I Know I'm a Cat

Felinity and the self. Written 6.13.05.

I know I'm a cat.

I could pause here, and let the fact merely sink in, but I won't. I like to cut down to the quick.

A cat is not a four-legged animal with a tail and sharp teeth. That's only the least of it, and it doesn't apply to quite some cats I know.

A cat is sure. Furthermore, a cat is sure that she's a cat, from whiskers to tail. A cat is a precise being, not tolerant of generalizations, or vagueness. A cat is observant even when she isn't looking, from whiskers to tail, as I said before; a cat desires to be nothing but himself. Graceful clever candid animal that he is—I say this impartially, mind you—a cat doesn't depend on sarcasm or ever-present purrs. A cat says what she feels, when that needs to be said, but a cat is neither malicious nor innocent. She's simply there, watching, licking her paws.

A cat obeys when he likes to, and when he feels it is the best action to take.

A cat does not take actions in excess, nor does she do too little. A cat measures out what is needed.


Screw the perceptions of a cat as sly, sarcastic, aloof, overtly independent. Screw the perceptions of a cat as a love-machine with purrs aplenty. I don't need my family to be personified as slick, cruel Pusses-in-Boots, nor as perky pseudo-felines who hang out in wolf packs.

I flick my ears back when I am angry, and I am not angry because the others are angry.
I knead my paws when I am happy, and I am not happy because the others are happy.
My emotions are for myself, stemmed from me and the cat inside.

I am a
wild creature, and I love the way I am:

a perfect human cat leopard thing, from whiskers to twitching tail.

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