CATS AND THE BOX
My Cat From Hell and other things on TV
AVE you noticed how lately everyone wants to claim they are an introvert? It first came to my attention a few years ago, and since then the phenomenon has developed a galloping speed. Books about introverts, for introverts, are the new Fifty Shades of Grey in publishing terms. Quiet: The Power of Introverts In a World That Can’t Stop Talking. Quiet Power: The Secret Strengths of Introverts. Quiet Brain: Why Introverts Are Soooo Much Cleverer Than Anyone Else.
I made the last one up, but that’s the general vibe. Suddenly identifying as introverted is essential if you in any way consider yourself a thoughtful or intelligent person. Saying you are an extrovert now essentially means you are a drunk frat-boy, or Donald Trump: someone who just won’t stop shouting nonsense at the world 24/7.
I am waiting to see if the same associations are going to transfer to another tired personality division: that between “cat people” and “dog people”. Cat people have for years been stereotyped as in some way more creepy: either witchy spinsters who lurk behind cobwebs, or villains in James Bond movies. Since dogs are essentially the drunk frat-boys of the pet world, shouldn’t we all start thinking of cat people in the same alluring way as the revamped notion of introverts? Can you tell I am a somewhat extroverted though mean-spirited cat person?
Because I love cats, a guilty pleasure of mine lately has become the Animal Planet reality show My Cat From Hell. The programme is a perfect showcase of why cats are the best: because they simply do not trouble to hide it if they despise you. Of course, sometimes their delinquency is the result of mental health issues. I have become au fait with all the latest terms in cat medicine, such as “feline hyperesthesia syndrome”, which causes violent behaviour. I was also not aware that First World cats can be prescribed anti-depressants. In retrospect, this could have made all the difference to Garfield.
My Cat From Hell is accompanied by slasher movie-style fonts and graphics, just to press home the point that you are watching demons from hell made flesh in feline form. It is presented by an amiable tattooed man called Jackson Galaxy, the self-styled “Cat Daddy”, who is prone to profound musings like: “I wonder what’s making this cat so mean?”
I dunno — maybe the fact that it literally loathes everyone, Jackson? The owners confess to being terrified of their feline charges. “Ruby has hated me from the beginning,” one tearful Pilates instructor confessed recently. It seemed to me that Ruby had pretty sound judgment.