On Cats
♠
If I were a cat I'd go hiss.
If I were a cat life would be grand. Not a grand cat, but a ratty old tabby, with splotched fur and a crooked tail, perhaps a pair of mismatched eyes, a mangled paw, and sharp jagged claws. I'd like to be the cat that hisses and spits, an unfriendly cat (oh aren't they all) but with bite, with attitude. No mere human would approach without reproach, touch without a swipe, tease without a bite, because cats are beautiful when wild, and sad, lonely little pusses when tame. And if I did mewl once as a kitty, or maybe now and then cry in order to purr, all I'd want would be a quick stroke, a fleeting screw, and then two bounds and
I'm gone, up and away, far far away, moving like quicksilver through (and why is it night that I see as this lonely old tabby?) dark city streets and gloomy alleys.
I wouldn't be no country cat (no no, I wouldn't) because I hate the taste of the field, of the earth, of skinny little country mice, weevils, ferrets (are these even animals of the country, of the field? See what the city's done to me?). I'd like to be street-wise and street-tough, all cat, no kitty, because as I said there's nothing like a lame weak domesticated cat, let alone a lame weak domesticated cat cooped up in a city. I'd stalk the streets, fuck with toy dogs, steal garbage from food carts, scare women in high heels, maybe even fight with other cats. It's not for respect, it's just to say, Hey man, I'm fucking wild. I'd shit in baby carriages, kill mice then lay them gutted at shop doors, butcher pet birds, enter open windows, steal steal steal, haunt open doors, the lobbies of buildings, make people scared—hiss hiss, claw claw—unravel carpets, destroy ottomans, pee and pee and pee.
The only problem is humans love cats and some time some selfish fucker will probably want to own me—ratty though
I am—try and feed me, nurture me—can't they see I'm fucking wild—declaw me and neuter me, so that when the hand that feeds goes down to touch the softness of my belly, the slick of my fur, there won't be a bite, no no, not even a bit of blood drawn. The hand will reach down as my back arches up, and together we become all purr.
To be owned offers some security, sure: never go hungry or thirsty, a warm place to bed down, a port a potty that fits my size. In some ways, perhaps, and perhaps for other cats, that would seem nice. But if I were a cat I'd go hiss at that, because though I'd still find pleasure in my regal profile, the way my paws toe an ineffably regular line, or the ability to always land (right?) on my feet, I'd still not be the cat I'd want, wild and unruly, selfishness embodied, and catty beyond belief. Yeah, I'd be a grand old cat, perpetually moving, fucking, eating and killing, the relief from boredom a retractable claw or fang away. Yeah, I'd be
a fine old tabby, ugly and solitary, but for god's sake wild and untamed, never slave to some crappy name, like jimmy or sal, or ferenka or tally. I'd be me, sourest puss on the block, all hiss, all claw, all fangs, all rage...
—DC