The cats were going at it again. I was making breakfast when I heard the wretched sounds of cat-agony coming from the bushes. Admitting my non-existent knowledge of cat brands, it appeared to be a fatass orange one and a white one with black spots. They were caught in a square-off out by the shrubs, with neither of them appearing to stand down at all; the hair on their backs stood stiff and so did the thin upper lips, exposing mouthfuls of eager teeth. I watched them for a while. They were out there when I started eating and they were out there when I was finished, still squared off, hissing and staring. Waiting for concession. The whole incident reminded me of how we deal with confrontation, albeit this in a primal and oversimplified way. I imagined us in a similar (more sophisticated) situation, coating it instead with fancy words and complicated intentions and selfish emotions. Maybe even some words designed specifically to hurt one another.
We go to great lengths to separate ourselves from the fact that we are fancy animals, but any one of us is really just another cat in the backyard. And cats can’t even forgive.
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