The Secret Lives of Cats

I think my cats are hiding something from me.

OK, in all actuality, I think they're hiding a lot of somethings from me.

It's already been established that, while I love my cats, I am at heart a dog person. My domestic animal experience extends to that of the canine variety, and I've come to know the personalities of pooches pretty well. It's not like it's that hard. Reading a dog's face is infinitely easier than reading a cat's. When you look at a dog, it doesn't take Hercule Poirot to figure out what the dog is thinking. They wear their emotions on their fur. There's no mystery, no pretense. Dogs are unashamedly honest.

Not so with felines. Cats' faces are considerably more inscrutable. It's perfectly feasible to have a cat for years and assume that the cat likes you. Then one day, seemingly out of the blue, the cat tires of the charade and tries to maul your bald head in your sleep. And yes, this happened to me. A while back, I was in a deep, unshakable sleep -- dreaming of, I'm sure, either car accidents or my teeth falling out (I dream of these two things all the time) -- and when I woke up, I felt something sticky on my head. I rubbed my hand across my scalp, only to pull back back a blood-smeared palm. Then I saw my pillow, and it too was covered in drying blood. I had no idea what could've happened -- I hadn't even woken up!

And that's when I spotted Claire, sitting in the corner, leveling me with her maniacal stare, and meticulously cleaning, what I can only assume, was my blood from her chubby paws. Yes, ladies and gentleman, my cat tried to murder me in my sleep.

I don't know why I was so surprised, really. Claire has always preferred John, and she's made no effort to prove otherwise. She'll allow me to pet her, for about two seconds, before she flees the room in terror. John, however, can massage her saggy belly, scratch her head and ears, and soothingly brush away the copious amounts of loose hair she wears like a midget woolly mammoth.

But I never thought she was homicidal. Sure, she's sort of a spazz, but I've always been drawn to spazzes, and the ones I've known had never tried to maim me. It was clear to me after that night that Claire wanted one thing and one thing only from me: my death.

Since the evening of the attempted murder, she and I have made a truce. I forgave her for trying to scalp me, and she agreed to give the vegan cat food a shot and not eat anymore rubber bands. It was a fair trade. Over time, she's even allowed me to pet her. Once for an entire ten seconds, a record for us.

Yet I can't shake the feeling that both Claire and Fergus (who genuinely does like me and doesn't try to bump me off) have some secrets behind those unreadable whiskered grins.

Let's take Fergus first. He has several nicknames in our house, but the ones we most often use are Gus and Squeak. The latter name comes from the fact that Fergus can't meow. Try as he might, and oftentimes he seems to be trying quite earnestly, all that comes out is a slight, high-pitched squeak. He is very squeakative in the mornings, and becomes less so as the day goes on. Since all his squeaks sound the same, it's hard to deduce what exactly he's trying to communicate. He comes across with a great sense of urgency, especially considering that he only squeaks when he's looking right at you. He rarely squeaks from the other room; it's usually when he's right in front you, eyes locked with yours, that he lets out an urgent squeak. I've been trying to translate said squeaks in an effort to respond to his concerns, and I can narrow it down to the following:

1. "I enjoy sitting in the living room window and looking into that big tree. But those fucking birds drive me crazy. Will you kindly shoot them?"

2. "My sister is a sociopath. Your attempted murder is only the beginning of her wicked plans. Please give me the phone so I can call juvy."

3. "I need bus fare to Washington, D.C. I have been named a United Nations Goodwill Ambassador and must be there to accept my plaque. Then I'm off to the Congo with Angelina Jolie!"

Of all of these, number 2 sounds the most plausible. Though, being Fergus is my little orange angel, I cannot entirely rule out number 3.

But Claire has an agenda of her own. Firstly, I suspect she enjoys Internet chat rooms. Somehow she has learned how to turn John's computer on, which in my mind can mean only one thing: Claire is sick of living in a houseful of disinterested men (two gay and another who has lost his sexual organs) and wants to meet a nice heterosexual bachelor with working genitalia. Who can blame her?

Secondly, I think she's a closet Buddhist. Claire rarely gets into things (that's more Fergus's domain), but one thing she consistently pushes over and rolls to the center of the room is a small jade Buddha figurine my mom gave to me. Claire is fascinated by it, and even when I scold her about the situation, she refuses to budge. Her dedication to the dharma is just that strong. However, if I allow this theory, then it would be highly unlikely she is a serial killer-in-training.

There is so much going on in their brains that I may never figure it out. Cats are an unsolvable mystery, and I think they like it that way. Why give up all your secrets, when the magical reality you create by not doing so is endlessly interesting? In that, cats are selfless.