Origins

The Truth about Cats and Dogs

by John Collins

I was licking the litter out from between my toe pads the other day, when it occurred to me that my kind get a bad rap. I thought I'd try to do something about that. So, I'm subbing for the regular Origins Guy to tell you the truth about—oh, wait a minute, there goes a shiny thing...I have to chase it...be right back...

...whew, that was a nasty little shiny thing. Every time I batted at it, it jumped away and I'd have to stalk it all over again. Then, of course, I got distracted by the pond over in the corner (you know, every time I nearly empty that pond, it fills up again). Anyway, as I was saying, it's time to give you the straight poop on us felines (oh, speaking of poop...never mind, I'll take care of that later), especially as compared to "man's best friend" (give me a break, already; you're lucky if old bowser remembers his own name from one day to the next, let alone yours).

We cats are much maligned in song and story but, truth be told, we're not really that bad. Dogs are much worse. Case in point: It's the middle of summer. It's hot, and you're sitting on your front porch melting into a little puddle. You don't blame it on us cats, now, do you? No, you're roasting because the "dog days" of summer have arrived. Bad dog, bad dog! In fairness to our flea-ridden friends, though, that saying doesn't actually have anything to do with them. The ancient Romans (who were very fond of cats, by the by, particularly extremely large ones) used to refer to those days as caniculares dies (dog days). During that unbearably hot period, the brightest star in the heavens, Sirius, was in ascendancy. Because of its location in the constellation Canis Major (Big Dog), it's called the Dog Star, and the Romans believed that it added its heat to that of the Sun. Turns out that that's not true, but the stupid dogs still believe it to this day, and for some reason are proud of it.

And for a further example of dogs deserving derision, how about the—hang on a sec, my side just became spontaneously dirty, and must be washed immediately...there, that's better—how about the old "hair of the dog that bit you"? When you've tied one on at the bars one night and feel trampled by a herd of raging skunks the next morning, you don't go for the "fur of the cat that bit you". This particular chestnut goes back to those pesky Romans again. They felt that the best remedy for the after-effects of a dog bite was to salve the wound with the burnt hair of that dog. They even had a saying for it: similia similibus curantur, or "like cures like" (and just as an aside, let's see a dog quote Latin). Based on this medical wisdom, it would make sense that drinking more of what you had the night before—the "hair of the dog"—would relieve the hangover.

But the expression that annoys me the most (gives me hissy fits, in fact) casually tosses cats together with curs: "It's raining cats and dogs". Let me make it perfectly clear that we cats do not associate with dogs, rain or shine, yet we continue to be verbally exploited in such a blatantly unfair manner. I guess I should blame it on the North Europeans of old, since this phrase originates from one of their myths. It seems that they believed that cats had a great influence on weather (the art of the time often depicted storms as full of witches in the guise of black cats). They also believed that dogs represented wind; the Norse storm god Odin, with whom the Northern Europeans were very familiar, was frequently pictured surrounded by dogs and wolves. So, heavy rain and strong winds equaled cats and dogs.

A saying that I kind of like, despite first impressions, is "no room to swing a cat". Don't get me wrong, I'm not at all in favour of being swung around myself, but this phrase actually refers to the "cat-o'-nine-tails", a whip constructed by fastening nine lashes to a handle. (Nine was a significant number, representing a trinity of trinities, and we all know that the purpose of whipping people was to beat some God into them.) Belowdecks on a ship, a man couldn't be properly whipped, because there was "no room to swing a cat". Hence, all punishment was carried out on deck, where the "cat" could really howl. Meow!

Now I'm not saying that whipping people is necessarily a good thing. We certainly can't have all of you being whipped all the time; who would open the cans? But the guilty ones should definitely get theirs, and you can always tell who they are by the hangdog look on their faces. It's way past time for my mid-morning nap (and almost time for my late-morning nap), but I can't leave without explaining this last phrase, because it leaves such a pleasant picture in my mind. In medieval England, each large country house had a pack of dogs, some of which were inevitably bad (and, of course, back then newspapers weren't available for whacking them on the snout). The rogue pups would pester the chickens, bite and otherwise annoy family members and guests, root through the prize begonias, and other such shenanigans. Of course, the only way to stop them from misbehaving was to hang them. As a result, anyone who looks guilty has a hangdog look.

So you see, it's not us cats. All we want to do is sleep and eat, and have you bestow the occasional scratch and clean our toilet regularly. Is that so much to ask? You don't have to walk us, we won't chew your slippers or eat the sofa, our breath smells like ambrosia (spiced occasionally with tuna), and we rarely bark. So, all you dog lovers, perhaps it's time to reassess your priorities, yes? And in the meantime, be sure to say what you think, but think about what you say. Meow, babies.