Ten years ago, if you were to tell me that by May 3, 2016, I would be sharing my home with five cats, I would have taken you as seriously as Bristol Palin speaking at an abstinence rally. Back then, animals belonged in the wild, on a farm, in a zoo, or on my plate. I was adamant that they did not belong inside of a human establishment because they were incapable of learning the basic rules of civilized habitation such as not shitting on the floor, putting your things away when you are done with them, and not shedding. Yet here I am in my 9th year of cohabiting with felines, and I’ve learned that it’s not so bad after all. As a matter of fact, in most cases, I find it generally more pleasant than human interaction.
Before my friends reading this site heckle me with “crazy cat lady” jokes, I want to explain my perspective and why I tend to lean towards asocial behavior* nowadays. Wait. I still have friends that read this site, right?
*Notice how I used the word “asocial” rather than “antisocial.” The latter is the most common word I see used incorrectly. Just because I generally don’t like interacting with people doesn’t mean I want to kill them. The more you know [insert shooting star here].
Granted, cat companionship is not always perfect. There are a few cons to a relationship with a feline. For example, friends don’t shamelessly lay a line of butt putty in your presence while silently maintaining awkward eye contact or climb on your kitchen counter to lick their butthole or run through your house while unapologetically knocking over plant stands and disheveling area rugs. And if you do, please let me know as I’ve always wanted to see someone lick their own butthole.
But allow me to justify my social preference with a few examples:
Cats are easier to talk to without feeling judged:
I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty awkward at conversation. I feel like I regret most of the word combinations that come out of my mouth more often than not. However, I’ve discovered that my cats are almost always indifferent with what I share, and they don’t make me feel bad for expressing what’s on my mind. If I’ve had a bad day, I can spew everything I’m holding in, unbridled and uncensored, without worrying that it may get back to a co-worker. Cats make fantastic sound boards. They may look apathetic most of the time, but you can tell they care when they purr.
You can dote on a cat without coming across as creepy:
I’m not a touchy-feely kind of person. Handshakes are gross and hugs feel invasive, but for some reason, when I see something cute, I can’t help but squee a little. This can be adverse to a friendship, as standing over your friend while he/she sleeps is typically frowned upon (if they catch you). Cats, though, don’t care, and because of this, I am able to crowd over them in bed and rub on their precious little heads and tummies without being accused of frotteurism.
Cats are just more adorable:
What’s more annoying than a tactless/mentally unstable fundamental Christian shoving their beliefs down your throat? Nothing. But an attention whore comes pretty close. They will try anything “cute” to gain validation from their peers and strangers. Cats, however, don’t seek your validation; they earn it. Whether it’s batting around a tampon, covering their face with their front paws when they stretch, or making air biscuits, cats are able to effortlessly amuse me. I don’t know very many people that can do this.
Ultimately, cats let me be myself. There is no back-talk, no judgment, and no expectation of who I should be or how I should behave. I’m not saying I want to, but cats love so unconditionally, I can spin around on roller skates while peeing on my living room walls donned in fishnet stockings and singing We Built This City on Rock and Roll, and Mr. Tiddles, Blind Murphy, Zoe, Elvis, and Reese wouldn’t love me any less (as long as I don’t get any pee on them, of course).
That is why I am a cat person now.