by Chris Pascoe
I once wrote a fantasy/comedy book that involved advanced extra-terrestrial feline astronauts descending upon a sleepy, predominantly inebriated, English village, and needed to consider exactly what the motivations and ambitions of a feline world would be.
For the sake of fun, the cats were bi-pedal, had mastered space travel and were primarily here because they'd exhausted their stocks of small and helpless creatures.
What struck me in the writing of the book, however, was this: could a cat society ever have the drive to become a technological and industrial civilisation, given what we know of their basic character traits at this moment in time?
Probably not. They wouldn't be awake long enough. A cat sleeps for about twenty hours a day, leaving four hours for work, play, eating, etc. We sleep about eight of every twenty-four hours, leaving sixteen hours for work and play.
So, we are awake around 5,840 hours per year, a cat for only 1,460 hours. Over the course of a hundred years, we have 438,000 more waking hours than a cat, meaning that, per century, a human being is awake fifty years longer than a cat. Over the course of a millennium of potential progress, a cat would be snoring for 833 years out of a thousand. That really doesn't leave much time
to get things done, but maybe they'd just get things done on a slower timescale.
So let's assume that they could do it, it would just take a heck of a lot longer. Who'd be in charge? They don't seem too fond of taking orders, do they? Or being trained in any way. They just want to swan along and do things their own way. Rules are pointless. Any instruction not to do a particular thing is taken purely as an added incentive to do it.
Perhaps they could work on a kind of reverse psychology basis, ordering the workforce not to get the next shipment out on time under any circumstances. But, in all truth, you'd never get them to stay at work all day anyway, no matter how comfortable you made it for them. A cat will stay on a cushion all day, until it realises that's where you'd like it to sleep. Then the cushion's off limits. Supervisors could try ordering the workforce not to turn up for work, and then keep telling them to go home all day, but surely a ploy of that nature would soon be sussed out.
I really can't see cats forming a society in which they have to take orders from anyone, so I assume they'd be a race of entrepreneurs. But even then, if a customer tried to buy an item from a tabby cornershop, the shopkeeper would presumably just look at the punter blankly and start washing his arse (actually, that isn't a lot different from the behaviour of many uninterested shop assistants in our own high streets nowadays).
Talking of evolution and shopping in one sentence is fairly unusual and has reminded me of a website I came across while accessing a feline evolutionary chart. The list brought up by my keyword search included a US shopping site offering the remarkable 'Feline Evolution Toilet Seat' at just $112.00, available in salmon, blue or white. I had to know what this thing was immediately.
It proved to be a toilet seat, strangely enough. The catalogue entry confirmed its name and showed a tortoiseshell cat sitting on a standard low-level flush WC with salmon seat, presumably the Feline Evolution Toilet Seat. Beneath it was the caption, 'Save money and enjoy the convenience of not maintaining a litter box
for your cat. The Feline Evolution Toilet Seat is guaranteed for virtually any cat.'
And that was it, no further explanation at all. A toilet seat for cats? Guaranteed for virtually any cat? What sort of cats do they have over there for pity's sake? It just looked like a normal toilet seat, I squinted at the screen but could see no major difference that would make a cat want to sit above a water-filled hole any more than they would normally want to. I shall have to remain perplexed by this thing, but can only surmise that American cats are already far ahead of our own in the evolutionary stakes.
Where were we? Ah yes . . . the only way forward I can see for a feline industrial revolution is if they had somebody to do it for them. Trained monkeys. Like us. Why not, we do everything for them now. So let's say that whilst the cats are evolving, the human race is regressing.
And there is nothing to suggest that this scenario is not entirely possible. For instance, the Scottish have recently gone through the process of devolution, so although that means something completely different but sounds a lot like the sort of word we want, we will assume that the Scottish are now gradually devolving into a primitive apelike form.
If cats of the future could capture some of these fully devolved Scots and train them to turn the wheels of industry, then suddenly we can see a way forward for feline civilisation.
Getting the Scots captured in the first place should be no problem at all, as one thing that cats do tend to enjoy is hunting. Like us, they hunt for fun. What a terrible pairing we make, cats and humans, sitting smugly in our brick houses, vicious smiling killers in a world where everybody else kills only for territory, status or food (or because they're in a bad mood). The rest of the animal world must look down upon our two species as deeply barbaric and uncultured, in much the same way continental Europeans view the English.
Once the cats have trained their incarcerated Scots to build great cities and man their factories for them, they can settle back into a life of decadence and leisure. They'd really excel at that.
Decadence and leisure is what cats do best. I can see them now. Their days would be spent draped out on piles of silk cushions, clad in togas, being hand-fed spiced mice by delectable Scottish maidens, while canine jesters provide entertainment with silly beg and bark dance routines.
At night the cats would frequent lavish and foppish nightclubs, where pigeons would fly in huge iron cages suspended from the ceilings and mice would run around the cats' heads inside an elaborate system of tangled plastic tubing. All of these nightspots would be excessively classy and sophisticated, except in one detail, the provision of pub spittoons, not seeii since the mid-twentieth century, to cater for the age-old habit of furball regurgitation.
