MISSING CAT

Cats are the ultimate con artists of the animal kingdom.

They sauntered into human life around 9,000 years ago in the Near East, not because they loved us, but because we were sloppy with grain and therefore rich in mice. One clever feline looked at our rodent problem, looked at our warm laps, and basically said, “I can work with this.” Ever since, they’ve been running the longest protection racket in history: “Nice farmhouse you got here. Be a shame if it got… infested.”

We pay the toll in kibble, treats, and half our bed.

They don’t even pretend to respect us. Dogs have owners; cats have staff. A dog will greet you at the door like you’re a returning war hero. A cat will glance up from the sunbeam it has colonized, give you a slow blink that somehow translates to “Oh. You’re back. The food bowl is 11% less full than when you left. Explain yourself.”

Yet we adore them. We spend billions on heated beds, fountain water bowls, and cardboard boxes (the cheaper the better, apparently). We learn to interpret the language of the tail flick, the ear twitch, the single raised paw that means “I require tribute.” We post videos of them knocking glasses off tables and call it “personality.” We let them sleep on our faces and convince ourselves the suffocation is affection.

And the worst part? They know exactly what they’re doing. That slow blink isn’t just “I love you.” It’s “I could kill you in your sleep, but I choose not to. You’re welcome.”

In short, cats looked at humanity, saw a species desperate for love but too proud to beg for it, and invented the perfect business model: Give nothing, receive everything, and occasionally purr so we don’t catch on.

We never will.