Strange gods themselves

Cats are weird.

Yesterday I caught Grey Kitty (aptly named) lying by the front door… on the one surface in the house laid in with gravel-like rocks.

Now, I’ve never napped on that particular bit of floor but I can fairly and accurately say it is the least comfortable patch of surface in the house.

It was the favored spot nonetheless.

I’m used to general cat weirdness and fickleness. The other cat, lovingly referred to as HRH (the same acronym enjoyed by Her Royal Highness Queen Elizabeth II), used to play soccer goalie, leaping into the air to bat at cat toys.

HRH is also wont to stamp her little paws through the house, kindly letting us know that she has not yet received appropriate attention, adoration or veneration.

I accept this.

After all, in Persian culture, we have an extra word for ‘kitty’ – and only cats receive this special attention of vocabulary – which says a lot about how we adore them. Even on a linguistic level, cats are so unquestionably great that their perfectness is undeniable, even at a semi-conscious semantic level.

So, yeah, I’m pretty much sold on the idea that cats are, basically, angry little gods.

And they demand nothing less than their due:

Offerings of good treats to be regularly and dutifully placed by the bowl.

A good windowsill to be available for their royal hineys.

Your undivided attention when desired.

Your hand the $@!% away from them when NOT desired.

But I’m also not blind to the fact that cats are really freaking weird.

They rub the sides of their mouths along books and computer screens.

They only meow and purr to talk to us (it’s true). Although, maybe that’s just a slight to our puny mortal brains. What, are we too dense to grasp the complexities of cat communication?

And don’t get me started on those not-bone, not-hair wiry things sprouting from the sides of their faces. Plus, if they lose one of their face-antennae, they supposedly can’t even balance themselves right. And then how would they stomp little tufts of fur on the kitchen floor in righteous anger?

Their physical transformations are equally disturbing. Some cat postures are almost graphic; their twisting and contorting spines belong in horror films.

And they choose the worst places to take a nap and preen up at you like they’re on a solid gold throne (which would probably be more comfortable than anywhere they sleep).

You’re little deities, shouldn’t you be claiming the sofa or something? At least move to the welcome mat.

Still, I can’t act too superior.

I’m the weirdo who chooses to cater to it and beg forgiveness for nearly stepping on the cat lying on the stairs.

But I’ll wrap this up. It’s time to chase one out the door for some exercise by shaking keys at him. (He’s scared of them.)