Technological innovation would centre around new and ingenious weaponry for hunting and killing, the feline way. Smart bullets would fly at their victim, stop, toy with him, cuff him around a bit and then drag him home and leave him on the doorstep.
Genetics would centre on the creation of flightless birds, three-legged mice, jumping fish and non-biting fleas with combs for hands. Dolly, the self-replicating vole with a delicate rainbow trout aftertaste, would become a household name.
Would there be a space industry?
Of course. Cats are renowned for their curiosity, and if curiosity is going to kill the cat, what better way for it to do so than by propelling him into orbit atop three thousand gallons of ignited rocket fuel.
They would have to go into space. Cats would just have to know what's 'out there'. They couldn't tolerate not knowing.
With the aid of their short-sleeping Scottish workforce they would conquer the universe in an incredibly short time, pushing outwards, always outwards, into the great unknown.
And what of religion? Would cats evolve worshipping gods? I can't see it somehow. Cats don't worship. They expect to be worshipped. I would imagine that laws would be passed decreeing that cats are gods.
If they become the gods, would there be a devil? Maybe they would delve into the murky past of race history and call their devil Schrodinger.
Schrodinger, their traditions would tell, wanted all cats' souls, and when he got them he would lock them away in boxes.
In the boxes, the tormented cats would be both alive and dead at the same time, and would never know which unless Schrodinger opened the box. Cat mothers would tell their kittens that if they didn't behave, then Schrodinger would get them and put them in a box: 'Be good now, because you wouldn't want to be Schrodinger's cat now, would you?'
Incidentally, if you aren't familiar with the name Schrodinger, he was an Austrian scientist who won a Nobel Prize for his work in the field of physics. A famous theory of his became known as Schrodinger's Cat. The idea of Schrodinger's Cat was to explain the theory
of quantum physics by putting a cat into a box with a vial of poison and a radioactive atom. If the atom decayed it would break the vial and release the poison, thus killing the cat. If the vial remained intact, the cat would live. Whilst the cat was inside, the onlooker wouldn't know which scenario existed within the box, and therefore both did. The cat was both alive and dead at the same time, and so therefore sub-atomic particles can exist in different states at the same time.
Which if you don't mind me saying so, sounds like a right load of old bollocks. The cat's dead or it's not, isn't it? Whether the onlooker knows or not is surely irrelevant. I realise I am being grossly simplistic here and entirely missing the point, but whether the theory was proved or disproved by this experiment, it would do little to endear him to any cats who might hear about it.
Would there be wars? Whilst lions may fight in packs, this is a domestic cat world we're imagining, and they tend to go it alone, so I don't think organised warfare would be a major problem.
Judging by their normal attitudes to fighting, any war would take far too long to ever get started. A one-on-one scrap generally takes for ever to get off the ground, so I'd say that at least
a thousand-year stand-off would have to be expected as a precursor to any major international conflict.
So there we have it. The feline Utopia of the year Sixty Million AD.
And what would Brum's descendants' part be in this brave new world?
Would the sons of Brum take their rightful place amongst the planet's new elite? Would they live a life of luxury and have Feline Evolution Toilet Seats?
Would they heck . . . they'd all be Scottish by then.
A Fate Worse Than Fireworks
'As he rose like the rocket, he fell like the stick.'
Thomas Paine
B rum's bonfire night that first year at Lorraine's was his worst ever, and not for the reasons you'd probably assume. His problems that night had nothing to do with Roman candles, kids with bangers or air bomb repeaters. Strangely, neither did he fall asleep inside a Guy or blunder into a bonfire. A launching rocket, about to take off and roar 300 feet above a field before exploding into a fiery kaleidoscope didn't lodge in his collar and take him with it. Sparks returning to ground didn't ignite his fur and add another episode in his long history of fire-related accidents.
No, the reason he had such a terrible night was much more unusual.
Sammy sat on his head all night.
Before I go further into this terrible story, the sparks returning to ground thing was more a case of personal memory than a made-up scenario. Years ago I was at an organised fireworks display at our local cricket club.
On that particular night, either because of a miscalculation or high winds, I can't remember which, quite a few burning embers missed their fall-out zone and landed amongst the crowd. It was nothing major and added to the excitement more than anything else.
However, it did cause a few problems. My friend got some hot ash in his eye, for instance, and ended up needing treatment. A man in front of me had his coat catch fire. I also needed treatment because I got decked by the man whose coat was on fire.
With hindsight, I should have told him what I was doing when I saw his back start to smoulder and not just dance about and start slapping him like Julian Clary in a prize fight.
As he turned round and walloped me he must have truly believed that he was defending himself from an unprovoked attack from some dangerous nutter setting about innocent people (albeit in a girly-hitting way) at firework displays. He probably still believes that to this day. He'd gone by the time I got up.
Anyway, Sammy sitting on Brum's head.
Brum may have found a new home, but it w^s still wry much Sammy's house. Brum knew his place and that was as Sammy's barely tolerated guest.
