Tuesday, 20 May 2014

Misty's diary: God and Mice and other transcendental questions

Another entry from the diary of Misty, cat and thinker. In which he turns mystical and considers the great questions of Cats relationship to the universe and to God.

May 2014

Today I had one of those moments, as we surely all do, when we get to thinking about the nature of the universe, why we are here, and the relations between Catkind and the Godhead. 

First of all, let me say at once that’s it time to debunk the rubbish so many humans talk. They have this quaint but outlandish view that they’re created in the image of God. Laughable. They’ve got only two legs, no tail, barely any whiskers and a stupid vestige of hair instead of proper, sleek fur coats.

And they think this is the image of God?

It’s as if they’d missed the point that the divinity is feline. Or perhaps I ought to say, forgotten the point. Back in Egypt, when humans were properly grounded, they knew better and understood the worship due to cats. Today they’ve lost a proper sense of awe before the great Cat above, the one that put the cat into catalysis, to say nothing of catastrophe and cataclysm. It’s enough to make you want to fire them from a catapult until they’re catatonic.

How could the divinity be anything but feline? How could one explain the existence of mice? They’re certainly not placed on Earth for the pleasure of humans, are they? Humans mostly loathe them. But to us they’re a source of hours of harmless pleasure with the prospect of a pleasant snack at the end.

Only a Cat God could have created the mouse.

Watching: part of the joy itself
Mice are enthralling. Some may think it boring to sit waiting for them. Nothing could be further from the truth. Sometimes the anticipation is as great as the pleasure itself. I love to see it prolonged, if anything. Gratification is only momentary, at the end of a joy that can last hours. 

I sit there, silent as the tomb, unmoving, alert, nerves aquiver and ready for the pounce. Meanwhile, the poor dumb creatures are gradually lulled into a sense of security.

Completely without foundation.

And then – they come sneaking out. And meet – me. Who put the cat in catch.

Sometimes, with the help of the domestics,
I get to take a closer look
I know there are some cats that don’t eat their prey but drop them indoors, as a kind of offering to the domestic staff. Poor saps. Wouldn’t catch me doing that. There’s nothing left when I’ve finished.

Well, to be strictly honest, sometimes I’ve taken the dead little thing into the house. But not often. Only if it’s proved too easy to catch several of them and I’ve had my fill. And only if I can leave the corpse somewhere the domestic staff will step on it when they come downstairs still half asleep in the morning. Preferably barefoot.

Oh my! You should hear the language. Enough to turn my ears pink, if my ears ever turned pink.

Otherwise, four or five bites and a chew or two, and the little thing’s gone to a much better place. Deep inside me. Leaving me replete and murmuring a little prayer of thanks to the great Cat in the sky. My catechism.

I’m the cat in catharsis.

A world with mice in it is so obviously made for the joy of cats. What possible grounds can our human servants have to think it was made by a God in any way concerned with their pitiful happiness?

Even Janka, our stupid dog, has understood
the fascination. Though I wish the great
lumbering oaf would keep out of the way

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