As a kid, we had a cat that pooed in our bathtubs when we went out for long stretches or forgot to feed him. He was cold and aloof. If not for the fact that he made for a beautiful foot muff — he was a Persian Chinchilla — I’d have nothing nice to say about Mowgli. To be honest, I’ve never had much nice to say about cats, in general. Sure they’re pretty to look at, especially those Russian Blues, but for the most I’ve always found them self serving, unpredictable and arcane. It’s a running joke with one my best friends, Izabela that I am, in fact, part cat. “But they’re so neurotic,” I say scornfully, to which she always smiles and says something like, “umm,” or “uh-huh.” If I’m a cat, she’s a toad. Then a few weeks ago, I happened upon this description of cats by The Colour Purple author, Alice Walker, that made me re-consider my view on cats. “Cats, in particular, teach us to be ourselves, whatever the odds. A cat, except through force, will never do anything that goes against its nature. Nothing seduces it away from itself.” As someone who has too often abandoned her true nature for the sake of acquiescing others, and/or an image I would like others to have of me, I have great admiration for anything and anyone that protects theirs. If Walker’s right about cats, then living like one is gutsy as hell. It means risking being disliked, dismissed and misunderstood — are cats selfish or self aware, aloof or deeply sensitive — in exchange for a freer and more fulfilling life. “Contemplate ways we can strengthen our resolve to live our lives as who we really are,” writes Walker. I can be selfish, solitary and very sensitive, all common cat traits that most humans resist in themselves and yet no feline ever makes apology for. More and more so, I’m trying to do the same. There’s a cat in me, after all. I text Izabela with the news. “I always knew you had it in you.”