Superficial Thoughts on Cats, Irony, and Truth

I think that life, if nothing else, is at its very core ironic. I was pondering irony today while considering how absurd it is that of all my friends, Jess and I harbour the greatest resentment towards cats, and yet we’re the official cat-sitters of MacKay, malicious-cat extraordinaire. MacKay is the dreadful pet of my mom’s very un-dreadful friend Judy, and since Jess and I have proven to be capable of keeping MacKay alive, we’re her semiannual caretakers. Typical activities on a visit to MacKay include managing her cat litter, feeding her the three kinds of food that she must have in order to continue living and attempting to kill people, playing games so that MacKay is sufficiently entertained, vacuuming up all the hair that she has shed around the house, brushing her so that there is not quite so much hair to vacuum up, and evading perceived MacKay-attacks. Forunately, Jess has done essentially all of the MacKay caretaking thus far, and I must not face the horror of being with the beastly feline. The dismay that we experience at having to care for this creature (perhaps beast would be a more apt term) is, I suspect, partially genetic; my Grandma Toller is incredibly phobic when it comes to cats, and through heredity and observational learning, it appears that Jess and I have acquired a similarly unenthusiastic attitude towards cats. In truth, I do not feel that my lack of love for cats is at all problematic. In fact, I enjoy pondering cats’ disposition as a measure of my own current egotism, as cats sincerely do seem to embody nearly every vile human quality to the fullest extent. No other animal is quite so selfish in their behaviour, and has quite the air of condescension that cats clearly do, and yet we must cat-sit this foul animal because some people keep cats as pets for seemingly inexplicable reasons.

I was discussing my loathing of cats with Jess (no relation to Jess; there is a “work Jess” and a “my Jess”) at work today, and she defended her two pets of the subspecies Felis silvestris catus by arguing that cats demand respect, rather than rolling around on the ground as some animals of the canine variety do. However, cats seem to care very little about my feelings towards them, so long as I pet them, feed them, and don’t give into the temptation to eradicate the world of them. To further my belief that the creatures which I hold very little deference for are indeed unpleasant and reprehensible, Jess continued our conversation on snooty pets by explaining what a snob her pet rabbit was, and if you’ve ever witnessed a Cait-tirade about Balcony Bunny, you will understand that rabbits are hardly my favourite pet. I do enjoy the bunnies that hop around campus and McKernan Park, and staged protests in elementary when boys would chase them maliciously, but when creatures reside in, near, or under my house, I am unable to have any appreciation for them, or their role in the food chain. While not all animals I deride are pompous dopes (the complete list reads: cats, bunnies who dwell under my balcony, flies, moths, cockroaches, beetles, raccoons, rats, ravens, crows, magpies, and Pleuronectiforme fish that have two eyes on one side of their head), my least favourite kind of animals, including humans in the definition of animals, are those that are selfish and arrogant. The fact that my name is so frequently mistaken for the word “cat” causes me nearly as much distress as the fact that my initials are the element symbol for chlorine, to which I am enormously allergic. Indeed, the Cait Sidhe or Cait Sith is a Celtic fairy creature that resembles a wicked black cat; I would rather resemble something pink and frilly than a cat, not to mention a black cat that is so terrible that they are difficult to see at night and often cavort around in front of our car at night without the driver detecting them until the brakes must be applied in an exceedingly abrupt manner.

So, from the meandering paragraphs above, you will have gathered that cats are not at all creatures that I would wish to care for whilst their owners are on vacation, but the irony of life leaves Jess and I to visit MacKay and ensure that she survives Judy’s time away, and enjoys that time to some degree. Nearly every profound thing in my life has some sense of irony, illogicality, or injustice to it, which is not to say that these seemingly contradictory things are all cheerless; they’re simply counterintuitive and poignant. Most prominent and momentous of all these paradoxes is God’s grace, which is, of course, inherently paradoxical. The sinful Cait is saved from death because the perfect Jesus died for her sins. That’s amazingly illogical. Far too often, the nice guy does finish last, and doing the right thing doesn’t always reap rewards or help one’s “karma” (I’m not using the term “nice guys finish last” in the sense of nice guys never getting the girl, because this makes little sense to me). Some of the most wonderful moments in my life were things that I never really thought could be so beautiful and delightful, while some things that I put so much stock in end up disappointing expectations. Humans tend to take things for granted until they’re no longer obtainable, at which point those things become salient and desirable, which is greatly ironic. Life is full of the unexpected, nonsensical, and unjust.

