Metro Pulse/Snarls/Cats Can CAT Scan

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Scratching through another kitty-littered conspiracy

by Scott McNutt

Recently, we moved into a Victorian-era house. Our cat, Bettie, was terribly miffed. Relocating to a house named for a rival queen was probably an insult. But I was unconcerned about Bettie's pique; she displays about 53 degrees of miffedness, and I mistook this one for the milder "not enough chin tickling" variation. This lack of comprehension from the underlings in the household hierarchy often annoys the Little Princess. So, to clearly demonstrate her feelings about our new living arrangements, Bettie vanished.

Frantically searching upstairs, I discovered a hole in the floor Bettie might have squeezed through. Luna and I scrambled through the house banging on walls and floors, crying her name. We listened desperately for the slightest response, the tiniest whisker of a sound. Nothing. My Significant Sweetie's copious tears and mournful sobs were heart-wrenching. I was devastated.

Bettie, meanwhile, spent a few lazy hours absorbing into her coat a century's worth of soot and dust. Then she reappeared at the hole and demanded that we extract her and groom her, carefully, carefully. The episode was just another of the "Pet me, feed me, pamper me, you peasant!" lessons that must sometimes be meted out to ignorant servants. Bettie was reminding us who's boss.

That SHE understands and manipulates us, in spite of our incomprehension of her, was once a mystery to me. But this incident cleared that up. To Bettie, cats being the focus of human existence is, simply, The Way Things Ought To Be. And after this latest escapade, I realize that she knows what she's meowing about: Darwin was wrong. Natural selection has nothing to do with human evolution. I believe humans are being selectively bred by cats to provide them the greatest possible measure of comfort and amusement.

This shocking notion would mean that all aspects of modern civilization, from teeth-whitening dog biscuits to Ricky Martin, serve some feline purpose. I know, I know. I can't see what cats could gain from Ricky, either...probably, he's an evolutionary experiment gone horribly wrong.

Such failed experiments indicate humanity is still imperfect. Which explains why Bettie regularly tries to communicate needed improvements to me. I grasp the "Waiter, more food," mew. But among other immediate-improvement-required communiques, such as "Resume the mouse-tossing, attendant," or "A smidgen more rump-rubbing, masseuse," I often get confused. Obviously, I am a work in progress. I do, however, always understand Bettie's polite little "Here, this hairball is for you" cough.

I have evidence other than my status as a kitty serf (even as I type, Her Majesty is demanding ear-scratching as her divine right) that cats control us. The little cat mummies discovered in ancient Egyptian tombs are proof of how long cats have ruled us. (These discoveries solve another riddle: Clearly, the pyramids are just the stylized representation of what a cat the size of the sphinx would do in a litter box as big as the Sahara.)

In our language are other clues hinting at cats' true natures. For instance: Is it merely a linguistic anomaly that a device used to survey human innards, but supposedly NOT invented by cats, is called a CAT scan? I think not: It's their playful way of letting us know that cats can. Scan our innards, that is.

Not convinced? Well, is it coincidence that the magical creature who "sees you when you're sleeping," and "knows when you're awake," has the sound of slashing CLAWS in his name? Let's not kid ourselves: When we're good, it isn't for goodness' sake. Shout, pout, or cry, it's your cat that's telling you why.

Magnanimously disregarding my deficiencies, Queen Bettie is perfecting this power on me. For example, right now she is peering at my head as if to say, "You aren't thinking about petting me. Why aren't you thinking about petting me?" And she is absolutely correct. I was not thinking about petting her. Nor do I know why I wasn't. But now, it won't be long before I do.

No doubt many of you remain skeptical of this concept. That's okay. You're probably just an evolutionary dead end, like Ricky Martin. Me, I accept my place in the household petting order. And the order is, "Pet me now, you peasant!"