Barbara Holland on cats

Barbara Holland links two of my favorite things--cats and artichokes--with her cat essay in Endangered Pleasures: In Defense of Naps, Bacon, Martinis, Profanity, and Other Indulgences (1995).

Cats

For some people, the pet dog is just a bit too, well, predictable. Once you have come to know your dog and the one or two ways in which she differs from thousands or perhaps millions of other dogs, she's unlikely to astonish you; she's the same all the way through, like a banana. The cat is layered, like an artichoke.

Pleasingly, the outermost layer is fur. (Most dogs, too, are furred, but the product varies in quality, texture, density, and, lamentably, smell.) Naked ourselves, we long for fur. Fur is superior to human skin in every cosmetic and practical respect; it insulates the flesh, resists sunburn, and doesn't show wrinkles, bruises, acne, sweat, or cellulite. It looks much the same in old age as in youth. It feels good, too. We like to touch it, but in recent years a cloud (see Wearing Fur) has fallen over the ancient custom of appropriating animal furs and swaggering around pretending they're ours. If we're going to run our hands over fur, it's now correct only if the creature's still in it. (Actually, it feels better that way, the creature adding a warmth and solidity under the softness.)

For fur on the hoof, you can't beat a cat. It's exactly the right size to have around the house, it's naturally clean in its habits, and if it likes you it sometimes gives off a nice humming sound. In the winter, it's better to sleep with than a hot-water bottle, maintaining an even temperature all night and never slipping off the foot of the bed and dragging the blankets off with it. On the lap, a cat far outshines a child; it's lighter in weight and softer to touch, and doesn't whine, squirm, or object to having a book propped on its back.

If your relationship with the cat goes beyond the purely physical, you'll uncover a few more layers under the fur, though being but human you'll never penetrate clear to the intricate prickly geometry of the choke and the hidden heart under it. However, your cat, unlike your dog, will sometimes astonish you. Sometimes its mental processes will impress you. Sometimes it will simply baffle you, as in the matter of Jeoffrey and the shower.

Jeoffrey is a young Siamese, overweight, placid, and rather timid, with a consuming passion for people showering or, more precisely, people who have showered. The first sound the showerer hears after turning off the water is Jeoffrey shrieking and clawing frantically at the door. The door must be opened, has to be opened, on even the shyest guest, or Jeoffrey will tear it down. Once inside the steamy, damp bathroom, he purrs thunderously, trembling with pleasure, and rubs against the wet legs over and over, pausing to turn an occasional somersault of pure joy. When he's dried the legs to cat-height, he hops into the wet bathtub and dries that, still ecstatic, still purring.

Finally the bemused showerer puts on a bathrobe and emerges, accompanied by steam and Jeoffrey, who strolls across the hall with the drunken dignity of a deacon leaving a brothel.

I don't understand, but the occasional mystery, the otherness of cats, is part of their charm. Humans and dogs are all very well, but their familiarity breeds contempt. No one feels too familiar with a cat. Cats provide a needed outlet for the human imagination.

Or, if we feel we have enough to wonder about already, we can limit our examination to the fur; it's almost excuse enough for cats.