The Difference Between Cats and Dogs

This January, we adopted a new dog, who my children--literalists--named Patches. Patches is my first dog since my only previous dog (Spot--I was once a literalist) was hit by a car when I was 7 years old. In the intervening span, I've had half a dozen cats. I've long considered myself a cat person, for the stereotypical reasons.

Having Patches has reacquainted me with all the reasons why I am a cat person. I actually do like her, and am glad we adopted her, but I'm finding confirmation that I am suited for cats by disposition. An incident that occurred about 5 minutes ago nicely illustrates the point:

I plan to make buttermilk-marinated fried pork chops tonight. This, of course, required me to pour the buttermilk (and cayenne, garlic, and cumin) in a gallon bag along with the pork chops. I had just placed said ingredients in the ziplock bag, when I turned to return the buttermilk bottle to the refrigerator. In this instant, Patches managed to jump up, head on the counter, grab the bag in her teeth, and fling it to the ground, presumably so she could devour the chops. Of course, the buttermilk/cayenne mixture splattered everywhere. I turned around, eyes blazing, and patches instantly went down to a sitting position and started whining. Then she headed to the door, prepared to be cast outside while I cleaned up the mess.

My cat, Zarathustra (or another cat), would never do this. A cat may or may not like people food. But, even if it does, cats seem to engage in strategic reasoning. A cat would first assay the scene. He would triangulate the positions of the desired food object; me; and his own location. He would then measure my preoccupation with other tasks. Then he would calculate the risk of being caught redhanded, weigh that against the possible reward, and finally conclude that, in this instance, the risks of apprehension and punishment were vastly greater than the possible benefits. He would then role over and sun himself in the window, perhaps taking a nap, and dream of an alternate universe in which I served pork chops in his golden bowl.

Of course, if the cat were wrong in his strategic assessment, he would never apologize, unlike the dog. Rather, he would strut away primly, as if to say: foolish human, why did you place those pork chops directly in my path? If I attempted to apprehend him, he would quickly (but in a dignified manner) jump to the highest shelf, and look smugly down at me.

Again, I'm a cat person. I'll take a little condescension over buttermilk-splattered floors any day.