My Cat Ate Your Dog

Today I read a most disturbing post entitled "I Hate Cats". http://malottblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/i-hate-cats-i-normally-try-to-avoid.html

The author of this vicious attack on our furry feline friends (known in Greentown as 'Felis domesticus' - but to the rest of the world 'Felix domesticus') is apparently convinced that dogs possess many virtues as household pets, while cats are just "possessed".

I generally hold this individual's opinion in high regard. However, because he described my choice to own cats as "moronic", I feel compelled to respond. Allow me to expand on why cats are clearly superior to dogs.

Cats are smarter than dogs:

Fido must stand at the door and whine and bark and beg until his Master drags himself out of his La-Z-Boy to throw open the door to let Fido go outside in the wind, driving rain and/or blizzard to answer the call of nature. After taking care of business and pausing long enough to sniff the rear-end of the neighbor's canine, Fido re-enters the house and leaves muddy pawprints all over the carpet. This results in his Master enduring a vicious tongue-lashing from Mrs. Master. Master must then miss the fourth quarter of the football game to drag out the Dirt Devil and clean up Fido's mess.

Contrast this with the feline. Mr. Whiskers simply feels the urge, trots to the designated litter pan while glancing contemptuously at his servant lounging in the La-Z-Boy, relieves himself in the comfort of his warm dry house, covers the offending pile and returns to hour 22 of his nap. Meanwhile, Mr. Whisker's servant must now rush to clean out the litter pan so that when Mr. Whiskers returns, his throne room will once again be clean and inviting.

Cats are lower-maintenance than dogs:

Fido must be exercised regularly. This requires Mr. Master to put a leash on Fido, walk him 4 blocks to the local park and make an imbecile of himself by making stupid faces and saying things like "Here boy, fetch...no, no, stop sniffing Pastor Bob's rear end..." After apologizing profusely to Pastor Bob and making uncomfortable small talk, Mr. Master must throw a slobbery ball into the distance so that Fido can stupidly bring it back and drop it at Mr. Master's feet. This is repeated until Mr. Master develops tendonitis in his elbow. Fido and Mr. Master then return home, where Mr. Master discovers that Fido's annoying need for fresh air has caused him to once again miss the fourth quarter of the football game. Mr. Master has very little time to dwell on this disappointment, however, because, exhibiting the I.Q. level of his canine companion, Mr. Master has traipsed mud from the park across Mrs. Master's brand new oriental rug. Fido runs to hide as Mr. Master endures another tongue lashing from Mrs. Master and reaquaints himself with the Dirt Devil.

Contrast this with the feline. Exercise is beneath Mr. Whiskers. He naps contentedly on Mr. Servant's lap in the La-Z-Boy, allowing Mr. Servant to sleep through the fourth quarter of the football game.

The author of "I Hate Cats" maintains that, "If a person breaks into your home and attempts to beat you to death with a baseball bat, your dog will die trying to defend you... A cat, on the other hand would just sit there and watch... and perhaps purr." While I do not dispute the accuracy of this allegation, it provides me some small measure of comfort to know that Mr. Whiskers will, without a doubt, lead the intruder and his Louisville Slugger to my hapless husband's side of the bed first.

You see, Mr. Whiskers and the aforementioned husband had a falling-out when Mr. Whiskers was but mere stubble. It seems that hubby did not understand that Mr. Whiskers would not share hubby's amusement at being lifted over hubby's head and spun in circles until both fell to the ground with their tails between their legs. This scarred Mr. Whiskers deeply. Hapless husband, on the other hand, not yet aware of his grievous error, simply enjoyed watching Mr. Whiskers stumble around as if inebriated. This furthered angered Mr. Whiskers.

It is this incident that makes me confident that if an intruder broke into our home, my dear daughter and I would have plenty of time to escape while the intruder and Mr. Whiskers (purring contentedly) take turns thrashing hapless husband with the Louisville Slugger.