Since my thirties, cats have accompanied me on the paths of life. They are so nested in the course of my existence that I would like to give up for giving up living. From all these days that have passed, not one has been gone without one way or another, I am racing on their beauty and mystery, this natural elegance of which they give us all time.
Having a cat at home is like having a work of art at home. Each of their movements so widely untied is an ode to grace, beauty, harmony, this perfection which we sometimes find the trace in our greatest museums. The cat is a painting in action, a kind of living miracle which owes just as much to its lightness as to this very particular way of living in space, to be there without being there, to walk with a mixture of grace and casualness, as if the surrounding world had been created for it.
Let him sleep, he plays, that he remains at the window to observe the show of the street, that he wraps up at the bottom of a closet, that he hides under a bed, that he tries to hunt, he never loses his superb. He is the very poem of creation, of an incarnation of perfection such that no human creature can compete with him. The Son of God is him. In him, God concentrated all that his power could concede us, the ancient and incomparable beauty of an animal superior to all the others.
That he stretches and now it is Orpheus that resuscitates. Nothing is vulgar with him. When he cleans himself, he does it with such a minute that it looks like a sculptor busy giving the last retouching to his statue. When he drowns, he looks like a sleeping giant. And when he really plunges into sleep, with his curved legs in screen on his face, he is very innocence, the dawn of humanity.
To the one who would claim to be atheist, I would ask him to contemplate a cat before saying.
When succumbing to one of these crazy crises that sees him running throughout the house such hamlet fleeing the spectrum of his father, he is a Dostoevskian hero in the grip of a deep delirium. When he moves normally, in these slow and suave wanderings who see him go from the chair to bed, he is a swan on his lake, a perfect mechanics that would make the most beautiful mannequins scrolling on a podium. He has no defects, except that we never respond to our commandments, but is that one?
It is the king of the solitary who only has the principle of complying with his moods. He does exactly what he wants when he wants. Try to corrupt it, it will send you grazing. Try to coax him, he will dismiss you as the last of the Malpropers. Demand a caress from him, he will look at you with the unique disdain to exceptional beings who do not comply with any injunction, if not their good will.
No one tames it, but when he expects our misfortunes and comes to comfort us, he is so persuasive that even the most cruel of the monsters would be to repel it. Calculator, it is. Oh, and then clever, manipulator, malicious, knowing how to play his charms so well that to escape his bewitchments resembles an impossible mission. He has time for him. Who has never had to face the gaze of a cat posted by his side in search of food knows nothing about harassment, of this look fixed on you as a hypnosis session intended to comply with his desires.
What he wants, he always ends up getting it. Nothing is refused to a masterpiece like him. We abandon all modesty to obey him. Having one at home is like having a painting by Vincent Van Gogh hanging on his wall, he captivates as much as he intrigues, he amazes as much as he scares reality, he transcends it, he is the question point of our deepest questions, why of the how, the offering of life and its unfathomable mysteries. The depth of his gaze is inexhaustible, he conceals secrets which are not of this world, but which belong to over -gone times, from the time when human beings was still only a hope not yet born.
To the one who would claim to be atheist, I would ask him to contemplate a cat before saying. Such an animal cannot be the result of chance or the consequence of an improbable Big Bang. No theory of evolution can explain that the stack of centuries has been able to lead to such perfection. No, the cat can only be divine ancestry, as its beauty escapes all rationality.
A cat and here I am saved.
