Loving cats wasn’t like loving skiing or comic books or arthouse films: when you walked into a pub, you usually didn’t feel the need to tell people about it, either stylistically or verbally. I didn’t try to hide the fact that I liked cats, it was just that a lot of the time it was hidden, by custom and by nature.” — Under the Paw: Confessions of a Cat Man, by Tom Cox
I thought maybe she'd whisk us off by magic, or at least hail a taxi. Instead, Bast borrowed a silver Lexus convertible."Oh, yes," she purred. "I like this one! Come along, children.""But this isn't yours," I pointed out."My dear, I'm a cat. Everything I see is mine." She touched the ignition and the keyhole sparked. The engine began to purr. [No, Sadie. Not like a cat, like an engine.]
Cats make one of the most satisfying sounds in the world: they purr. [...] Almost all cats make us feel good about ourselves because they let us know they feel good about us, about themselves, and about our relationship with them. A purring cat is a form of high praise, like a gold star on a test paper. It is a reinforcement of soemthing we would all like to believe about ourselves -- that we are nice.
Ah, fish, there is no fareQuite like a flounder! They surely will not missA piece or two from stacks of sole like this;I'll steal a few, but leave the lion's share.Look! the lamplight on the lane is prettyThey're back from walking out on Dover Beach.I think I'll hide and spare myselpf the speech,For we are in a world untouched by pityWhere ignorant humans curse the kitty."(From Dover Sole)
I'd take cyanide no problem if it was that or throwing a cat out in the street, even a moth-eaten, mangy, caterwauling pain in the ass! I'd rather have the thing in bed with me than see it suffer on my account...though when it comes to human beings, I'm only interested in the sick...the ones who can stand up are nothing but mounds of vice and spite...I don't get mixed up in their schemes...
I had a dream about you. We made a good team, you and I, and I thought we were in love, but our coach didn’t agree. He tried saying he wanted to trade you to another team, but I said if he did that I’m going to take up competitive knitting. He knew I was serious, because the word on the street was that Weezer’s “The Sweater Song” was inspired by a legendary cat sweater I knitted.
I flung open the door. I got a momentary flash of about a hundred and fifteen cats of all sizes and colours scrapping in the middle of the room, and then they all shot past me with a rush and out of the front door; and all that was left of the mobscene was the head of a whacking big fish, lying on the carpet and staring up at me in a rather austere sort of way, as if it wanted a written explanation and apology.
When things are good, it is because we remember a time when they were not. When there was pain. But now the pain is gone, so things are ‘good’. When we hurt, it is because we recall a time when we did not. When there was no pain. But now we suffer, so things are ‘bad’. The tiger sipped from the cup, peering at the boy over the rim. Stars swirled in its eyes. “Good. Bad. The cup holds both.
Dogs are not like cats, who amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw. Men made dogs, they took wolves and gave them human things--unnecessary intelligence, names, a desire to belong, and a twitching inferiority complex. All dogs dream wolf dreams, and know they're dreaming of biting their Maker. Every dog knows, deep in his heart, that he is a Bad Dog...
Sunday, January 27, 1884. -- There was another story in the paper a week or so since. A gentleman had a favourite cat whom he taught to sit at the dinner table where it behaved very well. He was in the habit of putting any scraps he left onto the cat's plate. One day puss did not take his place punctually, but presently appeared with two mice, one of which it placed on its master's plate, the other on its own.
Her ears, lightly fringed with white that looked silver, lifted and moved, back, forward, listening and sensing. Her face turned, slightly, after each new sensation, alert. Her tail moved, in another dimension, as if its tip was catching messages her other organs could not. She sat poised, air-light, looking, hearing, feeling, smelling, breathing, with all of her, fur, whiskers, ears -- everything, in delicate vibration.
I wonder if I brought my Silly-cat in…could you tell me what she’s thinking?’‘I can tell you what she’s thinking right now, no touching necessary,’ I drawled. ‘She’s thinking if she were three times her size, she would eat you.’ …Every cat that was awake when I’d smoothed its fur with a bare hand thought that. Every cat I touched that was asleep dreamed that.
When the man was disgraced and told to go away, he was allowed to ask all the animals whether any of them would come with him and share his fortunes and his life. There were only two who agreed to come entirely of their own accord, and they were the dog and the cat. And ever since then, those two have been jealous of each other, and each is for ever trying to make man choose which one he likes best. Every man prefers one or the other.
Men and the pursuit of them are strongly intertwined with my mental health. I would say, in my defensive defense, that the problem with being a serial monogamist is, there isn't anybody random or unimportant: everybody you sleep with really means something, which is to say each of them is on your public record. At some point I wake up thinking, Fuck this! I don't want another man in my bed ever again. What I really want is a cat.
Cap’n is the cuddliest cat this side of the rabbit hole. He’s like a furry lump of clay, because no matter what position you put him in, he’ll stay there and purr and then fall asleep. I could fold him up and stuff him in a Chinese to-go box, and he’d not even meow once in protest. This works great, because instead of snuggling with leftover chicken lo mein, I now fall asleep with Cap’n curled up next to me.