I’ve always loved irony in literature, plays, movies, music, and conversation, partially because recognition of the irony in life often results from the recognition of the truth of life. One of my favourite things of all of Shakespeare’s writing is his use of irony, whether cosmic, situational, verbal, or tragic, particularly since it rings so true. To present life’s course, relationships, and situations as predictable, fair, or rational would be deceitful. Perhaps there’s even irony in the fact that I find ironic things so pleasing, because at times the ironic things that please me are innately displeasing. I find art that recognizes unattractiveness beautiful because life itself is unattractive at times, and there’s beauty in accepting reality. Any art that conveys life as picture perfect isn’t entirely accurate or genuine. I heard Bono say in an interview that art is about making life beautiful, and I think art most effectively achieves this end when it embraces the good, the bad, and the ugly and finds the pulchritude in it all. I love driving in the area where my old acting classes were, and re-discovering the entirely hideous and dilapidated buildings that are somehow truly beautiful with the unsystematic chipping of paint in random spots, outdated placards, aged shingles, and strikingly muted colours. My recreational-photographer uncle’s most stunning photographs are of life-weary people with scars, asymmetries, peculiar features, not because these people exemplify the human body in its highest form, but because this is how people authentically are.

















We’re rough around the edges, and don’t have the flawless skin tone and bone structure of magazine cover models. Our physical “imperfections” denote our distinctiveness, and hardships and struggles we’ve faced, along with the gaining of wisdom and experience of life. I love my grandparents’ wrinkles and sun spots, which have developed over years of laughing, spending time in the sun (you must all be proud that I’m refraining from a tirade about tanning), grinning, furrowing brows, and making faces. On Saturday night, Jess and I checked out the dance performance of A Love Story (a first draft) at the Catalyst Theatre, and it was really cool to see the two elder of the three characters (both much older than 40) wearing spandex attire despite the cellulose, sags, and creases that they’d accrued over the years, and they were entirely comfortable in their own skin. Besides the fact that I think spandex is essentially the coolest fabric ever created, and therefore Richard Simmons is the coolest person ever, it was lovely to see two people advanced in years and wholly at ease with their bodies that might not fit a societal ideal of beauty and flawlessness. Although Jess was entirely creeped out by the sight of Brian Webb in a speedo dancing with Tania Alvarado (this was rather amusing to me), it was quite a delightful sight, for totally uncreepy reasons, of course. Though at times performers’ acceptance of their bodies can go too far, I suppose; last night on the drive home from Peter Pan Caitlin and I discussed the gratuitous bare-butt appearance in every season of plays at the Citadel (thankfully, the appearance this season did not take place in Peter Pan, or many children would have been traumatized). It’s wonderful if actors love their butts, but their exhibitionism need not be indulged in their performance, and it’s not really necessary (at all) for a play to be effective. Theatre’s nude-butt syndrome never fails to disturb me at least a little bit, and I once spent an entire paragraph in a play review discussing the horror of a play concluding with an unclothed actor. Perhaps it’s healthy to accept oneself internally, but not always display that acceptance externally, whether this external self-love comes in the form of partial nudity, boasting, or self-centredness.

Back to the issue of irony, and my enjoyment of recognition of the at-times ugly truth, I feel that humans have a natural desire to seek the truth, even if it is not-so-pretty some of the time. My Learning and Behaviour class, which I had great problems with at times because I feel that the behaviourist wing of psychology is quite simplistic in its analysis of behaviour, would argue that we do everything to ensure our survival and contentment. My prof believes that nearly all that we do as humans is either reflexive or conditioned, as we exist to avoid aversives and obtain rewards. While there is clearly an inherent hedonism in humans, it seems to me that God also endowed us with an innate curiousity and drive for knowledge, regardless of if they satisfy our hedonistic aims or not. We have a proclivity to know things even when they undoubtedly won’t bring us happiness, whether it is to learn what terrible things people have gossiped about us, knowing the details of a horrific murder, or gaining an awareness of our failings and inadequacies. Researchers will put huge amounts of effort into attempts to discover the facts, and often put themselves in great danger in hopes of learning more about the world that we live in. Throughout human existence, advanced societies have sought to improve their understanding of the things that surround them, and this heightened understanding has tended to bring a greater appreciation (in the enjoyment sense of the word, not just the comprehension sense of it) of those surroundings. Whenever I learn something about the intricacies of human behaviour, science of the solar system, inner workings of my digestive system, or complexity of a writer’s words, I’m able to find more joy in them because they’re just that much more cool. Naturally, I think God created this inquisitiveness in each of us because it motivates us to search for Him and His work in our lives.

