My Feline Position Statement

It is with great trepidation that I attempt to write about today’s topic, and I offer apologies in advance to Sir Pinky. Even though I don’t think I’m being obnoxious when writing about cats, I know if someone were writing things about dogs that I thought were unflattering, I would feel obligated to inform them of the many, many errors in their pitifully flawed thought process. At length.

For the record, I do not hate cats. I harbor no prejudice against the Feline Race. I must also say that I actually like cats more than I like children, and people keep insisting that children are, in fact, members of my own species. I remain unconvinced.

I am, however, the Ultimate Dog Person. The canine soul and my own resonate on some very deep, cosmic level. When I say I was probably a dog in a previous life (and hope to be one again in my next life), I am not exactly kidding.

As Rachel mentioned in a recent comment, whatever you are doing with your dogs at any given moment is their favorite thing in the world! How happy does it make you to have that kind of joyous, enthusiastic companionship?

Some possible exceptions to this “favorite thing” policy include:

· Toenail trims (“You’re cutting off all my toes, you sadist!!!”)

· Bath-time (“I’m melting, mellllllting…!!!!”)

· Listening to the obviously insane Dog-Mom screaming herself stupid just because you’re having a teeny tiny disagreement in the kitchen (“Holy crap, why is she so mad???”)

Dogs are completely thrilled to see you, whether you’ve been gone for days, hours, or went out to the mailbox for fifteen seconds. Same reaction. Sure, you know that while you were at the library, they got a drink of water, spent a few minutes sniffing and attempting to dig a stray Froot Loop from under the couch, and then went to sleep. They were not frantic with worry the entire time you were gone. Still, it’s nice to know your arrival can inspire such jubilation.

Cats always make me feel sort of like the nerdy girl in high school who is trying to be accepted by the in-crowd. The cool kids might talk to you once in a while, and even pretend to like you, but you know the minute you’re out of earshot, they’re making snotty, sarcastic, condescending remarks about your hair, wardrobe, complexion, social life (or lack thereof), personality, and the size of your ass.

It has also crossed my mind that the Domestic Feline is actually an advance scouting party from some alternate dimension, where cats are the dominant species and humans are pets. Or possibly food. I worry that they are making plans to invade our dimension and enslave us all. Some would argue that this has already taken place. The point is that you just can’t tell what a cat is thinking, no matter how carefully you watch them. And the more you try, the more inscrutable they become, and the higher your paranoia level climbs. It’s all part of their Master Plan.

Dogs are so much easier to read. They have several basic expressions. These include happy, really happy, deliriously happy, spun-around-so-much-I-crashed-into-the-wall-I’m-so-happy, bored, tired, guilty, grouchy, and nauseous (as evidenced by the barf-pile under the table).

Perhaps I am somewhat predisposed to have anti-cat tendencies, though, thanks to my late father. (Pinky, you are not going to want to read this next part. There’s another part later that I will also warn you to skip!)

Dad was born in 1924, and lived his entire life in a rural county in northern West Virginia. He belonged to some sort of Conservation Club when he was a kid, and at that time cats roaming at large were considered “varmints.” This is not simply in the bad-name-calling sense; it was also in the legal sense. People generally had barn cats, but cats that roamed off their property (and who can make a cat stay anywhere once they’re out of doors?) were fair game. Dad used to get a bounty on every cat tail he turned in. Horrifying, I know! I can’t imagine such a thing now, but it was a fact of life back then. People had chickens and such, and the cats were apparently numerous enough to create a problem. Anyway, Dad grew up seeing cats as varmints instead of companions. It’s possible my young and impressionable mind was somewhat warped by his perspective.

Knowing that, it was amazing that I actually did (briefly) have a cat when I was little. The Christmas I was in second grade, we got an orange tabby kitten that we named Buffy. He was really cute, and used to get under the couch, lie on his back, hook his claws in the fabric covering the underside of the couch frame, and run around upside down. I spent a lot of time hanging upside down off the edge of the couch watching him. (I was a strange child.) He also used to hang on the screen door, which I thought was hilarious, but Mom considered decidedly less so.

Buffy only lived with us about a year. Being an indoor/outdoor cat (the only way Dad would let us keep him), he spent a lot of time prowling the woods. Tragically, he had an encounter with (close your eyes, Pinky!) a steel trap. Suffice it to say, the trap ultimately won.

