Dead Mice Tell No Tales, or, the Supernatural Cat

I recently browsed through a book that celebrated the relationship between felines and literature. Many famous writers enjoyed whiskered companions—Hemingway, for instance—and I personally agree that furry company makes the long hours of word-wrangling more pleasant.

Likewise, cats feature in the history of painting and music. Perhaps it is because of their sleek beauty and unmatched grace. Or perhaps it is because they are touched by a sense of the uncanny. The magical. I would go so far as to say supernatural, for how else can a tiny kitten barf hairballs with the prowess of a demon from The Exorcist?

Cats are the customary companion to witches, mostly because witches have a warm hearth, interesting leftovers (yummy eye of newt, anyone?), and the kind of free-wheeling lifestyle that doesn’t include vets or rules about scratching furniture. Witches aren’t bothered by a fey sprite of a pussycat prancing on the rooftop and yowling with spine-shuddering volume at 3:00 am. Or, maybe they are but the cat doesn’t care.

The feline’s reputation as a familiar comes from their ability to mediate between the realms of the living and the dead. This can be seen in the most domesticated of the species, who stare at empty corners with luminous, lamp-like eyes. They see what we don’t. They also walk between worlds, disappearing and reappearing at random moments, typically where they’re not supposed to be. They judge us and the ghosts equally.

The same applies to those who become companions to the undead. Most assume vampires do not keep pets, but a feline’s predatory and nocturnal nature makes them good companions. Besides, a creature with nine lives pairs better with an immortal, who appreciates the more enduring bond.

Cats are indifferent to the histrionic highs and lows of the vampire lifestyle. Their disgust is unmatched when the vampire (like a child licking the icing off a cupcake) takes the juicy bits of its prey and leaves the rest. Cats enjoy the silk and velvet lining of the coffins—just another box to sit in—while they deplore the undeads’ lack of a warm lap. No sense of supernatural dread ever ruffles their fur. Despising all two-legged pretenders, cats consider themselves the best hunter in the room and will occasionally bring their vampire a mouse treat to prove it.

Felines are nowhere as enthusiastic about shifters. Any creature who would voluntarily assume human shape is suspect at best. Werewolves are far better off sharing a bowl of kibble with their doggy companions while watching the game.  As for selkies, merfolk, and such watery individuals, no cat will deign to consider that much damp.