No, seriously: don’t f*** with cats
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A friend of mine has been wrestling with a dilemma. Is it time to euthanise her cat? The cat, let’s call her Tibbles, is 19 years old; blind, deaf, bowel and bladder incontinent, and prone to puking on the furniture. My friend has taken to waterproofing the sofa and doing full-kitchen sweeps before her toddler comes downstairs.
The vet cannot diagnose any medical condition or illness other than the infirmity of age. If there were a cancer, the decision would be simpler: instead the sword of Damocles rests uneasy in her hands.
When she asks the vet if there is any reasonable argument for euthanasia, they refuse to be drawn. Instead, they propose a new, quite expensive six-month course of drugs that might alleviate the pain. Assuming the cat is in pain. Because, of course, no one really knows. Our feline fellows are notoriously good at hiding their emotional — and physical — ills.
Such ethical dilemmas have now become more common in western societies in which pet ownership is widespread. Our animals are now “family members” and we can draw on major veterinary advancements and such dynamos as television’s Supervet to prolong those members’ lives. Time was when quite minor injuries would necessitate a pet’s demise: today, animals can be rebuilt with surgery and bionic limbs. (When a friend’s Jack Russell was squashed by an Ocado delivery van, he underwent a convalescence of an extravagance one might usually associate with a high-level football player. The care-plan cost tens of thousands and the wee limping doggy is still with us today.)
But, like so many subjects in these fractious Twenties, the ethics of pet ownership has become a fiery field. There are few things more provocative right now than to imply that your pet is merely an adjunct to your life. This week, the editor of New York magazine was forced to write an open letter defending his decision to publish an article in August headlined “Why Did I Stop Loving My Cat When I Had a Baby?”, in which an anonymous writer described the loathing she began to feel for Lucky, whom she had treated as a kind of feline “starter baby” until the post-partum hate set in. The article, which described the gross neglect of the unlucky feline, was greeted by a torrent of reader anger. The editor has been forced to reiterate that the animal in question was “healthy and taken care of” and ask that people refrain from harassing his staff with threats that were “racist, misogynist and otherwise troubling” in tone.
Likewise, the singer Lily Allen has been excoriated on social media for revealing that she “rehomed” a dog that became a “logistical nightmare” while she was shuttling between transatlantic homes. Her apparent insouciance towards an animal who had minor behavioural issues, or perhaps simply exhibited dog-like behaviour, were assumed to reflect an intolerably selfish point of view.
In the week in which the most powerful endorsement of the Democratic party was signed off by the “Childless Cat Lady” Taylor Swift, the politicisation of pet ownership feels especially acute. It’s especially pertinent perhaps that in Donald Trump’s attempt at “othering” immigrants during the debate on Tuesday, he repeated the false claim that they were eating domestic dogs and cats in Springfield, Ohio.
Having a cat, dog or domesticated animal has become an expression of tremendous privilege. Our pets must be treated like minor dignitaries to be fed a tailored diet, pampered in day spas and offered 24-hour care by a phalanx of staff. Gone are the days of old-school ownership, in which Bonzo the family mongrel would roam the neighbourhood and eat a can of jellied horsemeat for every meal.
And I’m mostly in favour of such developments: after all, I own a 12-year-old cockapoo that I treat like a goddamn prince. The vast majority of my conversations revolve around the dog’s quality of life. He eats home-cooked meals that have been tailored to his precise requirements, sleeps on my Vispring mattress and is rarely left alone. I have yet to seek psychological advice on his behaviours, but I’m tempted to probe this nascent industry to find out how he really feels. At last weekend’s FT festival in London, I was fascinated to hear Claude Béata (the veterinary doctor and author of The Interpretation of Cats) talk earnestly about ADHD diagnoses among his patients, for which he prescribes a buffet of drugs.
As Jean Cocteau observed: “I love cats because I enjoy my home; and little by little, they become its visible soul.” Today’s pets are increasingly being seen as status symbols, a strange projection of our preferences, social prejudices and political ideals. As philosopher Mark Rowlands, author of The Happiness of Dogs, says, there are “bad dogs” and “good dogs”, but that “doesn’t matter”. The only thing that matters is how the owner deals with them.
Like parenting advice, there are few subjects that ignite our passions as much as the pet. Neglect and bad ownership is considered the worst kind of villainy: people who dislike certain animals are castigated for being “weird”. Rather than see yet another territorial division however, perhaps we should heed the advice of Béata, who suggests that cats are actually a terrific way to learn about tolerance, and understand the capricious nature of the human mind. Cats crave protection, but don’t especially want to be petted: they want proximity but also need a lot of space. They’re natural born predators, but studies have found they’re more than happy to stay locked up in the house. If you’re a considerate owner, you will find a little mouse for them to hunt. In short, just like us humans, they’re bloody tricky and have complicated needs.
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