Bastards That Make it Worthwhile: On Cats
In this personal essay, Roberts talks about our feline friends, and why these cruel bastards make it all worthwhile.
Cats. What is there to say?
A lot of people have had many things to say about cats; after all, where would YouTube be without them? But, as many know, I have three cats of my own: Anna Beth, Ahab, and Penny Marie. They are not fur babies, because fur babies are an absurd concept. Cats--or pets in general--are not our children. Why would you insult them like that? It is obvious, as the English philosopher John Gray notes in his book Feline: Cats and the Meaning of Life, cats--and I would add, most other animals--are superior to us. People who call animals fur babies are, invariably, delusional.
But I do not wish to extract a philosophy out of cats like Gray. I am very much against animal cruelty, you see. To borrow from Mencken, that is just more searching for a black cat in a dark room, as far as I can see. And anyone who has ever had to find a cat knows it is best to let them present themselves to you. To extract a philosophy from anything is to torture it for mere curiosity, and what is it we say kills cats? Oh, that's right…
But I must admit, I am willing to accept that cats are, in fact, fantastic creatures. I have three. I am willing to accept the answer Death gives Iplsore in Terry Pratchett's Sourcery about what makes life worthwhile. Death's answer to this bitter wizard? Why, cats! They make life worth it. And he is quite right. But, I guess, when is Death wrong?
But from our dear Pratchett also comes the following:
"If cats looked like frogs we'd realize what nasty, cruel little bastards they are. Style. That's what people remember."
This, from several books later in the same series, Discworld, is equally as true. Cats can be cruel, without much thought. They will condemn your cooking skills by bringing you dead animals, having judged your cooking skills as worse than the English. They will knock your glass of water onto your PC, letting you know that you are a boring creature. And they fear nothing, not your shouts or your dog or your children. Unless, of course, you have in your hands the dreaded spray bottle. Hiding is only a tactic so they might strike again.
Many might object to me calling cats cruel. Surely, I should be saving this label for humans, right? Before they can get going, listing our collective crimes like a Catholic in a sack cloth, I feel the need to leave. Self-flagellation with knowledge is just pathetic, unseemly even; if the 'facts' they have are the leather straps, then their ignorance is the hilt by which they hold onto it. Cats, and all animals, do horrible things everyday. Eat their young, abandon their sick, knock my cookies on the floor because I've "had enough". If we are cruel, it is because the world is cruel. Perhaps we are the cruelest, but we are not without competition.
Such nonsense aside, what about these worthwhile bastards appeals to me? For one, the personalities of cats are similar to mine; aloof, judgmental, independent, almost patrician. Even with such a tendency to be reserved they have a love of mischief and a sense of territory. Boundaries, the buzzword of self-help gurus and doe eyed therapists, are real for cats and cynics alike; don't come near me, and don't touch my stuff.
Now, not all cats are like this. What is so interesting about the felines is that they have personality. Every one of them, given enough time, becomes their own unique type of animal. I should know; I have had four feline companions in my life thus far. There was Key, a black with white patches muse who is now deceased, and there are three currently: Anna Beth, Penny Marie, and Ahab. They are all strays.
My proof? Well, I don't usually need proof, but I do have a story:
My first cat was named Key. She came to me like a character in a Pratchett book, come to think of it. I, a cynical guy who had fallen on hard times; her, a happy, quirky, and battered cat. I was living paycheck to paycheck, job to job, living in a house with its utilities cut off many times due to me having to pick between bills and eating…a sad story to someone, I am sure. While I was suffering as a victim of capitalism, I started to realize a cat that would come to my door. She even would sit on the bush in front of my window and tapped on it. Honestly, it scared the shit out of me the first few times. But, after giving out food on the porch, and then letting her in, Key--as she became known--spent nearly 6 years with me. My family had abandoned me in my time of need, but here was this cat. She did not care, except that she cared for me.
She would be with me while I tried my hand at poetry and writing novels. Her purr helped me sleep on nights that my stomach hurt from having nothing to eat. We hid from the utility officials together when they came to turn things off, and I gave her warmth when my heat was off in the winter. We shared lunch meat when I could buy it, and even when I was low on food or drink, we shared meals. Living in the conditions I did, I had mice and she did me the favor of catching and killing them, so I didn't have to. Every morning, like clockwork, she would go to the door and "ask" to leave, to go out with her friends. And every night, when I came home from some shitty job, she waited for me on the porch. She even was a mother to a kitten who she abandoned, and she was a friend to a man who had been let down by every single one of his friends. She was, above all, my muse. Her yellow eyes inspired a thousand poems and her purrs cut through dark nights that pushed me to the brink of suicide.
After I finally got things turned around, I took her with me to my new place. We got a new routine: she could not leave every morning, but she could wake me up with a patter of paws on my face. She was happy, but throughout several months, she stopped eating as much. I worried about it, but I assumed that perhaps she was just picky; after all, we had shared hot dogs, hamburger patties, and chicken nuggets together. I assumed that actual dry food was something she found odd, at the very least.
One morning, I woke up later than usual. I had not felt a patter on my face. It was odd, so I got up and called out to my muse. Going to the bathroom, I lazily flipped on the switch. And that is when I found her in my bathtub. Her eyes were wide, her tongue clamped down by her mouth. Her body shook, a shake that stopped her from being able to move. A seizure. I sped to a veterinary hospital, driving with one hand while I held onto her for dear life. I wanted her to be okay. I got her to the hospital, and rushed her in. I spoke up for the secretary, but it was hard to talk; being on the brink of tears silences even the loudest of voices. They took her away, and for the first and only time in my life, I prayed. When the doctor came out, she asked to speak to me. I had to will myself to go with her; I knew, it seemed, what she was going to say. Not the details, of course; I was not aware that Key had a tumor in her stomach. But I felt an anchor lasso my spirit as she told me those words: she is suffering, and we need to put her down.
It would be romanticism to say that Key had lived long enough to see me through the worst time of my life. She had years left, I am sure. I always state that animals are not made "for us"; they are their own creatures. It would be arrogant to assume otherwise. But as I sat there and heard those words, I felt tragedy strike in broad daylight. I wished to be defiant, but you cannot truly defy death. I was led back to where she was kept, the way a ghost follows the footsteps they once took in life. I was asked to sit with her, and hold her. I didn't want to. Not because I didn't want to hold my muse just one more time. It was because I wanted, more than anything, for this to be some nightmare that I could wake up from. I hoped, against all reason, that this was not real.
I held her, and kept myself strong for her. I knew that, when I was upset, she tried to rub her face on mine, and I knew she had to stay still. She was too weak, and she was too tired. So I held back my tears, and I spoke to her. I told her that I was there, and that she was okay. And I thanked her for seeing me through everything that this cruel world decided to send my way. I promised her a promise I could not keep. I promised her that I would see her again. And then her eyes closed. Her body slept. And I lost her.
Key is buried on a farm, under a tree, at my parent's place in Kearney. When I brought her body to my parents, held in a small box, I wouldn't let it go. I couldn't. I sobbed but I could not speak. This wasn't just a pet. This was not just an animal. This was a history, a collection of characteristics, a tilted head as I sang to my music. This was an early riser, a mother, a cuddler, a purr in the dark night. This was, at one point, all I had in a world that never gives you anything. This was a personality. And I did not want to let her go.
But, perhaps, Death was the best thing to take Key, huh? It is from him, after all, that I learned what I should have known all along.
That cats make living worthwhile.
Bastards That Make it Worthwhile: On Cats
Really love this. Beautifully said.