Sammy had strict house rules for guests:
1. Keep out of my way or you will die.
2. Touch my food and you will die.
3. Do not lie on my chair or on my bed or you will die. For clarification, all of the chairs and all of the beds are mine.
4. If you use any of my private hiding places and cubby holes you will definitely die, possibly more than once.
5. Everywhere else in the house is also mine. You will know if I am not happy about where you are sitting because you will die.
6. You may die anyway.
The rules were clear for the most part, but rule four seems to have slipped his mind on fireworks night.
Funnily enough, Brum has always had a huge respect for fireworks. Whereas he will court danger in most walks of life, fireworks night has always been 'helmets on and down to the shelters' for him.
At my old flat, he always used to spend the night in the bathroom. Not because he was nervous and we'd got a Feline Evolution Toilet Seat or anything, but because the room was small and had no windows and undoubtedly felt secure.
But, this being his first bonfire night in his new home, he hadn't given a new hiding place much thought when the first window-rattling explosions started going off.
For ten minutes he raced around the place frantically. Finally he was gone and we had no idea where. The cat flap was locked
with both he and Sammy safely inside, so he couldn't have got out. We assumed he must be well hidden somewhere or other and forgot about him.
Sammy's no fan of fireworks either. She has her own bunker, just as Brum had his at the flat. Hers is behind a chest of drawers in the bedroom. The small recess behind the drawers is only about the same size as she is. To get into the recess, she has to jump on to a wooden box to the side of them and then drop over into the very cramped space behind.
All evening long the pops and bangs went off outside, and Sammy's wide eyes were visible, peering worriedly from her dark hiding place.
At eleven o'clock we were about to go to bed when I realised that I still hadn't seen any sign of Brum. By that time of night you'd normally have been aware of him at some point, whether through the distant breaking of china in a back room or the thump of falling tabby on lino in the kitchen.
I called his name (he usually comes running or at least meows back - he's very polite).
I heard his distinct voice calling back to me, very close but muffled. He sounded distressed. I called again, and again heard his meow. It seemed to be coming from Sammy.
Lorraine thought so too. I called one more time and we both stared at Sammy. The meow came directly from her but her lips didn't move. Either she'd taken up ventriloquism and mimicry or Brum was extremely close to her. For one mad moment, the self-satisfied look on Sammy's face and Brum's muffled meows emanating from her convinced me she'd eaten him.
Lorraine walked over to Sammy and lifted her out of the recess, something I wouldn't have even attempted doing for fear of never being able to use a keyboard again. The removal of Sam's weighty mass revealed a severely shocked tabby.
Little can he have imagined when he chose that hiding place the horrors that the night had in store. I wonder if Sammy even knew she was sitting on him. She may have just found it a bit warmer and softer in there than usual.
When you think about it, what a terrible experience.
The fireworks are really bothering him, when a cat he's terrified of comes and sits on him. Not only is he trapped in a tiny dark hole with explosions going off all around, he's too scared to move a muscle for four hours lest the vicious killer cat sitting on his head detects his presence.
Worse still, Sammy was only in there, her rear end in his face, because she was also terrified by the fireworks. A human in the same situation, cowering under cover from an earsplitting airborne attack, would definitely have required the odd change of underwear during the course of the evening.
I find the picture too horrible to continue painting.
It's a Knockout!
"We are all of us in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.'
Oscar Wilde
If Brum could understand me, the first thing I'd tell him t
o do would be to consider investing in a good medical plan. Also, I would explain to him that the old nine lives policy upon which he currently relies is almost definitely about to expire.
The first intelligent contact between Human and Feline could really be a little more earth-shattering and memorable than that, couldn't it?
Scholars would no doubt later comment that 'We offer peace and goodwill to your kind . . . Tiddles,' would have made better historical script than 'Are you sorted for insurance mate?'
But that and a frank health and safety discussion it should be for he and I. It's what he needs most in the world. As I may have mentioned in passing, Brum is a catastrophically clumsy creature. Coming as he does from a species that oozes cool style and agility, his lack of coordination is all the more noticeable. In fairness of course, had he been born into a different species he'd probably have never carried out any of the crazy acrobatics that cause accidents in the first place.
Crazy acrobatics are very much a cat thing. Many species simply aren't capable of even attempting them. Take me for example, a human being (loosely speaking). Imagine all fourteen stone of me prancing across the rooftops, deftly sending tiles and guttering crashing to the ground as I majestically launch headfirst towards a ridiculously thin fence ten feet below. Arms stretched forward for landing, one broken wrist shoots right, the other left as my face hits wood with a splintering thump. My legs choose much the same course and my chances of a larger family suffer a blindingly painful setback.
As I keel gracelessly sideways and head for the ground, there
is just time to destroy the garden furniture on the way down. I bounce twice before finally becoming stilled, a groaning lump in the middle of the patio.
Fortunately I rarely do things like that. But of course, Brum has to. Unfortunately, his execution is much the same as mine. Seemingly impossible I know, but then Brum has shown me many things that seemed impossible before he actually did them. None of them nice.