On cats

Having never had a cat, I am singularly unqualified to write about these animals. I would, however, say this: cats gravitate to me, seem to love me, purr a lot, but I have no idea why. The genetics of cats are strange in that most cats, regardless of size, share most of their dna whether they are Bengal tigers or common house cats. Cats are, then, predators of a first order, deadly hunter killers, even when they appear to be sleeping or dozing. Unlike dogs, one gets the distinct impression that cats are always planning their next move. Growing up, my friends had cats, my grandfather had a small herd of cats that hung around the barn picking off the stray mice that ventured into their path, and there was a big gray cat at the used book store I frequented, so I have known lots of cats, but none of them have ever been my pets. I wonder if cats, unlike dogs, ever really consider themselves to be pets, or if the whole concept of “pet” even exists within cat philosophy. I always get the feeling, especially when I meet a new cat, that the cat is perhaps tolerating their owners in a co-dependent relationship, but who is dependent upon whom is unclear. Just having them around, however, has a very tranquilizing effect on the human spirit. Cats clearly exercise a strange attraction on their human captors, an attraction that has endured for several millennia, reaching into the ancient antiquity of Egypt and Persia. The fact that cats make great mousers (generally, if you overfeed them, they won’t chase anything), is not the reason most people will keep them around. Though they say little, they are great company, especially when it’s a question of stress. Studies have shown that domestic cats (and dogs) can help reduce a person’s stress, raise their quality of life, and help them live years longer. Yet cats always seem to be a little dangerous, a little secretive, and always surprising. They are loyal companions, love unconditionally, and can become very attached to their co-dependent owners. I have friends who should have dedicated their dissertations to their cats. I, however, do not want to have a cat, have never had the urge to own a cat, and will never own or harbor cats. I do like, however, the wild cats that live around my office building. They are skittish and skinny, but they always seem busy, stalking the birds, squirrels and rats that live in and around our old brick building. One must not forget their eternal role as predator and killer. The larger cats are high on the food chain, feared by humans, encased in the fearful symmetry of their hunter’s camouflage. House cats are also efficient killers in their own right, preying on animals scaled to their size. Their sharp claws and pointy teeth are reminders of their other nature. Quiet, soft, pleasantly furry, their weapons are just as deadly as those of their larger cousins who are used to bringing down much larger prey. Perhaps it is this threat of danger is that which attracts the humans to cats and vice versa. Clearly, the highly developed symbiosis which exists between humans and cats has benefited both species, encouraging them to develop and flourish. When, however, the cat has decided to climb the Christmas tree or has regurgitated an entire nest of field mice at your feet, you really start to question the sanity of keeping a cat in the house, especially when they decide to chew up a favorite pair of slippers or make a hash of the sofa. We keep cats at our risk, and perhaps that is what we might call feline mystique.