We’ve tried to make our cat kinder and gentler: to not threaten our bird with its gaze; to not jump onto its cage; to not tear it to shreds when it escapes. Yelling and punishment – typically, solitary confinement in the basement – have had little to no effect.
If only there was some kind of cat therapy to overcome her most innate desires; to stop her from ripping into our bedspread or dining room chairs. As it stands, I’m forced to conclude our cat does not understand the difference between right and wrong. She is inherently immoral.
Correction: she's amoral – meaning she is indifferent to human morality. Ironically, it’s this indifference that gives her a distinct advantage over humans.
Cats do not worry or despair. Every day offers its own joys and dull routine, but that is all. There is no pent-up anxiety about what the day will hold. The living room window offers limitless screen time of nature’s docudrama: birds, squirrels, and the occasional visitation by the neighbor’s cat. Sleep, eat, prey on something... and the cycle continues.
Our cat is housebound, upon recommendation of the humane society from which we adopted her. As much as cats love to be free, they may get themselves into trouble when on the loose. Like the cat that somehow entered our garage the day we left on vacation. If not for our observant neighbour, the cat may have died of thirst. As for food, I’m sure there were enough mice... Which brings up another element of their immoral nature: playing with their food before eating it!?
After such a harrowing experience, one would think the cat would have learned its lesson and never come visit us again. Yet the cat came back, looking for a place to have her kittens.
Rest assured, this cat finally found its owner – or shall I say, her human host. Like a parasite, cats get what they want from us, then leave.
There are but a few precious moments in the day when our cat returns our affection. In particular, before feeding, when I peal the top off her canned food, I feel her body rub against my leg. The wet food gets plopped in her dish (some on her head) and then it’s over. She sniffs it and leaves. Maybe later.
Despite their lack of human characteristics, cats can teach us much about the human condition. According to John Gray, they may even offer us new insight into healthy living. In his book, Feline Philosophy, he writes that “cats do not need to examine their lives, because they do not doubt that life is worth living.”
So true. Rarely have I heard of a cat committing suicide.
He goes on: “The human animal never ceases striving to be something that it is not,” whereas “cats make no such effort. Cats are happy being themselves, while humans try to be happy by escaping themselves.”
If you’ve been on Facebook, you’ll know this to be true. Cats are on Facebook, too, I suppose, but they tend not to post their best selves. If anything, it’s their most embarrassing moments, all for our amusement.
And unlike a dog, a cat makes no such effort to comply with human expectations. When eating off the dining room table, our cat shows no shame or remorse. Yet we do not deem her to be a sociopath. We expect nothing less than to see her commit the same misdemeanors every single day.
To perhaps encourage her even more, we throw a party for her every week by hosting Laundry Day. In a cat’s life, there is nothing more splendid than pile after pile of warm clothing and bedsheets to sit on and hide under. Her giddiness lasts for a couple hours before she retreats for a six-hour afternoon nap. This is followed by supper, some cuddling, then her nine-o'clock romp.
All a day's work in the life of a cat. How I wish ours was so simple.
