Editorial 2.9, September 2000, by Deirdre Helfferich In Praise of Purring Predators Cats are terrible little beasts. I know because I am a cat lover. I own four of the furry monsters. They like to hunt defenseless small birds and mammals. This wouldn’t bother me too much, except that they like to torture their prey to death. And they won’t even eat their kill afterward. No, they go straight for the kitty kibbles, looking very smug about their afternoon’s entertainment. This is an appalling aspect of my cats’ behavior. The ability to shed at will (with directional control), and the tendency to dig their claws into my tender parts are merely annoyances. The cat box is only a problem in the winter, and my husband usually takes care of that. Even the undeniable fact that cats, as one wit described it, are completely covered with a thin layer of cat spit, does not reduce my delight in their company. But the torture bit causes a deep-seated philosophical quandary: how can I reconcile my appreciation of these affectionate, graceful, expressive, and aesthetically elegant creatures with my abhorrence of wanton cruelty, violence, and waste? Mostly, I ignore it. I relegate the problem to some dark corner of my brain where it can’t get into my conscious unless I step on a mangled little corpse thoughtfully left where I will be sure to find it. This compartmentalization comes in very handy, just as it does for soldiers, corporate executives, and anyone who has ever cleaned a toilet. This feline propensity toward dismemberment, etc., is instinctive and part of my cats’ physical fitness regimen, and I suppose it helps them sharpen their reflexes and probably tenderizes their food, too--if they would only eat it. This knowledge doesn’t keep me from trying to rescue the captured, nor does it prevent me from feeling useless guilt at harboring such nasty predators in my household. My ornithologist neighbor does not in the least benefit from my wobbly ethics. I still have cats. The fact is that I find herbivores rather dull. Bunnies, birds, and rodents are all sort of cute, but they’re boring. Horses and cattle, sheep and even goats are just sort of largeish, and, with the possible exception of sheep, I suspect them of ill will. A pig might be all right, but they don’t have the panache of felis domesticus. I have tropical fish, but most of them are nasty little nippers, too, and they aren’t too good at the warm and fuzzy trick. Dogs are much better, and even when they are bad-tempered territorial twits who bark and growl at the neighbors, they aren’t boring. They, like cats, are predators. And the predatory mind is far more intriguing than the placid, mostly unimaginative mind of a cud-chewer. It’s obvious to me why we domesticated predators. Cats and dogs are a lot like us. Human beings understand the hunt. Vegetarians notwithstanding, the hunt and all its elements are part of society: just look at politicians and the media for handy examples, or merchants and customers. A human hunt is full of ritual behavior with parallels in the natural world, from tracking to stalking to catching to tenderizing to devouring the prey to sitting around afterward belching and grooming. Or to missing the catch and then sitting around sulking, plotting the next hunt and revenge. Despite the respect for the hunted, there is often disdain for the captured. That which blunderingly gets caught by making a stupid move is hard to think highly of. At least the hunter ends up fed. Of course, that which gives a good chase and deigns to sacrifice itself is worthy of many thanks and thoughtful treatment. But it still ends up dead. Even though I am technically an omnivore, I can relate to my cat springing after a dragonfly and bringing it back to the den (the living room), there to let it go and capture it again and again, bashing it around to make it rattle its wings, and generally treating it cruelly. The elements of hunting behavior are quite applicable to my own life. I just don’t take a living thing and flay it alive--an idea, perhaps. Play is all about this sort of gruesome preparation and practice for life situations. I suppose this means that I haven’t much more conscience than my cat--or faith in the benign nature of human interaction--but I haven’t murdered anybody, or tortured small animals, or even done much in the way of verbal insult. I just hunt my way through the exciting worlds of office politics, or grocery shopping, or deadlines in the printing industry. Capturing an idea and slapping it back and forth in a conversation over a drink in the Eagle, shredding it and rebuilding it and eventually throwing it out is my idea of a good time. Unlike my cats, I also appreciate scavenging activity, and can relate to ravens and hyenas pretty well, too. My cats torture and gyrate and attack with abandon. I do it with restraint, and in the abstract, with metaphoric prey. It’s fun. But I am a hypocrite: When the cute little red-backed vole my cat brought in is flopping around on the kitchen floor surrounded by the sharp-fanged needle-pawed horrors I call my pets, I interrupt their game and rescue it. The cats are outraged, the vole is stupefied with fear, and I’m sure my action is futile. So I look the other way on this particular aspect of my cats’ entertainment because I understand it a little too well. The cats keep me honest, and after they’ve done so, they cover themselves with a thin, invisible layer of saliva, curl up in my lap, purr contentedly and puncture my skin rhythmically and repeatedly as they surround me in a cloud of cat hair, so that I may do penance for my pretense. | ||
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