Cats get a bad rap when it comes to superstitions, and that’s not fair. I decided to ask my cat, Stella, how she feels about them.
Stella, what do think about cat superstitions?
What are superstitions?
You know, that cats have nine lives or that black cats are —
Wait, did you say NINE?
Yeah, but it’s just a silly —
Oh no!
What’s wrong?
Onetwothreefourfive —
Stella, what are you doing?
Counting!
Why?
I have a serious question: When you found me on the kitchen floor today, um, asleep, did I seem a bit off to you?
Well, it took you a while to get to your feet, but considering how much you ate for —
I WAS DEAD! THAT WAS LIFE EIGHT!
Don’t be ridiculous.
Listen: The last thing I remember, I was on top of the refrigerator —
What were you doing on top of the refrigerator?
The cookies are up there.
Stella, you’re 16 with bad hips. How did you get on top of the refrigerator?
I have my ways. But that’s not the point. The point is I must have fallen off the refrigerator and that was MY LAST LIFE.
Assuming that’s true, which it’s not, you expect me to think you’ve died seven times already? When?
Remember when you thought I slept through an entire Tuesday?
After you had your way with the bean dip, I remember — wait, you’re saying you were dead?
As a doornail.
Huh.
Yeah. And you remember my fiascos — the bunny fiasco, the UPS fiasco, the comforter fiasco, the hot-sauce fiasco, the Chihuahua fiasco, etc. — they all resulted in my death.
Right, your “fiascos.” What was the Chihuahua fiasco again?
Penelope scared me to DEATH.
Huh. And I thought you were just playing possum.
Nope. All that yapping knocked the life right out of me.
Well, you did cough a hairball on Penelope’s face from our windowsill. But tell me: Weren’t you concerned that you were “dying” all the time?
No. I figured I could die every day, like humans do.
Humans don’t die every day, Stella.
You don’t? Then why do you look like that in the morning?
I look fine in the morning.
Keep telling yourself that, pal.
I hate to break this to you, Stella, but superstitions aren’t true. You aren’t really dying.
Certainly I am. I die, I trot toward the light, I see the giant magic lion, I chat a while, and then I get swept back here.
You chat with a giant magic lion?
Or a giant magic walrus. Depends if I die drowning or not.
Huh.
Yeah.
Well, be that as it may, superstitions are not true. It’s like a black cat crossing your path being —.
Do not EVER let a black cat do that, by the way. You’ll be dead by 45.
That’s absurd. Black cats are great!
You don’t have to convince me! What I would give to have that power.
So, I suppose cats on a ship bring good luck? It’s all nonsense, Stella.
The Titanic didn’t have a cat.
And how would you know that?
The giant magic walrus tells me stuff.
Did it tell you that cats can steal a baby’s breath?
No, that’s just silly. But we do know how we should vomit on the most porous material possible, even if it means crossing the room, climbing on the bed and walking to the pillow.
Stella, I think falling off the refrigerator gave you a concussion.
Is that like dying?
It’s like dying just a little bit.
How many times can you die a little bit?
At the rate you’re going, not much longer.
Watch it, pal. Don’t make me sneeze three times and give you a head cold.
Featured photo: oriolusart | Getty Image
