The Imaginings of a Cat

Many people assume we, the domesticated felines of the world, are apathetic to the progress of western civilization, the breadwinner’s emotional well-being, and even the more facile complaints of Man, such as, “I cannot tolerate this weather much longer.” This assumption has accrued in severity ever since Man thoroughly examined our faces and came to the erroneous conclusion that we are smiling and frowning at the same time, all the time. This preposterous notion, I assure you, is not grounded in fact. In fact, it is not grounded in anything but humanistic ambivalence and a rather precarious inference; which is to say it is grounded in a lie. The truth of the matter is, and I can say this in unanimous consensus with the plenum of the feline populace, cats are not apathetic to what goes on around them. We are actually sensitive creatures that care a great deal about humanity; other creatures we do not understand entirely, such as birds or walruses, are included in this care as well. It is just that we care to flaunt our evolutionary dispositions—our contradictory countenances, our lethargic gaits, our long-winded yawns— every chance we get. In simple terms, this is done to ensure our survival.

When domesticated and forced to live behind the same drab walls everyday, life consists of flaunting what comes natural to us. Lethargic stretches, smiles, frowns, irascible glares, spontaneous jogs on the hardwood floor, jaunts to the litter box, and curtain climbs are all expected in the “Docile Felinedom” spectrum. But, as I said, these are necessary activities or quirks; they are necessary because they ensure our survival. Not just our physical survival either. These activities and quirks give us primacy, and perhaps longevity, in the stories passed down from one cat proprietor to another. As some long-forgotten philosopher said, “The Word is stronger than the Flesh which binds it.”

To be portrayed in strange anecdotes means that our whiskers and purrs can escape our volatile selves and move onward into fiction, non-fiction, and maybe even parodies on them both. The point is, we procure something from our owners, something that can’t be contrived or devised by us: a fan base—people who adore and venerate us, despite their inability to judge us correctly (may I remind you of the assumptions of apathy, and the errant conclusions about what our mouths are actually conveying). Usually the fan base is composed of other cat owners who can’t resist hearing about the follies and splendors of our lives. The fan base comes up with asinine stories to pass the time spent between work and sleep. Potluck dinners, congenial house-gatherings, and the sort present auspicious moments to pull out a story. Of course, I am always on the couch, curled up in a ball, listening to the inaccuracies and exaggerations immortalize me in ways I never knew possible.

“The Word is stronger than the Flesh that binds it.” I must always remind myself of that very fact. Out of vanity and longing, I seek the missing pieces of my life in the very stories that sometimes attempt to sully my character. What else could I really turn to for those missing pieces? Balls of yarn? Whicker furniture, or other miscellaneous scratching posts? No. The missing pieces aren’t found in objects of pleasure. They are found in the words of Man, the words that have seen beyond these lamentable walls and paintings, the words of the outside world, of the places my ancestors roamed gleefully in, of the places my dreams sometimes carry me to. This is why I must swallow my pride when people portray me incorrectly in their stories. It is the only way. The missing pieces are contained in those moments when an anecdote about me hacking up a fur ball is juxtaposed with an anecdote that settles in my being like a graceful breeze, an anecdote from the outside.

At this point it is probably necessary to inform you that this story isn’t really about Man erroneously judging us, or listening to Man blather on about frivolous things at dinner parties. I merely brought those things up to capture your attention. The way I figure it, if I can give you a glimpse into my psyche (and all the profound aggregates included in its package), if I explain to you that I judge Man more accurately than he judges the archetypal cat, you will actually begin to understand what is truly behind my eyes, and what is in my heart. Once I have your attention, and you can see clearly through the bullshit and into my heart, I can canorously explain to you what these anecdotes from the outside do to my being, and how for the briefest of moments they cleanse the veil of docility, this secluded mind of mine that has succumb to a life of lengthy baths, dry food, and jaunts to the litter box. Now: Do I have your attention? Now listen to me…MEOOOOOOOOWWWW!!!