The Superior Species

With her paws tucked under her body in the breadloafing position, which signals tranquil contentment, the cat watches me fill her water bowl. The bedside lamp casts a feeble light into the hallway and is caught in her retinal reflection, evoking votive candles—and memories of being a kid sitting in a pew. She was a pandemic adoptee, who sat on my desk at home as I attempted to educate a screen of empty tiles forming a lifeless grid of sequestered high school students. I place the water pitcher on the bookshelf, sit cross-legged on the floor, and whisper her name. Her tail lifted aloft by the gentle hand of some spirit that’s either an ancestor of mine or hers, she approaches, purring, steps into the nest of my legs. Her head resting against my thigh, she gazes up at me. I blink slowly—the greeting she understands—and she closes her lids in kind, and then for longer.

Now retired from teaching, I’ve lost the preoccupations that reliably distracted me from the world’s troubles. Tonight, even after the TV’s been shut off, the cable news clings like burrs. The apartment is quiet, and I attempt a mindfulness exercise. I stroke the cat’s fur, watch her breathe, run my finger under her chin to feel her vibrating peacefulness. Her vibrissae, whiskers, fan out to constitute a complex appendage, sensing subtle air movement, atmospheric changes, and much of my body’s signals. Rooted deeper than the guard hairs and awn hairs that carpet her, the whiskers connect to an array of nerves. I’m having a hard time shaking that image on CNN of a mother and toddler detained in a pen, and my chest clenches. My rhythms and aromas tell the cat I cannot relax, and she looks up at me, stares into my eyes, feeling and divulging something I cannot understand. The shelter said she’d been the runt in an apartment where cats had been hoarded. I was the runt who sat on a bench at recess as the other kids played games I didn’t understand. Cats make many attempts at interspecies communication, only vocalizing for humans, never to each other.

Living with a cat piqued my interest in her kind, and I’ve read books by experts in felinology. Millenia ago, the wild Felis silvestris lybica was drawn to the vermin who were drawn to the granaries in the Fertile Crescent. Unlike their canid relatives, wild cats self-domesticated. Generations of natural selection, followed by selective breeding, have produced descendants that nuzzle our chins as they doze on our chests. Until recently, their full capabilities were as concealed as Greek soldiers crouching inside a wooden horse. Cats are the definitive host of Toxoplasma gondii, a microscopic protozoan that sexually reproduces in their intestines and releases millions of oocysts that ride feces and land in dirt and vegetation. Ingested by a small rodent or other prey animal, Toxoplasma gondii swims to the brain and tinkers with the amygdala, the nut-sized bundle of neurons that processes fear and fondness. In the millions of homes with cats, a litter box is the parasite’s nursery whose dust is laced with a love potion we inhale.

Toxoplasmosis alters perception—specifically, the emotions a cat’s presence kindles. An infected mouse or vole becomes less fearful—and is even attracted to their odors, especially urine, making them an obliging meal. In humans—like me, presently a warm snuggery providing massage service—the infection elicits devotion. With an estimated third of humanity affected, there’s no dearth of volunteer subjects to examine this biological seduction. In one study, researchers found that to men under the influence of Toxoplasma gondii, cat secretions become an alluring perfume. When my cat expresses her anal glands, which she sometimes does when affection makes her swoon, the aroma—albeit more pungent—is as sweet as a priest’s censer. I am another dupe of the sirens’ age-old ploy.

Since our species’ first, ancient symbiosis, humans have transported cats across distance and time, in Silk Road cargo crates, on Viking knarr vessels, English brigs; onboard exterminators, valuable trade, mitigators of plagues, guardians of our daily bread, tools, companions, witches’ consorts; muses, characters, memes, caricatures stripped of dignity. All the while, they’ve witnessed us launch wars and bloody crusades, bless invasions, burn heretics, concoct genocides, shackle nations, laugh as we pillage, silence tongues, exile gods, scorch land, spew fire, drop bombs, blight air and water.

I lean over to inspect the cat’s ears. Lattices of veins stretch across the pinnae—majestic as a pair of unfurled sails—which can independently pivot 180 degrees to trap sound. In the darkest of ages, their eyes saw eight times better than ours. I whisper: “You and yours are the intercontinental audience to our perpetual calamity.” She closes her lids, is in this moment, and invites me to follow.

Unaware or boundlessly forgiving, she assigns no penance, but sleeps between my legs. For the human custodian, a cat’s purring is proven to lower blood pressure, heal bones, and decrease the risk of cardiovascular pitfalls. After a while, my back stiffens, starts to ache, but my brain has been pixilated by a protozoan. Plus, there’s too much to apologize for, so I won’t move, just continue to stroke her cheek.