In defense of cats from a cat lover

“I hate cats.” An ailurophobe’s vehement proclamation. Ailurophiles, cat lovers, generally handle this response with a wan smile and a nod of disdain. This claim defines the person’s character and earns him or her a slot amongst an august company of cat haters.
Some great men of conquest were known cat haters: Alexander the Great, Mussolini and Hitler. And, of course, there was Napoleon, an avid dog lover who broke into a cold sweat when a kitten entered his presence. Their revulsion of the feline species is understandable. The independent nature of the cat is intolerable to people whose desire is to control and suppress fellow creatures. And a cat won’t tolerate a tyrant.
The contrasting personality to the cat hater is easily anticipated -- the humanitarian. In history, a humble assembly treasured the cat: Franklin, Lincoln, Nightingale and Churchill (his Marmalade in attendance beneath the table at cabinet meetings). The ruler Mohammed was known to cut away the hem of his robe before standing rather than disturb his slumbering cat.
There are a few recognizable names that may indicate a greater capacity for creative potential amongst cat admirers. I’ll start with Wordsworth, Shelly, the Brontes, Dickens and Hemingway. Earnest had as many as 60 cats roaming his home in Key West, and their descendants still live there, supporting the estate with a three-year waiting list to purchase their progeny. There are others, too: Eliot, Hugo, Balzac, Twain, Kipling, Picasso, Salvador Dali, Taylor Swift, Bobby Flay. …  I could go on, but you get the idea.
These examples may seem too extreme. I will try to relate the division of cat lovers and cat haters in terms of humanity.
Kipling told a story of how the dog and the horse both gave up their independence from man in return for food and shelter. The cat, however, bargained with man. In exchange for catching rats and mice and being kind to children, the cat would receive milk and a place by the fireside, while remaining completely independent from man. And so it has remained. This apparent aloofness of the feline has been the bane of cat-haters ever since.
The ailurophobes’ obsessive need to dominate and punish the cat won a significant victory in the early 14th century. It was then, in Europe, that the cat was first declared evil. An agent of Satan. The Church and State supported the persecution and torture of the cat inquisitions, much to the glee of cat haters. Cats were crucified, thrown live into ovens and submitted to the autos de fe, a religious ritual where baskets of live “unholy” cats were tossed into bonfires for the entertainment of local priests and mayors. From maniacal eyes, ailurophiles hid their cats, even though the penalty when caught was death. The cat population was reduced to next to nil by the middle of the century.
A cat-free Europe allowed the black Asiatic rat, carrying disease-ridden fleas, to invade, swarming off ships and overrunning the continent. The rodents devoured food and bit babies, leaving a host of fleas in their wake. The Bubonic Plague followed. In a matter of four years, three quarters of the population of Europe was wiped out. Those who survived? The handful of people who’d protected their cats. The connection was made and the Church, in its infinite wisdom, declared the cat a divine creation.
The cat began to flourish and the rats to decline. The Black Death was beaten. Seventy-five million people lost their lives due to the cat haters’ mania. Thank God for those folks who adored their cats, without whom Western Civilization may well have perished.
Cat haters have long since forgotten that lesson from history. They again trumpet their claims, profess their fraternity. And we, the cat lovers, hear their strident voices, their tired defense of allergies, of fur-tainted clothing and of ruined furniture as they mount their case against feline domesticus, which they deem worthless beasts. We suffer again their criticism of our devotion to our precious companions. Our response?
We smile wanly. Give a nod of disdain. Then, we go home to our cats, stroke their velvety fur, delight in their feline eccentricities and enjoy our vermin-free homes, while the ailurophobes close their doors and lead their lives in not-so-quiet desperation.
But we know. We know.