Cats Are Southerners

By Ricky Fitzpatrick

I’m not entirely sure how it happened, but, in case you didn’t know, we have a cat. It’s an odd thing, because we’re not what you might call “cat people”. But…here we are.

And before we go any further, let me just clarify something: I am not a cat parent. I refuse to participate in this increasingly popular notion that owning a domesticated animal somehow constitutes parenthood. I am not a cat. My wife is not a cat. And the cat, despite her considerable efforts to convince us otherwise, is not our child.

She is our demanding, dramatic, unpredictable, mentally unstable pet.

A member of the family, certainly. But a pet nonetheless.

The cat’s name is Sushi. And technically, Sushi belongs to my son. This is an important distinction, because while he enjoys the companionship, entertainment, and occasional affection of this furry little freeloader, my wife and I have somehow become responsible for feeding, watering, cleaning, entertaining, and otherwise maintaining her extravagant lifestyle.

We are the primary caregivers, financial contributors, food bearers, and official turd scoopers. My son, meanwhile, enjoys all the benefits of cat ownership without the associated inconveniences.

(Which, for the record, is precisely what I predicted would happen.)

Now, having spent some time observing this creature in her natural habitat, I have arrived at a rather remarkable conclusion.

Cats are Southerners.

All of them. Not just domesticated house cats, mind you. I’m talking about barn cats, alley cats, feral cats, bobcats, mountain lions, panthers. Even Bengal Tigers in the jungles of India are simply misplaced Southern felines.

And hey, I get it…I realize this is a bold scientific declaration. Nevertheless, the evidence is overwhelming.

Consider, for example, the matter of food.

Southerners are notoriously particular about what we eat. We have opinions about barbecue sauce, biscuits, cornbread, potato salad, and whether sugar belongs in grits. (It doesn’t, by the way.)

Cats are exactly the same.

Sushi might absolutely adore Grilled Tuna Feast in Gravy on Tuesday, and will devour it with the enthusiasm of a Baptist preacher at a church homecoming. But offer her that exact same delicacy on Wednesday, and she’ll stare at you like you’ve just served her a bowl of boiled shoe leather.

Cats are also moody creatures. One moment they’re affectionate, purring, rubbing against your legs, and generally behaving as though you’re the most wonderful thing ever created. Thirty seconds later, they want nothing whatsoever to do with you.

Think Scarlett O’Hara. With fur.

Sushi will occasionally climb into my lap, curl herself into a fuzzy little cinnamon roll, and begin purring like a sewing machine. Naturally, I assume this means she likes me, so I reach down to pet her.

Big mistake. She looks up at me with an expression that clearly communicates, Have you lost your ever-loving mind? Then she stands, turns her butt toward me, then leaves.

I have known Southern women who operate under a remarkably similar system.

Another distinctly Southern characteristic is the cat’s insatiable desire for attention. Not affection, necessarily.

Attention.

Our cat needs us to acknowledge her presence at all times, preferably while making no unreasonable demands upon her schedule. And if we fail to provide sufficient attention, she has developed a rather effective means of registering her displeasure.

She splashes water out of her bowl.

Not because she’s thirsty, or playing. But because she has apparently determined that creating a water hazard in the kitchen is an appropriate response to being ignored.

She will dip her paw into the water, fling some onto the floor, and look directly at us. Then do it again.

And again.

It’s the feline equivalent of a Southern woman standing in the kitchen, slamming cabinet doors over and over, and insisting that  nothing is wrong.

Another thing Southerners appreciate is a good nap.

Preferably after lunch. Or before lunch. Or whenever the opportunity presents itself.

Cats have elevated this practice to an art form.

Our freakazoid cat sleeps approximately twenty-three hours a day, although I suspect she occasionally wakes up just long enough to contort herself into extreme yoga positions and remind herself that she’s still unemployed.

She can sleep on the couch, the bed, a chair, a pile of clean laundry, or a cardboard box that contains things that we had preferred to keep neat and clean.

The expensive cat bed?

Absolutely not.

An empty box or old shoe?

Five-star accommodations.

I’ve seen retired Southern gentlemen exhibit a similar preference, particularly when it came to sleeping in a recliner that should have been thrown away when Bush (senior) was in office.

Cats also enjoy a good show on television.

Sushi seems particularly interested in true crime programs, The Great British Baking Show, and Bob Ross.

I can understand the baking show. Any true Southerner appreciates good food, and good cooking. Especially in a tent. Bob Ross makes sense, too. His soothing voice and happy little trees are practically medicinal.

But true crime? That concerns me.

I have caught Sushi watching a documentary about a woman who poisoned her husband, and I swear the cat appeared to be taking mental notes. She was particularly interested in the part where the authorities couldn’t determine the cause of death.

I now sleep with one eye open.

Of course, as does any Southern lady, Sushi also enjoys watching hummingbirds.

She will sit at the window for an hour, absolutely mesmerized.

We enjoy sitting around watching things. Birds. Squirrels. Passing cars. Neighbors mowing their yards. Sometimes we’ll sit on a porch for an entire afternoon watching absolutely nothing happen, and consider it a thoroughly productive day.

Sushi understands this philosophy.

She also insists upon knowing where I am at all times.

If I leave the house, I suspect she spends an inordinate amount of time demanding to know where I’ve gone, who I’m with, and when I intend to return.

But here’s the interesting part.

When I actually DO return, she couldn’t care less.

She might glance in my direction. Then she’ll go back to licking herself.

This is an attitude familiar to anyone who has ever lived in a small Southern town. Everybody wants to know where you’re going, where you’ve been, who you were with, and what time you got home.

But nobody wants you to think they’re particularly interested.

They’re just asking, bless your heart.

Now, I realize that some readers may question my assertion that all cats are Southerners.

Geographically speaking, some cats are nowhere near Georgia. But being Southern has never been exclusively about geography.

It’s a state of mind. 

It’s an appreciation for good food, comfortable furniture, leisurely afternoons, and the occasional opportunity to make somebody feel guilty for absolutely no reason.

It’s knowing how to be charming and disagreeable, sometimes within the same sentence. It’s maintaining a healthy curiosity about everybody else’s business while fiercely protecting your own.

And it’s understanding that, regardless of what anybody else might think, the entire world would operate considerably better if people would simply do things your way.

Cats have mastered all of these principles. Especially our Sushi.

Well, just the other day, I walked into the living room and found her sitting comfortably in my recliner, sipping sweet tea from a Mason jar while thumbing through the latest issue of Southern Living.

When I asked her what she was doing, she looked up at me, blinked slowly, then went right back to reading.

You can’t get much more Southern than that.

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