For some reason, whenever I meet a new cat, I always try to figure out where I stand, in mental acuity, compared to the cat. I think it’s a self-preservation thing on my part. Sometimes I’m a genius and sometimes I end up being a goof. In the time it takes for me to eyeball the cat and figure out where I stand on the scale, the cat has already eyeballed me for the same reason and has either given me a pet name and asked if I want to play with them, or has come up with 3 solid plans of how it’s going to torture or humiliate me.
That’s cats for you.
Rather than basing the sliding hierarchy scale on the difference between the various breeds of cats, as one does with dogs, the pattern that’s taken shape over the years for me seems to be biased on a cat’s fur colour. In my deep wealth of experience with cats, I have found that the top rung of the hierarchy ladder seems to be consistently occupied by black cats. I realize that it could just be that I’ve had the good fortune to only meet black cats who were at the top of their class, but I’m merely pointing out that the smartest cats I know are black.
Miss Kitty lived with our upstairs neighbour for quite a few years. She had been found as a kitten in an alley by the neighbour’s ne’re-do-well son, but he may have stolen her from someplace too. Either way, she was annoyed about having to live with our upstairs neighbour and clearly thought of him as an idiot. In his defense, he wasn’t exactly brimming with animal husbandry skills and taking care of this cat did not come naturally to him. His previous cat had been part of his divorce settlement—the part he hadn’t asked for—and came equipped with the skills and background needed to expect to be ignored and only feed periodically. That one had been buried in the back yard under the rhubarb plant for several years by the time Miss Kitty arrived on the scene.
When a number of cats hang around in a group, that group is referred to as a clowder or, more appropriately, a glaring. Since Miss Kitty was the only cat in her group, she had to put enough effort into her glare to Represent for the whole nonexistent group. On any day and for every reason she would burn her stare into whomever had the misfortune of being in the line of it and the recipient would be reduced to an unconscious attitude of self-doubt and would go away with the impression of having been judged and found lacking. She never approved of a what a person was wearing, was dismissive of any attempts at friendship, condemned both the loud talker and the whisperer, and vocalized her objection about who had come to gather in ‘her’ apartment. She insisted on coming to all of our house potluck dinners, front porch meetups, and backyard barbeques for the single reason of disapproving. If no one was paying attention to her, she would suddenly break into a flurry of zoomies and try to break something.
Miss Kitty was a black cat.
Every white cat I’ve met strikes me as having been a very spoiled prince or princess in another life. There’s an assumed air of luxury that a white cat exudes. They demand to be pampered and expect to not have to repeat themselves. While a white cat grows fond of a person, there will always be a hint of standoffishness in their behaviour, as if they don’t want to be seen mixing with the help. White cats watch their humans without genuine interest but as a distraction only.
The tabby cat, a mixture of colours and patterns but usually with some sort of M pattern of striping above its eyes, often comes across as the scrappy type. A tabby is more ‘blue-collar’ than white or black cats, complete with a saltier vocabulary that they use to describe absolutely everything that is going on minute-by-minute, and they are quite comfortable to brawl things out rather than extricate themselves from a situation using their wit. A tabby would never hesitate to get into fisticuffs over a random non-issue with another cat, but once that was settled, would invite that same cat down to the pub for a pint. While it is believable that the tabby has invented the cat equivalent of a grifter’s Shell Game in order to fleece the other neighbourhood cats, and has probably done a stint in juvie for petty theft, it will also be the one to regularly bring small dead things into the kitchen as gifts for its owner.
My thought is that the ginger-coloured cat has been misunderstood. We all laugh at the antics of ginger cats and dismiss them as the pedestrians of the cat world but my take on them is that they were all born gullible. They CAN perform their catly duties and behave in a very feline way, but they are regularly set up by their housemates or siblings and we only really take notice of them when they are acting like toddlers who try to dress themselves or when they’ve gotten themselves into a bit of a predicament. So, surprisingly often. Ginger cats believe what they are told and would not suspect another cat of subterfuge. Therein lies their weakness. If they are told that there is a special treat waiting for them on top of the light over the dining room table, they believe it. If they’re told that the wet mop leaning against the hall closet door is a monster waiting to pounce on them, they’ll believe it. If they’re told that all of the other cats can get in and out of that tiny hole in the screen of the patio door, well…
Now, while I understand that my method of cat assessment, based on the colour of a cat’s fur, could be considered blatant feline profiling, I ask that you consider the cats in your own world. Which ones could beat you at chess? Which ones will only eat tuna from the fishmonger at the market? Which ones come home with the most scars and complain the loudest when you turn off the ballgame before it’s over? And which ones do you find covered in glitter or have to fish out of the empty flower vase?
It’s not the breed, it’s the hair.
