I’ve never
felt very much
when a cat
looks at me in
the
eyes. I can usually get
something
from a dog,
but a cat’s
glare feels
like a
passive judgment.
Mammals in
general are
not big on
eye contact.
Chimpanzees
for instance,
hardly ever
look at human
beings in
the eye with recognition.
Whereas dogs
and cats will
stare right
at you. Know you.
There’s an
authenticity in
the eyes of
cats and dogs,
and some
would say more so
in the eyes
of cats.
There’s
something going on
in their
brains that seems
more
methodical than dogs.
Cats have a
mythical curiosity
to them,
revered in ancient cultures,
reviled in
others. Harbingers of
doom or joy,
bringers of luck or
conspirators
with the Devil.
It’s
difficult to name their
historical
appeal.
We, as
humans, only know that
in their
long, piercing gazes, that
they see
something in us, something
we may not
see about ourselves.
They provide
the means to ask the question,
“What am I?”
and “Why am I?”
They, cats
and dogs, remind us of our
truest
selves and that’s why they
matter. That’s
why we grieve when
they are
gone. The small piece of
our soul,
released into the
nethers,
joining the great
choir of
mystery beyond
the pale.
Maybe it’s
why I try not to
feel
anything when a cat or
dog looks at
me in the eyes.
They make me
worry about
my own impermanence
and
my deep, hidden desires to be as
authentic,
present and mindful
as humanly
possible.
They
probably know me better
than I know
myself.
