I admit it … I have three too many cats. But I adore them. They were all rescue cats — first Einstein, then Coco (so named after Coco Chanel), and most recently, Boomerang.
I wrote about cats quite some time ago in a print column — you can scan the snippets below or read the piece here: Must Love Cats.
Cats are patient judges of character. They’re not unfriendly; they just won’t curl up next to someone until they’ve got that person figured out.
Sitting still as statues, giving you the hard stare, cats are busily assessing character: Is this someone who will patiently clean up the fur balls I conveniently leave in the path of bare feet? Is this someone who will slip me a little catnip when I’m feeling mousy?
Eyes half-closed, tails twitching languorously back and forth, cats are internally debating fundamental questions of existence: Is this someone who will leave me alone when I’m cranky, and scratch my ears nonstop when I’m not? Is this someone who will never, ever ask me to act like a dog when he knows damn well I’m a cat?
Cats are wicked independent and self-reliant. They can catch their own mice for dinner and land on their feet after a fall. And besides, maybe I can learn something from their secret felinosophy, which boils down to these simple words:
Treat yourself like you’re the cat’s meow, and the rest of the world will too.
