Sunday, 8 May 2011

Look What The Cat Dragged In

I have been told I'm a Crazy Cat Lady in the making on more than one occasion. Many more.
Whatever. Cats rock the high road while we flounder on the low.

There was a time, practically a movement, in the middle ages when every plebe and his dog went about killing cats with great venegance and furious anger. However many centuries later, I can't help but feel cats still suffer something of an image problem.

Cats cop a lot of shit.

They don't care. See that tail held high in the air? That, in no uncertain terms, says "FUCK ALL YA'LL".
It also says "the ancient Egyptians didn't knock up no massive stone renderings of DOGS now did they?"

Cats have long been associated with the most powerful individuals in human societies. Warriors, shamans, chiefs, royalty, Robert DeNiro's character in the Focker movies...

Do not be fooled. Know that behind the piercing gaze of the cat there is always the exotic and secret centre that harks back to their ancient connection with sacred cults and the dark arts. Cats have never forgotten this.

I admire my cats. They strike me as the last word in sophistication. I marvel at their shiny ginger jackets and their pristine white undershirts. They are Scott Disik in feline form. I appreciate the way they have mastered the secret of a life of leisure. I like the supple and luxurious stretching of the cat, who cares not for yoga wankery. I admire their individuality and self-reliance, and I rate them above all others in the arts of stealth and ambush.

Most of all though, I admire the way they emote. Outpourings of irritation and anger are immediate and unadulterated. I wish my own demonstrations of displeasure culminated in explosive clawing of soft furninshings more often. Honestly, who wouldn't?

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