“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.