To be a cat is to embody the perplexities of life and morality. A lovable ball of fur that affectionately dunts my head with her head, and yet a ruthless killer that seems to take psychopathic pleasure in the kill; although while probably oblivious to the torture she causes, which may be due to a genetic lack of empathy, or is it just animal badness? Can animals other than us truly be bad? Be evil? And if not, can we? She has a head that lies untroubled by such thoughts, unlike mine. What is she dreaming of? Of dunting my head affectionately, or of meeting a mini me and pouncing with torturing claws? Her head contains the secrets of a cat, never to be known by me, or thee.
Posted by Andrew MacLaren-Scott