“If man could be crossed with a cat, it would improve man but deteriorate the cat.”
― Mark Twain, Notebook
Now here is a kitty with the purrfect lifestyle. Choupette Lagerfeld, the most prized possession of fashion designer Karl. Forget ridiculous handbag-sized dogs that look like rats, cats are this season’s hottest accessory.
Says Karl Lagerfeld in an interview with HarpersBazaar, “You know, she has two maids, and the driver takes care of her too.” Two maids and the driver takes care of her too? What a pampered pussycat.
“The doctor does her manicure,” he goes on to say indulgently. Say what? The vet cuts her claws, does he mean?
Choupette’s food dishes are from Goyard (very expensive) apparently. I admit, i was slightly envious when I learned she has both ‘croquettes’ and ‘pâté’ (biscuits and wet food for those of you who are not bilingual like me), something which I have not had the luxury of for a very long time. I do very occasionally get chicken or salmon to liven up the boring biscuits, granted, but I’m still waiting to be served my meals on the table rather than the floor.
The other day, I caught my human parent avidly devouring a newspaper article. I casually wandered over for a closer look, yet quickly recoiled in distaste at the matching cat and human outfits. Everyone knows that only dogs are stupid enough to allow themselves to be dressed up – cats in clothes will never catch on.
The tartan get-up seemed to be a favourite with the human parent, possibly as the fed-up looking kitty trussed up in it is quite similar to me, and so she can more easily imagine me wearing it. Right now I am hoping and praying that this little monstrosity does not crop up again as my Christmas present, but I’ve been practising my fake happy face in the mirror just in case.
“In ancient times cats were worshipped as gods; they have not forgotten this.” – Terry Pratchett –
Any cat worth his Whiskas instinctively knows how household hierarchy works. Take me, for example. I arrived in my new home at seven weeks old and quickly installed myself as King of the Household. Aside from the small fright I gave myself when I glimpsed my reflection in the mirror for the first time, I stalked around confidently, sizing the place up.
The first opportunity to assert my authority came when presented with a luxury cat bed. Unfortunately, the giraffe print design clashed with my fur, as I am like a small tiger with a leopard print tummy, and there was absolutely no question that I would try it out for size, much less sleep in the thing. The human bed is more than big enough for the both of us I thought, executing a masterful leap on to said piece of furniture and eliciting gasps of delight and admiration because I was so tiny.
The same mentality applies to food. Everyone thinks cats can’t read, which is true, but who needs to when the difference between supermarket own-brand food and Whiskas sachets is so blindingly obvious, even to a young connoisseur who has maybe tasted four different cat foods in his life. If you don’t like it, don’t eat it, and something better (like salmon) will soon come your way.
I could go on, but I think you get the idea. Luckily, my human parent (or flatmate, or housekeeper, depending on my mood) pretty much lets me call the shots and do as I please as I am so cute. In return, I let myself be stroked and my fur brushed, which isn’t such a bad deal, really.