A Cry Heard Round The World: Kim Sun-Il died desperate and alone, but he did not die unheard.
Looking At And Longing For Mars: Reflections on a childhood dream.
A Robot May Not Harm a Human Being. Is The Opposite True?: Thoughts on the future rights of artificial intelligence.
Long After The Boys Of Summer Have Gone: What makes a relationship work?
Winter Of Our Feline Discontent: What the cat wants, the cat gets. But what DOES it want?
To Tell The Truth: There may be no honor among thieves, but can't we find it even in a few good men and women?
Should The Human Brain Retire?: We know that we cannot win forever. We know that machines will continue to improve. So why don't we let the human brain retire gracefully now, with honors?
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Published: Sep 16, 2005 01:40 PM
Mon - November 17, 2003
Winter of Our Feline Discontent
—Cleveland Amory
Why spoil a good thing?
My dominant cat, whom I'll call Kat, mixes the personality traits of Ché Guevara with the fickle whimsies of Zsa Zsa Gabor. She growls demands—"PEEG! BRING ME MY FOOD!"—and when I dawdle at the task, switches tactics in an instant, purring and rubbing against my leg as if to say, "Really, dahling, the moonlight is lovely. Wouldn't it be blissful to dine together?" She must think I have the brains of a trout.
Unlike her sister, who pounces on anything that moves, Kat isn't what you'd call a traditional feline. She prefers to move slowly, if at all, using an undulating amoeboid motion. What might be taken for laziness, however, actually results from having a body mass comparable to a Martian moon. Objects are gravitationally attracted to Kat, who therefore lacks the motive to fetch anything on her own.
You might think that being Queen of her Realm would be enough for such a creature. You might think that my holding Gamma cat status in my own home would placate her. You would be wrong. No matter what I am doing at any moment, if Kat is around, she lets me know that I'm doing it incorrectly. She climbs onto a chair or nearby table, squints at me like Clint Eastwood in a bar fight, clears her throat, and says: "NYAAH!"
That's right. She says "NYAAH!" She doesn't meow; she bleats like a goat. It's an awful, alien sound like a cross between a colicky infant and a strangulation victim. It's Kat's way of telling me she needs my attention. And she needs my attention frequently—day and night.
Take this weekend, for example. It was a rainy and cold one here in the Bay Area so it seemed like a good time to catch up on work. I set up the PowerBook in our den and began writing an annual performance evaluation for an employee of mine. I hadn't been at this five minutes when I heard the pad pad padding of pseudopodia approaching.
"NYAAH!"
Kat stood at the base of my chair, obviously agitated.
"What is it, Kat?"
"NYAAH!"
I stooped to pet her, but she batted my hand with her paw and left the room. I shrugged and returned to the review.
"NYAAH!"
Kat was back, angrier than ever. What the hell did she want? I reached to stroke her—and again, she was gone, headed in the direction of the kitchen.
This time, I followed after her. I dutifully checked the food bowl, which was full, and the litter box, which was clean. Just the way she likes them. Kat stood in the center of the kitchen scowling at these unwanted inspections like a former Iraqi official.
"NYAAH!"
"I don't have time for this," I said. "I have to work."
Back I walk to the den, Kat padding along behind, lodging protests. She sits once more at the base of my chair, glaring at me with malice aforethought.
"WHAT?!?" I shout.
"NYAAH!"
Again we go to the kitchen. Again I inspect the usual points of interest. Again I find nothing amiss.
"NYAAH!"
Kat is lying in the geometric center of the kitchen–a feline portrait of Jabba the Hut—with her ample form splaying out like a compass rose around her. Then it hits me: I know what she wants.
She wants to be petted—but only in the kitchen.
It's going to be a long, hard winter. And we're scarcely through November.