What My Cats Teach Me

My cats have a routine.

Or perhaps I should say that we have a routine, because somewhere along the way I seem to have become a participant in a schedule largely devised by Jenga and Tetris.

The day begins at 4:30 in the morning.

This is Jenga’s doing.

He has somehow determined that 4:30 is the proper hour for breakfast and sees no reason why I should be permitted to forget it. Once I am up, I release them from their large, comfortable room—a room that used to be my haven and now, apparently, belongs to them.

Breakfast is served in the living room.

After eating, Jenga has things to do. There are rooms to investigate, windows to inspect and, most important, a sister to chase. Eventually, however, the great explorer returns to me. He climbs up, settles himself close, and purrs.

This is our morning time.

Later I leave for my walk.

That part of the day belongs to me. I go out alone with my thoughts while the cats have the run of the house. For a while I wondered what they did in my absence. I imagined a camera recording them and then playing the film back at high speed: races through the rooms, mysterious expeditions, perhaps some activity they conduct only when no human is present.

But I think I know the truth.

They probably sleep.

When I return, I often find Tetris on my bed and Jenga in my place on the couch.

Of all the places available to them in a rather large house, these are the places they choose.

In the afternoon the arrangements change. At nap time Tetris comes to the bed and settles beside me for her cuddle. Jenga usually takes up his position at my feet. He has already had his private time with me in the morning. Now it is hers.

They seem to have worked this out between themselves.

Late in the afternoon they return to their own room for dinner. They are quite enthusiastic about this part of the schedule and require little persuasion.

Watching them, I have begun to think that cats may understand a few things that take humans much longer to learn.

They are intensely curious without being dissatisfied.

Jenga desperately wants to know what is on the other side of the door. He sees me leave every morning and undoubtedly considers the rule that permits me to roam the neighborhood while requiring him to remain inside profoundly unjust.

Yet this does not prevent him from being perfectly happy on my couch.

Tetris seems even less troubled by the problem. She has a comfortable bed, a brother to chase and be chased by, someone to cuddle with in the afternoon, and a remarkable ability to discover any bowl in which a morsel of food remains.

What door?

They enjoy company, but they do not require it every minute. They sleep when they are tired. They become wildly enthusiastic about things they enjoy even when those things happen every single day.

Breakfast has never become boring simply because breakfast happened yesterday.

Nor has dinner.

And perhaps that is what I am learning from them.

Curiosity when awake.
Contentment when still.
And never miss dinner.

I recognize something of my own days in that now.

I still want to know what lies beyond the door. There is always another book, another piece of music, another person whose story catches my attention, another question that sends me off looking for an answer.

But increasingly I understand something Jenga seems to have known all along.

You can wonder what is beyond the door and still love the couch you’re sitting on.

An Editorial Review
After reading the essay:

Jenga: “Excellent. She has now acknowledged in writing that there is something beyond the door. I consider this substantial progress.”

Tetris: “Did the essay mention dinner?”

Jenga: “Twice.”

Tetris: “Then I approve.”