The cats
By MP on Saturday 2 September 2006, 22:21 - Background - Permalink
My parents share their house with two female cats: Fluffy and Tippi. We've
never shown much creativity when it comes to naming pets; Fluffy is
long-haired, and Tippi is black with white feet. They are both probably well
into feline dotage now, Tippi is 14 years old and Fluffy is only a year
younger. They were introduced as adult cats, so they only tolerate each other's
presence. They both stay outside most of the day, coming in only to investigate
the chances of being fed. They are happy to sit on the verandah or deck
watching, rather than chasing, the birds that land on the lawn.
What I find remarkable about the cats is that, of the four large mammals in our parents' house, they are by far the most competent.
Whereas my parents cannot tell the difference between cat food and breakfast cereal, the cats know without even having to look at it. Food that has gone off, food that reeks of decay, can often be found in the cupboards if we haven't dropped in on mum and dad for a few days. They can't smell it, and are at risk of eating it. The cats don't even sniff at it. They know what's good for them and what isn't.
After every meal, the cats sit on the deck and wash themselves. Fluffy has a particularly difficult job to do, as her fur is four or more inches long, yet she succeeds. Mum and dad have to be cajoled and manouevred into taking a shower.
The cats curl in a ball when they are cold, lie flat out on their back when hot. Mum and dad sometimes need to be told to put on or take off a sweater. Or dad will sit in the lounge in a singlet, with the heater going full bore.
Both Fluffy and Tippi conserve energy in a way that would evoke the admiration of any environmentalist but, when necessary, they can leap over a gate three or four times their own height, scamper up the outside steps, or jump onto the table to see what's being eaten. Mum and dad are increasingly unsteady on their feet. They've had several actual falls and many other close shaves with gravity.
I am quite sure, also, that if Fluffy and Tippi had all their human-operated support systems removed, they would go hungry for a while, but they would soon remember how to lie in wait for birds, how to cadge food at other back doors, and where the warm spots lie in other quiet back gardens. Fluffy once loved eating cockroaches. Maybe she would return with some nostalgia to the foods of her kittenhood.
Why are the cats so capable? They have brains that are a fraction of the size of our parents'. They get no assistance, especially not from each other. They cannot rely on lists, speed-dial telephone calls or frequent visitors to answer their questions. They just somehow get on with it. Of course, the human brain is adapted to far more complex tasks than those of a cat, and while it works it does these remarkably well. But why, when the cognitive faculties start to recede, do the basic survival skills recede along with the powers of abstraction, pattern recognition, social judgement, planning and aesthetics? Aren't we supposed to have a more primitive mammal brain lurking beneath our cortex, and an even more survival-focussed reptile brain encased within that? Why don't we just fall back onto their competence?
Is there something specific about human biology or longevity that renders us vulnerable to Alzheimer's, or is it suffered by other species? I wonder if there are any studies of old animal brains that show similar atrophy? Do the giant turtles, like Charles Darwin's Harriet, who died only three months ago at the age of 176 years, suffer from senility? If not, perhaps we ought to look at their neurochemistry for some clues.
I love our cats, but nowadays I also admire them.
What I find remarkable about the cats is that, of the four large mammals in our parents' house, they are by far the most competent.
Whereas my parents cannot tell the difference between cat food and breakfast cereal, the cats know without even having to look at it. Food that has gone off, food that reeks of decay, can often be found in the cupboards if we haven't dropped in on mum and dad for a few days. They can't smell it, and are at risk of eating it. The cats don't even sniff at it. They know what's good for them and what isn't.
After every meal, the cats sit on the deck and wash themselves. Fluffy has a particularly difficult job to do, as her fur is four or more inches long, yet she succeeds. Mum and dad have to be cajoled and manouevred into taking a shower.
The cats curl in a ball when they are cold, lie flat out on their back when hot. Mum and dad sometimes need to be told to put on or take off a sweater. Or dad will sit in the lounge in a singlet, with the heater going full bore.
Both Fluffy and Tippi conserve energy in a way that would evoke the admiration of any environmentalist but, when necessary, they can leap over a gate three or four times their own height, scamper up the outside steps, or jump onto the table to see what's being eaten. Mum and dad are increasingly unsteady on their feet. They've had several actual falls and many other close shaves with gravity.
I am quite sure, also, that if Fluffy and Tippi had all their human-operated support systems removed, they would go hungry for a while, but they would soon remember how to lie in wait for birds, how to cadge food at other back doors, and where the warm spots lie in other quiet back gardens. Fluffy once loved eating cockroaches. Maybe she would return with some nostalgia to the foods of her kittenhood.
Why are the cats so capable? They have brains that are a fraction of the size of our parents'. They get no assistance, especially not from each other. They cannot rely on lists, speed-dial telephone calls or frequent visitors to answer their questions. They just somehow get on with it. Of course, the human brain is adapted to far more complex tasks than those of a cat, and while it works it does these remarkably well. But why, when the cognitive faculties start to recede, do the basic survival skills recede along with the powers of abstraction, pattern recognition, social judgement, planning and aesthetics? Aren't we supposed to have a more primitive mammal brain lurking beneath our cortex, and an even more survival-focussed reptile brain encased within that? Why don't we just fall back onto their competence?
Is there something specific about human biology or longevity that renders us vulnerable to Alzheimer's, or is it suffered by other species? I wonder if there are any studies of old animal brains that show similar atrophy? Do the giant turtles, like Charles Darwin's Harriet, who died only three months ago at the age of 176 years, suffer from senility? If not, perhaps we ought to look at their neurochemistry for some clues.
I love our cats, but nowadays I also admire them.
Comments
Eye opening comparison. I vaguely remember, when our beloved Big Girl was sick to death, doing a lot of research related to what might be wrong with her. Along the way, I came across some general information about dogs and dementia in old age, which, it seems, they can develop...never about cats, though. I didn't think much about this at the time; I just considered us lucky for hosting cats instead of dogs.
Our vet once disabused me of the notion that one cat year equals 7 human years. She gave me a scale that involved cats being comparable to 21 human years at the age of two, then devolving from there, but, once I worked it out, for fully adult cats, it comes down to about 6 human years to 1 cat year. Which would make your 14 year old cat around 84 in human years. No wonder my mother wants to "come back" as a cat! No wonder, as my cats tell me, being "cat" is a blessed incarnation, especially if one comes back as a house cat, and few human souls qualify, upon release, for direct cat incarnation...we have to work through other states, first, in order to be, as our Cat Goddess, The Little Girl, assures me, "further purified".
On another note, my sister's family hosted a female cat who lived to be 22 human years. Although, just previous to her death, she wasn't always clear about where she needed to squat in the cat box in order to keep from peeing on the floor and moved so slowly they figured she was probably severely arthritic, she continued, practically up to the day of her death, to ask to go outside during the day to bird watch, torture hapless insects and lizards and sun herself, especially during the 100+ degree summer days.
Very thought-provoking...how to reactivate the "primitive" brain? Perhaps cats have more to teach us than we're yet willing to admit!
As I'm wandering back through, I thought I'd mention, I did, recently, read an article in a veterinary journal about how to detect signs of dementia in cats and dogs. So, it looks like brain atrophy may be universal to all species who have brains similar to ours.