Why Women Like Cats

As most of you know, I am a genius-level observer of humanity, or as close to one as is humanly possible to get on this Earth for anyone who is me. And, as I often do, I have once again put my conspicuous willingness to deploy assumptions and carefully omitted facts together with my bombastic and obfuscatory prowess so that I might, by forgoing any other source or resource, prove once and for all, and with clearly pseudo-scientific certainty, why it is that chicks like cats so damn much. So, that said, let’s get on to the empirical evidence, that you all may, like me, finally have the truth of it:

So there I was, having a nice piece of left over tri tip. It was delicious, right out of the fridge, just the right shade of pink and that perfect texture tri tip gets when it’s cold. It had the fine balance of brown-sugar sweetness mixed with the salty smack of the dry rub, which sent winds of flavorful aroma into the air and pleasured my taste buds with general culinary epicness. Mmmm.

So, yes, I'm having my lunch, standing at the counter eating with my fingers as a man should when there is no woman in the house, and my wife's cat starts meowing at me, and looking at me all pathetic and clearly starving. Now, trust me, this cat is ponderously fat and hasn’t missed a meal in its life. In fact, it is an expert at getting additional meals whenever it wants, so at first I simply ignored its plaintiff wails.

“Piss off, cat,” I think to myself as it jumps up onto a chair and looks at me, its pink nose twitching and its little mouth shaping the mews of feline want. I turned my back on it. “Mmmm, the meat is awesome,” I think.

So here comes this satin fluff upon my ankle, a soft bump of kitty skull gently butting me to the tune of so much purring you might have thought someone had just started up a motor boat. It starts rubbing on my ankle with its fluffy-ass head, and, well, I started feeling guilty about eating the savory deliciousness of my tri tip in front of it when he, the stupid cat, only had a bowl of nasty dry kibbles sitting nearby. I mean, we have a strict household rule against feeding human food to the cats, but that does not change the fact that the creature has a sense of smell. And I am not heartless after all.

So pity starts to get the better of me, and I think, "Poor stupid-yet-soft-and-marginally-adorable animal, you have only that hard, nasty kibble to eat, a vegetable derivative no less, a crunchy gravel that surely stands as an abomination against all things properly feline.” So I considered giving it a bit of my tri tip.

But then… “No!” think I. “What sort of lesson would this be for this cat? What kind of expectation would I set by doing it? In essence training it that its piteous laments and sweet vocalizations of appetite were in fact the way to human culinary delights! I would be arming it with tools of panhandling, giving it the tin cup of cat beggarhood, the very artifacts of a fuzzy roustabout!” So, unwilling to set it up for future disappointment, not to mention pave the way to incessant cat vagabondery at my house, I once more turned my back upon it and attempted to enjoy my lunch.

Rumble, rumble went the little boat. It circled the harbor of my feet, butting its little prow against the pier posts of my ankles and shins. Rumble, rumble. Mew, mew.

“Fine!” I say to it at last. “Fine. I submit to your fur-infused assault. The fort is yours.” I pinch off a bit of meat for it. Not much, less than a quarter-inch square, but right from the pink heart of my bit of beef. The best stuff.

“Here, vagrant,” I say as I hand the meat down onto the floor. “Take your victory you little scallywag. Enjoy.”

He sniffed it twice and went away.

And this, I am certain, is exactly why women like cats.