We Are the Cat: Life Through the Eyes of the Royal Feline Hardback - 2006

Chapter 1

Wedentity

We do not have the same difficulty with human language that many creatures do, so we understand when they call us Cat or Kitty or Swiper or Tigger that they mean this to be a name for us. (Also Toby or Smokey or Hadley.) What we have trouble with is informing the people of our household that we do not consider this to be Our Name. (Levi? Maddie? Sandra? No. No. And no.) In fact, we generally consider ourselves nameless, except for the one indescribable mark of our scent. (Not Josie. Not Leopard. Not Owl.) This one scent, the Us that is us, is how we identify one another, and how we identify Other Creatures, so a wordname is particularly meaningless.

We will sometimes respond to our “name,” of course (Dave, Creature, Patch) as it pleases or benefits us. There are times when our name means “feeding time” or “the door is open,” or even “this is absolutely the last time I am calling for you before I go upstairs and utterly forget cats exist.”

For the sake of simplicity (because this is intended to be a Human Text rather than a Cat Text), we will give the humans of our household humanlike names. We understand they have names of a sort that they use among themselves, but we have trouble keeping track of these names because they make no real sense in the real world and are given to them before they even open their eyes. (How is it possible to name your young before knowing who they are, before knowing how they act or smell?)

For example, Terry is a name, but what does it mean? We understand it means something in human language, but it makes no sense as a name. What is the meaning behind the word Terry other than “the human that is called Terry for no better reason than to have something to call him”? Would he not be better suited to a name such as Tallest Though Sitting or Smells of Butter and Coffee? But they do not call him this. They call him Terry. We think this is confusing and that it would be better to call him nothing at all.

So we will refer to the humans in the following ways.

We will give all the humans specific names that actually mean something for the sake of keeping them separate from one another, so you will be able to follow our line of thought. They will be Scratch and Mom and Kittengirl and Fly. Reasonable descriptions of these names follow in the proceeding sections.

Some more general names: For the most part, the tall, hairless creatures in our household (sometimes known as humans) have a few very important qualities, the most noticeable of which is their ability to sit in such a way as to provide a lap, and when they do so, of course, that lap provides warmth. We therefore refer to them, in general, as Laps (plural) or Lap (singular), or sometimes Our Lap, if we want to indicate a greater attachment to a given Lap, especially when they are sitting, prone, awaiting our presence. So warm, this lap. So soft and full of peace.

More on the qualities of lapness later. For now, simply know that if you are of the species that is able to produce a lap, this is one of the great and honorable ways we think of you. And we honor you, of course, with the courtesy of lying there while napping. Lucky for you to have a lap. Lucky for you your lap is warm. Skilled you may be at some other, unknown task, but your greatest quality is simply a matter of luck.


Scratch

Scratch is what we call the male adult Lap of our household. He pretends, at times, to be of some importance, to rule or to control. But there is little in the household that he actually rules or controls. Perhaps he rules and controls the extremely noisy and irritating car that nobody ever drives or rides in but him. We do not know.

He does seem to know exactly where and how to scratch behind our ears, and at what depth and duration. We rarely have to warn him that we are finished with his scratch, and when we do warn him, or when we bat away his hand or bite, he does not seem to mind.

Also he scratches just near our tail, and on our haunches above the knee. He scratches in a way that we are not able to scratch, but nevertheless seems natural, as if this is a scratch that was Meant to Be, and it is one of the Reasons We Are Here. We therefore call him Scratch.


Mom

We have heard the children call their mother Mom or Mama or even Moms, and these are all sensible sounds. Mom is the sort of nonsense word we can understand, because it makes sense as a sound alone, and it is a sound we can nearly make. Our vocalization of mother sounds a bit more like Meoam than Mom, but we appreciate being able to use a name for her that both makes sense and that is used by Lap children. Furthermore, it resembles what we called our own mother before we were able to open our eyes and we needed to call out for her. “Meeum. Meeum.”

Not exactly, but as close as any of our vocalizations come to Lap language.

We wonder if this is a universal name for Mother that originates from something essential about what a mother is or does. More from emotion, from a soothing touch rather than a thought. A mother is: Mom, Mam, Meeum, Mama, Mum. Mmm. Murr.

Furthermore, Mom most closely approaches the essential feline of all the people in our household. She sometimes reminds us of a Catmother. When she calls us, we keep our distance, and when she is concentrating elsewhere (ah, she is reading the newspaper), we demand her attention. She returns this attitude by similarly turning away from us when we demand her attention, and coming toward us, ready to pour on the attention, when we are otherwise occupied (usually asleep).

When we enter a room, Mom often calls out to us, “Aw, Kitty,” in an affectionate tone, a voice that says, “We know you will not come closer, but if you wanted to come closer, you could come closer and receive appropriate attention, but we also know, because we are very much like you, that you want to be elsewhere, so do not feel as if you need to come closer. We’re here when you need us.”

