I have a habit of overthinking things to the point where sometimes my mind starts thinking by itself without me. Quite often, it has managed to circle the moon a few times before I notice that my mind has gone out of my body again and I have to heave it back to earth.
In one of those moon trips that my mind took recently, it struck me that I can learn a lot from cats. They are one of my favourite animals. Seeing one never fails to put a smile on my face, no matter how low I might be feeling.
Their chubby face with a short nose and almond shaped eyes, their pointy little ears that flap in all directions and their long whiskers that twitch constantly and somewhat rounded furry body with delicate velvety soft paws, I always have to stop and admire these beautiful creatures. But it’s not their look that I appreciate the most. It’s their attitude.
I have never once seen a cat who doesn’t look to be proud of themselves. Wherever they live, however out of shape they are or however plain their fur looks, they stick their noses in the air with pride and unbounded haughtiness.
‘Admire me. See how cool I am. You can kiss my feet if you like.’
I once knew a cat that looked like she had mud splashed all over her body. I was going to give her a wash, but upon closer inspection, she just had an unfortunate fur tattoo. But did she have a low self-image because of that? No way! She roamed the neighbourhood as proud and elegant as the next cat with shiny black fur.
Cats’ self-confidence comes from within themselves. It doesn’t depend on their humans or other cats. Their self-image is not tied to how much love and attention they get. They strut around the neighbourhood, climbing on to fences, curling up on car bonnets and peeping into my room through the slightly open window as contentedly as the day they could first walk.
I just happened to have that envy in my mind when l looked out of the window the other day and saw a giant orange ball on the garage roof. The round edges of the ball fluffed and quivered in the cold gentle wind. It belonged to the seriously plump backside of our neighbourhood Garfield look-alike. He once told me, in the utmost confidence, that for a long time he had actually been a card-carrying member of the League of Fat Cats which has a thriving branch in Chesterfield.
He was sitting contentedly twitching his whiskers and gently rotating his ears, scanning the police frequencies and surveying the world from above with all the snootiness of a king. To be honest, even though I would never hurt his feelings, I have noticed that these days, his fur looks a bit shabby and his body droops slightly, flaunting a hanging beer belly that scrapes the ground as he saunters along, humming the latest hit. Just a year ago, despite his size, he used to be able to spring onto the fence effortlessly and land on the ground with the lightness of a gigantic leaf. Now a year older, he still hops onto the fence softly but with a five second lapse between his limbs starting to move vigorously and his body actually following as if he’s auditioning for the Flintstones. Still he carries himself around with grace and contentment.
He also likes to come and gracefully do his business in our garden too. We have fallen out since I found that out. Just months ago, whenever I saw him in the garden, I used to suddenly slam open the back door and shoot out to drive him away which I must confess gave me a certain amount of thrill. He used to be able to bolt from the ready-to-do-business squat onto the fence and down the other side in one slick move. But these days, after darting out of the door, I have to stop short and wait for that five second lapse when his limbs start motoring furiously before his body catches up to jump precariously onto the fence. At the tip of the fence pole, teetering with fur raised, ears flattened in opposite directions, he momentarily assumes the appearance of an oversized ginger candy floss before landing on the other side with a slight but audible thud followed by a wimpy meow. That little bit of delay puts a slight dent on the thrill of the chase for me, but I have to be understanding towards the old chap. Despite showing his age while he is running away from his enemy, he still maintains his haughty self-contented look. (Well, at least from the back end.)
Seriously, I can’t help applauding the creatures with their permanently tattooed self-pride. God, Buddha or any higher being in the universe, I beg you, please give me some of that too.