Cats are stupid. Not your run-of-the-mill dumb, not dim, not thick, but stupid. Eggplants and doorknobs beat them all hollow for intelligence. I have a toothpick with more cranial capacity than the average cat.
You might be confused here: I mean really stupid. Dumber than you’d be if you stuck your tongue on top of a Tesla coil to see if it was charged. Look, in case there’s any ambiguity left, let me be explicit: If an IQ could get as low as zero, cats would rate negative.
Every night when I come home from work, Ki’y runs up to my car to greet me. First mistake. I’ve almost run over her three times in the past week. She mewls a greeting and tries to jump into my lap as I’m getting out of the car. Second mistake. By the time she makes her jump, I’m already standing up and shutting the car door. I’ve almost caught her tail in the door twice now. So she rubs against me to express affection or hunger (same trope). Third mistake. I hate cat hair on my suit.
So we enter the house. She does her best to trip me as we walk up to the door. She has succeeded more than once. (And she expects me to feed her soon. Smart cat, eh?)
Once inside, she rushes straight to her bowl and howls. Her bowl is always full (I’m very good about that), and it’s always full of exactly the same thing. Last Christmas I bought a 20-lb bag of generic cat food. We have 15 pounds to go, and she knows it. There are no surprises here. I’ve discussed it with her, at great length, every night. But she acts surprised, disappointed, and hurt.
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