My cats are miffed because I have not written about them in a long time. They did not express their pique in so many words; I’m not that crazy. However, I can sense their displeasure at the lack of media exposure. Like most people who live with cats — we cannot say “cat owners,” the felines will take offense — I have completely anthropomorphized the critters. I ascribe to them human thoughts and emotions. It is possible that they have no interests besides hunting, eating, sleeping, pooping, and making kittens. Possible, but not likely.
For one thing there is an intelligence in their eyes. When they look at you, they’re really looking at you — observing, calculating, scheming. With dogs it’s different. Generally canines have two expressions: “I love you” and “I hate you.” Dogs are direct, loyal, and trustworthy.
Cats have a more byzantine way of thinking. The cat’s gaze says, “You are of interest to me, human. Perhaps you are a sentient life form and I shall let you live. Now go forth and bring me treats.” I believe they consider humans an inferior species. This is because cats are essentially the same as their wild ancestors. They’re genetically unchanged, all they did was move in with humans because it suited them. Free board and lodging in exchange for catching mice and looking adorable — how could they lose? They probably consider homo sapiens a parvenu on the food chain.
The other thing is that cats have an excess of personality. The longer you observe them, the more complicated they get.
My oldest cat Koosi has always been a loner. She prefers to hang out on the tops of bookshelves or on window sills where her human cannot bother her with pathetic demands for affection. When Koosi is in a playful mood she hides behind curtains or under furniture, and then pounces on passing feet. I am used to her stealth mode, but lately she has developed a new form of deception. She starts acting friendly, rubbing her face against my hands and feet, rolling on the floor and showing her tummy to indicate that she wishes to be tickled. So I obey, and she enjoys the attention for a couple of minutes. Then she gets bored and bites me. Sometimes she lets out a little shriek of “You dare tickle me!” Then she slinks off, looking peevish.
Saffy, my middle cat, is insanely possessive. When I am writing in my notebook she sits on the page; when I’m working at the computer she stretches out on the keyboard. If I try to move her she shows me her claws.
All my cats respond when I call them. Mat walks up to me when I say, “Maaaat;” Koosi pricks up her ears and glares at me when she hears her name, but will not deign to come down. Saffy answers to her name, their names, and any others I might mention; she insists I speak only to her.
Although Saffy is a fierce and pushy cat, she is also very sweet. She gives massages.
When kittens are nursing at their mothers, they do this kneading thing with their paws. Saffy must’ve been too young when we got her because she never stopped kneading. When she’s sleepy she starts pushing on things with her paws, left, right, left, right. She kneads pillows, the sofa, any soft surface. Recently I discovered that if I put a folded blanket on my arm or leg, she will knead it with her paws. It’s like getting a massage. (Do not try this without the blanket unless you like being a scratching post.)
Mat, my youngest cat, has a split personality. When I am around he is quiet and well-behaved and apparently afraid of heights. He doesn’t like being carried unless we’re at the mall, in which case he refuses to walk. He protests when I place him on tables. But sometimes when I get home I catch him sitting on top of the tallest bookshelf, looking very smug at having invaded Koosi’s territory.
There is a moment of stunned silence as I absorb the unusual sight of Mat on a shelf and Mat’s expression changes from self-satisfaction to “Uh-oh.” How will he explain this deviation from what he has led us to believe is his normal behavior? It turns out that boy cats have much in common with human boys. He simply denies the evidence of my eyes.
Mat jumps off the shelf, returns to his couch, and acts as if nothing happened. His expression says, “You’re imagining things, you know I don’t like heights, have some caffeine it’ll clear your head.”
Lately I’ve begun to suspect that Mat is capable of human speech. My cats eat dry kibble every day, but once a week I give them canned cat food as a treat. When it’s that day I go, “Treat-a-treat-treat!” and Saffy and Mat come running. (Koosi will not be summoned; I have to bring her the bowl and present it with a curtsy.)
Then I noticed that every time I utter the word “treat” in any context, Mat comes running. If I’m on the phone with a friend and I say, “He can’t treat you like that” or “Treat Williams in Prince of the City,” Mat is at my feet in half a second. He’s wearing the “Please, may I have some more?” look from Oliver the musical, an acting feat when you consider that he’s a 14-pound cat.
A couple of weeks ago researchers announced that after long study they’ve concluded that cats purr in order to manipulate humans. That’s a research finding? I could’ve told them that and saved them the grant money. Here’s something worth studying: Mat’s vocabulary. So far I’ve noticed two distinct words, “nyotch” and “nyork.” These could mean “Now, beeyotch” as in “Feed me,” and “New York” as in “Let’s go to.” Clearly we have much to learn about feline speech, means of deception, and massages. Where’s my grant?
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