Dancing with cats is not an easy
manoeuvre, when you consider
the disparity in height between cats
and humans. Even a Maine Coon or
Russian Blue is considerably
shorter than me, and Iím only one
Hundred and sixty centimetres
(five foot two) tall, or rather, short. Yet
Iíd like to dance with a handsome Tom,
formal in black and white tuxedo.
Once on the dance floor with my partner,
what music would we hear? What dance would
We do? I fancy a tango. Could
he prefer a polka? A barn dance?
Maybe Tom is not a sophisticat-
ed feline after all. What about
that tall Russian with his long arty
hair and piercing blue eyes? He looks up
For it. A swing around the floor and
out the door to where his sleigh awaits.
Ah, but Missy Kitty is looking
my way. Sheís dainty, and sheís pretty
pissed off. Looks like she needs attention,
bit of canoodling in slow waltz time?
Hereís Butch Cattidy, raffish ginger,
one eye half-closed, one ear bent; (she won
that fight). Now she bows sardonically
to me. Care for a spin round the floor?
Missy Kitty looks like spitting. I
Decline Butchís offer. Safety first.
Now, what Iíve learned is: itís not about
how tall your partner is or how good-
looking, or even how well they move,
that gives pleasure in lifeís dance. Person-
ality, propinquity, affect-
ion count, but arenít the whole deal. Love is.
So hereís a thought: perhaps cats prefer
dancing with each other, not people.
May be time for me to find someone
of the human, not the feline, kind.