The question is, can a man who owns a cat ever be trusted?
What is the measure of a man? Well, his choice of pet, of course. If he has a dog, this says positive things about him. He values loyalty, energy and heroism. Heâs probably a good laugh.
But if he is a cat owner, he may as well walk around with a huge sign that says: “Iâm terrified of commitment, rather snobby and a tad creepy. PS â my home probably smells of on-the-turn shellfish.”
There are, I suppose, some excuses for owning a cat. The stereotypical owner is a spinster, and given their plight, one can forgive them the error of allowing the clawing fleabags through their front door. But beyond that, cat-ownership seems a bizarre lifestyle choice. Certainly among males, there is no excuse for it once adolescence has passed.
Cats are sinister, self-centred little madams with an unjustified, Herculean superiority complex. They are crashing bores, the animal world equivalent of the mute dinner-party guest from hell.
Throughout their lives, most of which they seem to spend asleep, the only drama cats create is when they awaken their owner with a half-dead sparrow. They give as much fun back to their owners as goldfish. When someone tells me their cat has died, the question I always want to ask is: but how could you tell?