I also had a cat, another orange tabby, named Casey. This was when I was in my early 20s and my son was a toddler. We were renters, and our landlord wouldn’t let us have a dog. I had to have a pet, and even named some of the stray kitties around the neighborhood where we lived at the time. The landlord would have been better off letting us have a dog, though, because Casey had major urinary tract issues. Casey was a 100% indoor cat, because I’d learned it’s best for your feline friends to retain all four of the limbs with which they were originally equipped. This meant that his inappropriate urination took place on the landlord’s carpet. Specifically, in my son’s Wuzzle Play Tent. After trying various treatments and diets with no success, we were forced to place Casey in a new home.

The extra-sucky part of that story is that with all I know now about animal nutrition and holistic medicine, I probably could have helped him. To top it all off, we still didn’t get our rental deposit back. On the upside, when the Neanderthal landlord told us we wouldn’t be seeing that deposit, I slammed the telephone receiver on the table loudly and repeatedly, and it’s possible that the asshole’s ears are still bleeding.

Since I got into the veterinary hospital business, I’ve had lots of interaction with cats. In fact, one of the doctors and I operated a volunteer-based rescue group for several years, and I occasionally fostered cats. I once fostered a feline leukemia positive kitten, because I was the only one who didn’t have cats of her own. After six weeks, the kitten managed to clear the infection and was placed in a loving permanent home. I also fostered Shasta and Pixie, despite the fact that one of our goldens was obsessed with getting into the room where they lived. Seko was determined to “meet” those kitties! (“Meet,” “eat” and “meat” are so similar… I don’t think Seko saw any real distinction.) We live in a split-level house, so the main floor is a half story above ground level. Whenever Seko went outside, he’d stand on his back legs, his paws against the house right under the window to the room where the cats were housed. This went on every single day that they were there.

At the clinic where I work now, we always have approximately a half dozen “clinic cats.” They roam the whole place, enjoy a wonderful raw food diet, and are adopted out to some of our terrific clients. We often take in “sanctuary” cats as well. If a client wants to euthanize a cat, and we feel that he or she still has a chance for some time with a good quality of life, we have the owner sign the cat over to us. We treat the kitty, and keep it as part of our world for however long they have left.

There have been some clinic cats that I actually liked quite a bit. Others, not so much.

Blue, for example, is the most bi-polar cat I’ve ever met. She hates all living creatures on general principle. She likes to get behind the computer monitors and then swipe her claws at anyone foolish enough to reach for a pen or the telephone. Occasionally she pretends she likes you, and this is when you’d better be on your guard. That “sweetness” disappears from one second to the next, and if you’re not quick enough you will be faced with the unpleasant task of removing her claws and/or teeth from your flesh. When I spent more time up at the front desk (Blue still lives up there), she would periodically wander across the desk, over the keyboard, down into my lap, then up my chest until her face was level with mine. Sometimes she would begin to lick my nose. This was very disconcerting. While I wanted to enjoy this rare bit of Blue-dispensed affection, I do value my eyeballs and prefer to maintain them in their current un-punctured state. I am nearly certain that she just did this because she knew it freaked me out. Which, I strongly suspect, is how cats think most of the time.

My feelings for cats, I think, are a bit like how some people feel about other people’s kids. They sort of don’t mind seeing them or even holding them once in a while, but they really don’t care to have one of their own at home.

I’ve had the pleasure of knowing many wonderful cats and their people while working in veterinary hospitals. I’ve seen the joy they give each other, and I celebrate that special bond. They feel about their cats the same way I feel about my dogs, and that is a Beautiful Thing.

However, I am not now (and will never be) a “cat person.” All my critter-loving genes are wholly programmed to “dog.” My household and my psychological makeup are just not kitty-compatible. This doesn’t make me a bad person (I don’t think), because while I might never own a cat, I’d certainly never harm one. I spend lots of time counseling people on their cats’ diets, explaining to them why we will not declaw cats at our clinic, and helping people find homes for unwanted or abandoned kitties.

Which isn’t to say that I’ll never make comments that may be perceived as anti-feline. I probably will. As much as I worship dogs, you have surely noticed that I do say some unflattering things about them occasionally, including my own doofusy muzzle-woofers, because even those we hold most dear can still piss us off. (Example: Families) Such cat-bashing might be because a cat has, now or in the past, done something I found especially annoying.

But it could also just be because I think it’s funny.