She is wise. Able to communicate so much with so little. Like us. And now that we think about it, though she is a Lap, she is quite beautiful. How is that possible?

We will examine this beauty later, when she is sleeping. We will lie close to her face and watch her breathing, to see if that beauty is still there, or if it is something she puts on for our benefit. We expect the former. No beauty such as this could be easily manufactured. It is likely something much deeper.

Could it be that she is also expecting a litter of kittens?

Perhaps. And she is not watching us now. So we sit near the bathroom door and admire her. Waiting to be fed.

“Meoam,” we say, and by this we mean Mom.


Fly

The elder child is a male of the Lap species who seems, at times, to fly. He does so in much the same way that most earthbound creatures fly—that is, his feet may leave the ground, and he may cross great distances while his feet have left the ground, but he will eventually return to ground before leaping off again. It is the sort of flight that is actually neither flight nor glide. His flight reminds us of the sheepherding dogs that run headlong into whatever joy there is to be had in any direction they might find it. The second dog of the household (which we call Daydog) is just one of these dogs. Her feet may touch the ground, but she is nevertheless in flight.

The elder Lap child is a flyer in the sense of movement across the ground and over the sofa and through the living room (a cat should always be aware of his position so as not to be stepped on or stumbled over), so we call him Fly.

For the most part he ignores us, or warns the younger child against lifting or lying on us, and we appreciate the mastery of his will. He is apparently controlling his desire to touch and pet and be near us, and we therefore will, at times, go near him. He may pet us for a moment. Just long enough. Just perfect. Utterly remarkable how he resists us.

Just the scent of him soothes us. During the day, we can often be found sleeping on his bed.


Kittengirl

The younger child of our Lap family is female, and kittenlike, in her way. She moves unpredictably. She is a catlifter. She will often lift us for no better reason than to lift a cat, it seems, or to move a cat to a space where a cat does not wish to be. When she lifts us, it is best not to struggle. We hang from her embrace like a coat, and when she reaches the place where she intended us to be, she will set us down and we are then allowed to flee.

“Careful of the kitty,” says Scratch. Too late, of course.

It should be noted that Kittengirl is most likely already being “careful,” but her care is different than what Scratch means by the word careful, or full of care, and thus we experience some discomfort and wish not to be lifted or moved in this way.

Her actions, of course, are every bit as much like those of a kitten as they could be for a Lap, so we call her Kittengirl.

“I am being careful,” says Kittengirl. And of course, as we thought, she is. Very careful indeed. She cannot help acting as she does, just as a kitten cannot help acting as a kitten does.

We avoid her most times (as we might sometimes avoid a kitten). We sometimes wonder why, when avoiding her, we seem to miss being thus lifted.


Nightdog

The giant black dog who lived in this house before we arrived (and who used to interact with us, before the appearance of Daydog, at which time there was an apparent shift of roles in the household), we call Nightdog. She is black like the night, and when it is dark outside, she disappears in the darkness. This is a talent we did not know dogs could possess. We were sure invisibility was a quality reserved for cats. But Nightdog can do it, whether she uses the same technique as us or not. For this, we respect her. In response to our respectfulness, she tends to ignore us.


Daydog

The second dog, who appeared in the household several months after us and who seems to believe it is her duty to teach us to be a sheep, we call Daydog. She is white with black markings, but it is not her coloring that gives her this name. She is scentmarked with the day, with sunlight and activity. She does not ever stop moving, except to sleep (and she sleeps mostly at night, while staying active and full of motion during the day). She attempts to herd us throughout the house, moving us in one direction or another, and she bites at our neck and head as if this will encourage us to move in a particular direction. When she bites at our neck and head, this does not encourage us to do anything but attempt to extract our head from her mouth.

We believe Daydog needs a second job. Perhaps she could mow lawns or drive a delivery truck. (Of course we know this is not within her ability. Did you think cats did not have a sense of humor?) There is too much energy in Daydog’s slight body to be wasted tormenting us. Get her out of the house, we say. Let her contribute something to the household besides anxiety. There must be a use for all this energy.

If we could only teach her to open the door when we wanted in or out. That would be her ideal position. She would likely be willing to do it all day long, at the exact moment we asked her to.

This is a stroke of brilliance, of course, and has occurred to us just this moment. We will begin to train her at once.


The Only Cat in the World

We understand we are not the only cat in the world.

We know of Othercats. (We have even seen Othercats in the box known as the Television, via which is delivered all things worth knowing.) And we understand that some cats do not necessarily think in the same way that we do. But we do not feel the need to complicate this knowledge with a great deal of respect for the thoughts and activities of the Othercats. We have no trouble speaking for Othercats or acting as if we actually are the only cat in the world. We have no trouble speaking, indeed, for anyone at any time, be they cats or humans or antelopes. And we understand that Othercats may do the same for us. And they likely will. They likely are driven by the same impulses and prejudices as we are.

When Laps begin to understand this about us, their lives will become much easier.