The longer I live with cats, the more I'm convinced that they are not our furry little friends, but rather hostile aliens sent here from another planet to gather intelligence so that they may one day rule our world.
So you can imagine my interest when a cat psychologist came to my town recently to conduct a seminar on feline behavior.
(This raises several questions: How does one get to be a cat psychologist? Does she have a miniature couch covered with cat hair in her office? And why did she lap milk from a saucer, then give herself a tongue bath during her presentation?) She discussed those little kitty quirks like why they appear to sleep all day (apparently they never really sleep-they are always half awake) and why they sometimes decide not to use the litter box (it's because they're stressed out, just like I am when my cat doesn't use her litter box.
) But to me, Doc Tabby did little to really delve into the most vexing of cat behaviors.
It made me yearn for those old episodes of Star Trek, when Mr.
Spock performs his Vulcan Mind Meld where he puts his hands on the head of his adversary and reads his thoughts.
If only I could meld with my cat Max, here are some of the things I'd ask her..
..
Why can you hear the sound of a can opening from 12 city blocks away, yet when I scream at you to get off the kitchen table you look at me like I should be speaking in closed captions for the hearing impaired? Why is it that when I try to sneak up behind you when you're napping you always hear me coming, yet you once slept through a kiln explosion? Why is it that you save your most disgusting hairballs for when I have company over, when you casually stroll into the crowded living room and produce a projectile roughly the size of a Buick LeSabre? Why do you dig in your litter box like you're trying to unearth some secret treasure? What or who are you hoping to find--Jimmy Hoffa? Why is it that you can go for stretches where you snooze longer than Rip Van Winkle on Lunesta, surviving without sustenance of any kind, yet you wake up even fatter? Why is it that when I get up in the morning and walk to the kitchen to feed you, you act like you haven't had a solid meal since the Clinton administration, yet when I put your food dish in front of you, you sniff it like it's one of my old sneakers and disgustedly stalk away? Why is it that when I go to take you to the vet, just the sight of your carrier makes you flee to the far reaches of the house and it takes a pack of bloodhounds to find you, yet when I set the carrier on the floor and walk away, you crawl inside it and go to sleep? Why is it that when I lay out clothes on the bed, you completely ignore them unless it happens to be my best suit? Then, you shed a pile of hair on it that's so large I could knit four new cats from it.
I firmly believe that even Mr.
Spock could mind-meld with Max until the fleas come home, and he still wouldn't get any answers.
I think the cat psychologist summed it up best when she said, "I don't think we're ever in control of a cat.
" Amen, sister.
And quit licking yourself in public.
Copyright 2007-2009.
Chris A.
Joseph.
All rights reserved.