Category: human servants

I used to hate cats.

When I’d hang out at my friend Dave’s house as a teenager, the little shits were everywhere, climbing all over everything with no boundaries and apparently no limit to their numbers.

Dave’s family had between 10 and 12 cats at any particular time, a small army, and as far as I could tell they were little more than inscrutable, uncommunicative tribbles, barely sentient animals who didn’t listen to anyone, could not be told “no,” and were going to stick their little faces in your food or drink no matter how many times you told them to get lost.

Worse, I’d have to dose up on Benadryl just to last a few hours and often left because my eyes were gumming up and my nose was clogged.

There were times when I sat in my car, idling for a half hour with the windows down and heat on blast on frigid nights, waiting for the worst allergic symptoms to subside. I was worried I’d be pulled over and a cop, seeing my half-shut, bloodshot eyes, would decide I was driving stoned or drunk.

Even when another friend adopted a friendly, cuddly tuxedo who became the first cat I truly interacted with, even when I realized I could safely play with one or two cats without getting sick, and even as I was actively looking for a feline of my own, I didn’t think they were intelligent or that it was really possible to meaningfully communicate with them.

At best I’d get a tribble of my own, something to feed and care for in my black depression to take me mentally out of myself.

Then Buddy came striding out of his carrier like a furry little Genghis Khan and started conquering shit.

The furry little conqueror

I was prepared for a kitten who might dive under the bed and refuse to emerge except to sneak a bite or take a sip when the coast was clear. Lots of guides for first-time adopters warned the adjustment period for a new cat or kitten could be extensive.

What I got was a boisterous, bold, imperious little dude who was kind enough to allow me to continue sleeping on my bed, which was now his bed. I got a companion who demanded my attention, wanted to be involved in everything, and was going to let me know loudly and unambiguously what he liked and what he didn’t. He took up a regular position on my shoulder, like a parrot with a sea captain. We were — and still are — inseparable.

Buddy’s personality is galactic in size, his emotions emblazoned in neon, his opinions shared through a bullhorn. There’s a vibrant mind in his little head.

If they met Bud, even the most stubborn animal haters, the kind of people who refuse to acknowledge animal intelligence because they think it diminishes our own, would know they’re dealing with a person even if they may not admit it.

That is why this site exists. It’s why I write about cats, why I’m invested in their welfare and why it hurts my soul to hear about so many casual incidents of cruelty committed by humans toward felines.

When I hear about people gunning down cats or pouring lighter fluid on them, I think about what might have happened if Bud ended up with someone else, and I think about the cats who are just like Bud who are killed or seriously injured by cruel humans engaging in senseless violence.

There is no question that those cats suffer, that they feel pain, anxiety and terror as seriously disturbed people inflict pain on them for “lulz,” or because they think hurting cats might earn them Internet Points in the bowels of the web where diseased minds congregate to share shock videos.

The fact that Buddy thinks he’s a hulking tiger is a running joke here, and it’s true. He thinks he’s the baddest boy on the block, and he doesn’t see any dissonance between cosplaying as the Buddinese Tiger one minute, and running behind my legs when he gets scared the next.

Mighty and brave!

It’s been 10 years now, and I’ve pretty much accepted the fact that he can’t be stopped from pawing at the big screen door leading from the living room to the balcony.

But every time he gets his claws caught and he’s left hanging, he starts crying for me. He sounds like a baby, and all he wants in that moment is his Big Buddy to come and pick him up, gently slide his claws out, and rub his head while telling him what a brave and tough little guy he is.

He responds by puffing his chest out and purring. He’s probably thinking “Yes, I am brave, aren’t I? I endured that ghastly ordeal and only cried a little bit!”

It’s not all wonder and awesomeness, of course. I never would have guessed an animal could be so resourceful and clever when it comes to being annoying. Bud graduated from cackling gleefully in the dark as he terrorized my feet at night, to repeatedly punching the flap on his litter box because he knows the squeak drives me crazy. He’s also fond of standing on my head and shrieking at full volume into my ear. Not “fill my bowl” or “I need water,” because those needs are taken care of immediately before bed.

The reason he wakes me up, why I’m ripped out of restful slumber by his high-pitched kitten voice, is because he wants me to wake up and be Buddies with him. He wants to hang out.

So as annoying as he can be, and as much as I really, really hate losing sleep, I can’t be mad at him. If only humans were so pure in their intentions and non-judgmental.

Cats are social animals

A lot of people say their cats ignore them or at best acknowledge them with a twitch of their radar ears. When I call Bud, he responds by happily padding up to me, tail raised straight up or curled like a question mark.

That’s because he knows I’ll never hurt him. He knows I’ll never force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do, nor will I grab him, subject him to unwanted petting and refuse to let him go. Trust goes a long way in human-feline relationships. In some ways, it’s everything.

Part of earning that trust means understanding my little pal, learning from him and learning about him. I’ve read more about felis catus than I ever imagined I would, and Bud’s smarts sparked a years-long deep dive into animal cognition that still has its hooks in me.

The belle epoque of feline research

For decades, dogs were the only domestic pet scientists bothered with. Cats were legendarily uncooperative, and the general consensus was that trying to wrangle them wasn’t worth it. If a research team managed to get 150 people to bring their cats into the lab, they were fortunate if a third or a fourth of them worked out.

Over the past 10 years or so, that’s changed as a new generation of scientists began to think in feline terms. Now the research teams come to the cats instead of the opposite, in recognition of how important territory and surroundings are to the species. They’ve also taken study formats originally built for children and dogs, and modified them for moggies.

Thanks to their efforts, we’ve learned a great deal.

Studies have found that, contrary to popular belief, cats really are social animals. If they’re bonded to a person, they value affection more than food or toys! They pay close attention to our whereabouts at all times, even though they’re masters at appearing ambivalent.

They know their names, they know the names of other cats they live with, and studies suggest they may be an even quicker study than toddlers when it comes to basic word association with items and concepts.

The meow isn’t a part of their regular communicative repertoire when they’re strays or ferals, and vocal communication doesn’t come naturally to them, but meows are embedded with meanings we’re only just beginning to understand.

Most amusingly, they’re capable of being dishonest with us and modifying their meows to manipulate us. But don’t let that fool you into thinking cats are real liars: it seems the one and only thing they’re dishonest about is food, probably because they realize we’re suckers.

During our time as inseparable pals, Bud and I have developed our own human-feline patois, a way of communicating that involves verbal and non-verbal cues. I pride myself on knowing what he wants the vast majority of the time, but I also realize the majority of the credit goes to little man for meeting me more than half way.

Sometimes Bud is so insistent, his meows apparently so urgent, that I don’t know what he wants. I can rule out food, water, a foul litter box or demands for pets. If he wants to snuggle or lay in my lap, he doesn’t need to ask. If he wants to play, he lets me know.

So what’s he saying? What could possibly be so important? Is he trying to tell me he’s reconciled quantum mechanics with general relativity? Has he gotten word of an anti-Buddesian plot by the devious neighbor cat, Smudge?

I don’t know. But one thing I do know, that I’m absolutely confident about, is that there are real thoughts scrolling through that little head, and a rich, authentic inner existence.

I’m lucky I’ve gotten to be his buddy, and to learn from him that animals are so much more than vacant-brained automatons I used to think they were.