Cats are like the crazy ex-girlfriends. You see them. You think they are cute. They look at you with cat eyes and mew. You think this means – because your body and brain and biochemistry are built to think this – that the animal loves you.
Actually, what that animal is saying is “If you were only a little bit smaller, I’d kill you slowly and eat you.”
We think they are rubbing against our leg, we think this means they are engaged in an act of affection. We hear their purrs and think we are beloved.
In fact, the cat is marking you as their possession, in preparation for the day when you die, and they get to eat you. The purring you hear is just the anticipation of a meal.
Serve them, if you must. Clean up after them. Brush the mats from their hair. Coo their name into their ear and tell them they are so cute.
You’re misreading the signs in their human-like faces. It’s like those crazy ex-girlfriends that you thought, at the time, you loved, and it turns out they weren’t wired the same way you are wired, and it’s only a matter of time before you are devoured. They want to devour you.
There was a cat at my doorstep this morning, with a collar around its neck. It looked up at me like I was everything in the world to it, with big, cat eyes. It pressed against my leg.
“Does the one who loves you know you’re cheating on them?” I said. I refused to open the door. I refused to pet the creature. “Go on, now, pussycat. Go home.”
Had I but known this ten years ago, about certain women and all the cats…