Son of Mehitabel

Either you like cats or you don't. There's no two ways about it. Cats are not like dogs: they can't herd sheep, and if you raise your voice to them they don't grovel, and under no condition will they bring your slippers to you after a hard day at the office.

They're cute when they're kittens, but then all warm-blooded animals are cute when they're young -- I'm willing to wager Newt Gingrich was cute as a toddler. But when kittens become aware of their power, they turn into cats and that's when you either like them or don't. Furthermore, they don't give a damn whether you do or not, and they'll walk out on you if they can find better pickings elsewhere. If you have a dog, particularly a large clumsy dog, they may well decide to pack up and leave unless you have a canary or a bowl of goldfish.

Some people will tell you that cats are smart -- I say hogwash! Any animal that decides to live with people should know instinctively that people demand love and affection ... yes, and subservience, too. These are things a dog gives its master in abundance, regardless of how little its master may deserve them.

Our brown and white cat, Felix, spent long hours atop our canary's cage reaching in vain for Pinky. We grew so accustomed to it that we rarely bothered to swat him off unless we had company. Pinky grew accustomed to it and, in time, paid no attention to Felix whatsoever. Probably thought all canaries lived this way. He would sit at the bottom of his cage and sing the old canary songs he'd taught himself, oblivious to Felix's outstretched claws. Felix was no more successful with our bowl of goldfish. I suspect that canary cages and goldfish bowls are designed in such a way as to protect their inhabitants from cats. If such is the case, it may go a long way toward explaining why cats take a dim view of their human hosts. Think how you'd feel if your supper was out of reach behind bars or deep in a bowl of water.

They say if a cat is spayed it will grow gentle and home-loving. Not so with Felix! He was infuriated and nursed a life-long frustration that occasionally spilled over into blind rage. When he was in such a mood he would plant himself on our widest windowsill and stare resentfully outside at the squirrel tracks in the snow. At such times Pinky and the goldfish were free to explore their habitats to the fullest.

Women seem to get along with cats better than men do. Men prefer dogs because they feel superior to them, and it is very difficult to feel superior to a cat. Women, while feeling superior to dogs as well, have their husbands and children to feel superior to and are more ready to accept cats as equals. A cat will watch a man and his small sons roughhouse on the front lawn with utter disdain while sitting next to the mistress of the house as she peels the potatoes for supper. A dog will join in and make a fool of itself in front of the neighbors.

It's like this ... since the dawn of time dogs went out to hunt with the men and the boys. They've never forgotten that, and in the back of their minds while they're chasing the ball or fetching the stick, they still feel gainfully employed, just as the men and boys do when they're shooting baskets. In today's world, however, mother is the huntress: she has tracked her prey through the jungle of the supermarket; she's bagged her buys-of-the-week, clipped her coupons and run her charge card through the computer. The man and his dog are at home shooting baskets or washing the car unaware that life has passed them by.

My dog Patsy and I investigated the bags upon my wife's return. Our interest waned after we'd sniffed the meat and checked out the cookies. Felix, however, left no package unexamined; the soap, the paper towels, and the birdseed all got a thorough going over. At such times I watched my wife and our cat together. They were cut from the same warp and woof.

Felix was fastidious to the core. His eating habits were without reproach. He washed after every meal and had his own sanitary facilities in privacy behind the furnace. In this regard he considered himself infinitely superior to Patsy who had to go outside and pee in the snow. His favorite dish was freshly roasted breast of chicken; fresh salmon and tuna were also acceptable, but under no condition would he condescend to eat food from a can. Patsy would not dare trespass on his private dining area in the kitchen and if we fed them both at the same time, Felix would wait until Patsy had finished slurping and slobbering through his meal before entering the kitchen. Patsy's table manners were appalling; he would keep one foot planted in his bowl to keep it from slipping.

Dogs and husbands are similar. They will eat anything, and on the whole they are obedient and faithful. They provide an insignificant and, to a large extent unnecessary, measure of protection from whatever imaginary dangers threaten the family unit. They offer this service without asking or knowing why. Wives and cats have learned to live with the offer; although if a suitable alternative presents itself they give it careful consideration.

Felix outlived Patsy, the goldfish, and the canary. He showed no visible signs of remorse at their passing. There were times we asked ourselves if he would outlive us all. From the lack of activity and competition for affection, he became as wide as he was long. One winter morning, with squirrel tracks clearly visible in the freshly fallen snow and a chicken in the oven, he followed Patsy, Pinky, and the goldfish without so much as a "by your leave." He died as he lived, cool and aloof, fur freshly slicked down, and ready for any eventuality he might encounter in Paradise.