Did one of them facilitate a meeting between my ex and incumbent?
Did one of them left on my boss’s table the piece of paper in which I had scribbled, in a fit of natural rage, exactly what I think of him in rather unforgiving terms?
Did they ever leave a half-eaten pomfret under my pillow, leaving me with stinking linens?
To be fair to them, the common answer to the questions above is NO.
Which automatically leads us to the next question – why I dislike cats. Especially when so many allow, even pet, them. But then some allow Osama Bin Laden too.
Primarily, it is their insufferable insolence – an amalgamation of annoying arrogance, supreme smugness and humongous hubris -- which completely puts me off.
And if you insist on the specifics, below are seven reasons why I remain immune to, what I consider non-existent, charm of a cat.
1. Cats have nine lives and worse, they wear that smugness;
2. I love most exotic foods but ghee-rice-garnished-with-cat-fur is not among them;
3. Despite their religious and political differences, cats across the world follow the standard feline transportation method of grabbing their kitten by the scruff of the neck to carry them. I find it disturbing, also an unnerving reminder of my tumultuous childhood replete with such treatments from my parents.
4. They never trim whiskers.
5. Cats are the worst professionals among animals. Imagine yourself recruiting a gardener, who appears the next day to announce he doesn’t feel like gardening anymore and it would be nice if his salary cheque is mailed to him. Cats have practically mastered this art. Here you have an animal whose sole professional reputation is built around its appetite for domestic rats, which invariably vanishes the moment you pet them! Nobody has pulled off a bigger con on humanity.
6. Cats have a wicked sense of humour which is evident in the way they playfully chew grass just to mock poor cows.
7. I may not own a Lamborghini but I can afford a leg-warmer. And I prefer it in winter. I just don’t want a ball of fur around my ankle when mercury is in the upper 40s.
P.S. Couldn’t resist the temptation of quoting a PG Wodehouse character from “The Story of Webster”.
‘Cats’, proceeded the Pint of Bitter, ‘are selfish. A man waits on a cat hand and foot for weeks, humouring its lightest whim, and then it goes and leaves him flat because it has found a place down the roads where the fish is more frequent.”