyes several times, that expression of barely restrained homicide, as though the cat’s thinking, “I could kill you. I won’t. But I could.” And why won’t he? He knows steady food is to be had with me alive. He knows opening doors isn’t so easy for him. He understands that as long as I’m around, he can count on a warm place to spend the night.

So he lets me live… for now.

In the end, I love my cats for that, the murderous sense of violence they possess and the calculated mercy they exhibit by restraining it. I think, to a cat, that is as close to love as it can get: the decision not to kill us today.