My favourite kind of happy state is the kind that comes from knowing the truth, and being contented with it. It’s relatively easy to have that fun happiness from dancing, being silly, or eating delicious food, but the deep happiness of knowing that I’m loved, that life is beautiful and intricate, that the few things that really really matter in life are taken care of, and that I’m just a tiny speck in all of the madness and fabulousness going on around me gives me a smile no matter how tough, boring, or baffling everything is. This is the kind of joy that I tend to experience after or whilst watching an indie movie or thought provoking play, going for a nice long walk, praying, reading something profound, checking out some art whether in a book or gallery, crying or laughing deeply, having a good talk or rant with a friend, enjoying nature, listening to music, or having a thinking session. Coming to some realization or acknowledging something I already knew but hadn’t yet accepted gives me that contented happiness that few other things do, and although many of the things I ponder are pretty trivial and of little real-life consequence, there’s certainly something extraordinarily delightful about pondering the facts of life.

Sadly, one truth that I’ve struggled to accept in the past few days is that of the Oilers seeming inferiority. The San Jose Sharks have been rather dominant in our series with them so far, and I’m starting to believe that no more Whyte Ave fun will be had in this season of the NHL. I may put my hopes in Team Canada in the world hockey championship, as they seem far more likely to win some games, plus the championship is taking place in Latvia, which is unquestionably one of the most fantabulous Eastern European nations of all the undeniably cool Eastern European nations. There are only 24 more periods of 24 hours before the Eskies season (or at least pre-season) is up and running, and my dear Eskimos will surely make up for any hockey disappointments with the thrillingness of Nanook and Punter, Danny Maciocia, the combination of the names of Coleman and Gass (Jess and I have an unlimited supply of jokes about their names), all clothing items coloured green and gold, short-short sporting Eskies fans on the LRT, raucous cheering and chanting, bitterness towards Riders fans, and ridiculous levels of junk food consumption. For now, I’ll bide the time in my life allotted to sports fandom to cheering for hockey teams, watching tennis, and continuing on the never ending Cait search to find an Eskies scarf. I sincerely hope that you all will experience some of the greatness of CFL football this summer, and if not, that you’ll at least experience some of the silliness of my family’s enjoyment of it. I will also add that if any of you become Alouettes or Riders fans in the near future, or already are and I don’t know it, I will be forced to disown you as my friend. Or at the very minimum, I’ll throw a mini Eskies football at you. I hope you’re all enjoying the green outside! When the green is joined by the gold in a few weeks, it will all be even more enjoyable, which I know is difficult to imagine, but it’s very true. And you know that I like the truth very much.

















Recent Jess Quotes that Won’t Sound Funny Unless You’re Me or Jess
“We’ll need to increase the cheese.”
“Don’t be beautiful. Be seductive.”
“I think I just broke your pen. Oh, wrong pen.”

Things to Be Happy About from Today
- Edmonton’s hard-working art scene
- walking arm in arm
- chatting about Anchorman and Talladega Nights with my parents
- half-hour showers to clean coffee grime off
- the way my beloved “half-hour shower” rhymes
- my new vintage clothes’ smell
- discovering that Nicole and I can stay with the nuns in NYC
- lovely Whyte Ave employees
- clean laundry
- music recommendations from friends
- Jess’ capacity to make me laugh
- cool bosses and coworkers
- new earrings
- Caitlin’s description of her professors and Thai friend
- the smell and feel of rain
- cuddling under an umbrella
- poignant moments in plays
- numbing medicine for my canker sore that makes me talk strangely
- sweats and hoodies
- red toenails
- finding out Neko Case is coming to Edmonton in August
- CBC radio
- The National
- my Whistler tobogganing finger injury is now half way through the healing process, more than two months after the fact
- pillows and blankets
- allergy medicine
- ancient pictures of my grandparents and my mom, aunt, and uncles
- digital photos with Jess
- confetti
- nights when I know the next day is free of work
- watching Pride and Prejudice on Gimli the iBook
- my dad assisting me in restoring my iTunes
- shrimp
- fairy shoes
- Emily of New Moon acting in Peter Pan
- customers with accents
- good music

















Recent Excellent Materialistic Purchases
- cube earrings by Kari Woo
- red blouse from the (I think) 1960s
- beige satin bomber jacket from the 1980s
- blue cardigan from who knows what decade
- volleyball t-shirt from Nokomis
- M&Ms
- marshmallows
- cinnamon bun from work
- chai latté from Steeps
- more numbing medication for my reprehensible canker sore (it hurts to smile, and I refuse to not smile because of a vile canker sore)
- lunch at the ever-satisfying Great Canadian Bagel