We put our nearly-23-year-old cat to rest last night.
Bobby, besides being uncommonly long-lived, was uncommonly friendly, even to strangers.
He loved almost all manner of "people food," whether or not it was food cats ought to eat (though classic poultry and fish were still particular favorites to mooch).
He chased (and fetched!) toy mice ferociously, while failing to catch the real ones we've sometimes had in the house.
He was never shy about meowing for feeding, water, attention; or just a little chirpy “mrrr!” as a greeting if he saw you enter the room.
For some reason, he occasionally thought my beard needed his assistance in grooming.
Most of all, he has been a constant companion as long as I've known him and beyond (his being my wife's cat since before I met her).
Even though Bobby was at the far end of the friendliness bell curve for cats, this occasion reminds me of some thoughts I've often had about cats in general, in contrast to the other most popular domestic animals, dogs; namely, how the most commonly-thought-of temperaments of both types of animals paint different pictures of relating to others. Granted, some of this can be colored specifically by Western tradition, but some of it is also simply down to the natures of the animals and how we’ve domesticated them (or not so much) over time.
Dogs make good pets for idealists. The popular idea of a dog is, in a sense, what we wish other people were: unconditionally loving, loyal, and unselfish; always good-natured; always happy to see and warmly greet us; blind to our flaws.
There’s something at once both naive and admirable about operating this way. Especially in a generation obsessed with the idea of “empathy,” almost there is a perception that failure to adopt a mindset of dog-like (“dogged”?), aggressive affirmation toward others is a character flaw. But lasting far longer than the current culture of empathy is the beyond-cliched reputation “man’s best friend.” Dogs are for us to live up to, modelling aspirationally strong loyalty.
Cats are not so idealized, even among “cat people” (of which I am one). The popular idea of a cat is a lot closer to what people are actually like: self-oriented, demanding, defensive, pragmatic, often aloof; operating on their own terms; smart enough to get into mischief, but not escape it. They don’t ignore our flaws so much as remind us of them. Cats stereotypically are a mirror held up to us, highlighting warts and all.
Some part of me suspects that a subconscious recognition of the mirror is what ensures the abiding popularity of cats on the internet, in sarcastic memes, viral videos, and so on. We more easily see our own flaws and foibles in them, even if we’re only projecting. In fact, cats will occasionally be portrayed as outright villains in some stories (amusingly, “the Prince of Cats” was an early concept/predecessor for Tolkien’s Sauron). Cats are hunters — predators — unsubmissive and untrusting, and therefore potentially untrustworthy themselves.
But it's precisely this sense of initial indifference or skepticism, and eventual conditional acceptance, that makes it feel so earned when a cat decides you're his friend. Cats, if there is somewhere else they'd rather be, won't hesitate to simply leave and go there instead. They’ll approach if and only if they feel like it — you never need to leash your cat in the yard.
It’s almost as if there is a challenge to it.
Because of this baseline standoffishness, there is an almost droll sincerity about cats when they choose to stick around you, a sense that you must rate at least high enough to be the most pleasant option available. They often have little patience for charity or polite self-denial so you know it’s because they genuinely want to be there.
I think this sense of earned trust is a lot closer to the terms on which we actually engage with other people when we’re being “real.” Even as we aspire to be dogs in our most high-minded rhetoric, in our actual lives we act like cats. We want that warts-and-all reciprocity, not to be put on a pedestal, but met where we are. We like to be chosen on purpose, and not unthinkingly or as a default. I find making friends with a cat reflects that purposed quality.
Again, Bobby was far more personable than the "modal" cat. He was easier to get along with right off the bat, and well-behaved even around strangers, a trait appreciated by any company we invited over.
Still, if he really knew you, it was different, and this part is true of many pets. There was something gratifying about it when he wanted to come and see what you were up to, or even just hang out in the same room.
It was similar to the familiarity of a friend who’s known you long enough to be comfortable speaking sarcastically. When he came to see you for pets, it was like he was giving you his blessing to be around. That same sense of earned trust was still there, even without the stereotypical level of aloofness.
And though it may be a little sappy, I think at the core of his time with us was the feeling that the room was more blessed with him in it.
We'll miss you buddy.
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