Last weekend, about 4 billion cat lovers met at Nova Community Center to look at cats, and pet cats, and talk about cats, for the city’s first Cat Fanciers’ Association Cat Show. Obviously, this was a huge deal — think Woodstock, except instead of acid, everyone was high on cuteness.
Now, I won’t lie to you: I didn’t attend this little slice of history, so that 4 billion estimate might be a little off. But let me tell you why I didn’t go.
Cats have an attitude problem, but they’ve done such an amazing job marketing themselves that even their pajamas get a good rap. You’ve really got to credit this to strong leadership and P.R. Take Garfield, the first of his kind to stumble upon the great paradox that the less cats do, the more their owners love them. I mean, all that orange jerk does all day is scarf lasagna and cause trouble, but you think Jon Arbuckle would ever get rid of him? Ha! Garfield owns Arbuckle.
I see cats as high school bad boys in leather jackets. They smoke cigarettes in the bathroom and cheat on their girlfriends. And yet, this drives the ladies crazy. “He’s so deep and mysterious!” they say. “You don’t know him like I do!” they say.
Cats may well have the rest of the world fooled, but I’m wise to their play.
I discovered ages ago that my body doesn’t care for cat dander, so I would’ve been taking my life in my hands if I went to that show.
Red-eyed and sneezing, I would’ve been the venue’s laughing stock. I would’ve sniffled out that I’m with the Ormond Beach Observer, and people would’ve spat in my face. By association, the paper would then go under. And before my publisher kicked me out of the office, he’d wave his fist and rave, “You’ll never work in this town again!”
Moral of the story? Always trust your gut — and your rashes.
In life, you’ve got your Cat People, your Dog People and your people like me — your Would Rather Not Be Bothered People.
Your Dog People are what psychologists call, in their highfalutin medical lingo, “normal.” They value things like affection and love. This is unlike your Cat People, who psychologists call “cuckoo bananas.”
See, Cat People value feeling estranged and inadequate, and some will go so far as to stockpile cats, just to feed this obsession. But it doesn’t stop there. When two Cat People meet, things escalate quickly.
I have one Cat Person friend who proposed to his Cat Person girlfriend at a restaurant not with a ring, but with a receipt for cats from the Humane Society. She was ecstatic.
I imagine the scene playing out like this:
He: (on one knee) “These cats will never care for us as much as we’ll care for them, but I couldn’t imagine dumping years of unreciprocated emotion into a living being with anyone else but you. Will you make me the most miserable man in the world?”
(Then they eat soup.)
So there: Irrefutable proof that felines are rotten. Cat lovers, I welcome your hate mail: [email protected].
BY MIKE CAVALIERE | ASSOCIATE EDITOR