Of Cats and Kings… Or Something.

Mark Vernon is confused. He discusses the relationships we have with animals and it goes downhill from there on in.

Christine Gill is not the first person to discover that her birthright had been left to an animal charity. She made the news because she challenged the will that would have bequeathed her parents’ estate to the RSPCA, and because the sums involved are so large: £2.3m. But you can be sure that any number of grown-up children have anxious conversations about Daddy’s feelings towards his whippets, which have become somewhat excessive in his old age. Or there’s the nervous quip that you hear as Grandma reaches into her purse to make a donation to the dogs home: “Steady! That’s my inheritance you’re giving away.”

Well, actually it is not someone’s inheritance granny is giving away. Granny, being fully alive is giving away her own money. As it is her own money she may do as she wishes with it and if that is to give it to the cats’ home, so be it. Why do people look at the older generation with dollar signs in their eyes, wary of what granny might be doing in case it reduces the inheritance? Such people don’t deserve to inherit a penny – which, perhaps, is why Christine Gill discovered that it had all gone to the RSPCA (although, it does look like her father was being a bastard in her case, which was why the judge overturned the will). In general, though, while I can think of better organisations to give it to, it was up to her parents, bastards or not. So, we can clear that little confusion up.

Mark goes on to point out apparent hypocrisy:

But how many people have pleased an RSPCA volunteer outside the supermarket by dropping a few quid into the collection tin, only to make for the meat counter and buy a battery chicken? It’s quite possible that less was spent on the poor bird’s welfare than the cash just given away.

Well, I don’t give to the RSPCA – it takes government money and has far too many powers. I am rather more selective about the charities I give to, but point taken for this illustration. Do we go and buy battery chickens? How can he be sure? What if we buy free range ones? Or should we not be eating meat at all? My cats eat meat, why shouldn’t I?

I am a pet owner, so I understand the complications. I recently spent more on a vet bill than I might on a holiday. In our house we often quip that our cats have better healthcare than we do. So when Mandalay became ill, she had an appointment at the vet within 24 hours, and was in surgery a day on from that.

I know the feeling. I have one of those looming. Kiya is due for spaying and an exploratory to discover the cause of her incontinence (possibly an ectopic urethra). I expect that bill to have the same effect on my eyes as sucking on a lemon while sticking my nose into a freshly peeled onion.

But it’s the confused nature of our relationships with animals that is so fascinating. The philosopher Michel de Montaigne wondered whether his cat was playing with him when he was playing with his cat. “Who knows if I am not a pastime to her more than she is to me?” he wrote. Most pet owners ask similar questions. Is Max happy to see me at the end of the day, or does he merely want a walk? Does Smudge love me, or the warmth of my lap?

But it is not confusing. Not remotely. Cats in particular remain with us because we are useful to them. A warm place to sleep and food in the belly. Anyone who thinks that the relationship is deeper than pure selfishness does not understand the animal. The cat is a mercenary creature with a strong survival instinct. Or, to put it another way, if we didn’t provide free bed and board, there wouldn’t be any cats as they would be off to find another mug. Cats love themselves to the absolute exclusion of all others. Anyone who thinks otherwise is deluding themselves. There is nothing here to be confused about. Dogs admittedly are slightly different, being pack animals. They would stay, but then, they are nice but dim.

A purr is close to a contented sigh. It’s just unclear how close. After all, Smudge may be lovely and cuddly one minute, only to be purring over a bloodied rodent the next.

Indeed and both amount to the same thing; “I’ve got it made and don’t I know it”.

I love my cats, all fourteen regulars and the two or three irrregulars and wouldn’t be without them, but I am under no illusion about the nature of the relationship. I give, they take, and anything I get in return is incidental and I should be grateful for it (I’m also grateful that they don’t have opposable thumbs).

I know my place.