Teaching Common Sense to Cats

An old dog might learn a new trick, but you can’t teach common sense to cats.

We all know highly intelligent people who don’t have a lick of common sense. I wonder if this holds true for the animal kingdom as well? Cats are supposed to be innately intelligent. But do they apply all those feline smarts to everyday living? Do they learn from experience and act with common sense? Based on observation of my own feline family member, I have to conclude: not always.

Connoisseurs of Comfort

Veterinarian and author James Herriot says that cats are connoisseurs of comfort. Everything they do is motivated by the comfort they stand to gain. I know of what he speaks. My cat has three requirements to achieve the state of kitty nirvana: a full belly, a dog sibling to rub against when she’s feeling affectionate (and to swat when she’s peevish), and a warm and cozy spot for napping. The problem is she has appropriated the hood of my car as her warm and cozy napping spot.

I understand why this location is desirable. I park in the garage, so the hood is pleasantly clean and smooth, sheltered and out of the weather. If I’ve driven recently it’s warm, but even when cool the hood is able to absorb and radiate her body heat. Plus, it’s elevated, giving her a good vantage point to survey her surroundings. Her fondness for the perch means I have to bodily move her whenever I need my car. You would think common sense should prod her to decamp as soon as she sees me with keys in hand. Apparently, common sense is a finite feline commodity.

There’s No Such Thing as a Clean Getaway

The scenario always plays out the same way. I approach the car with a wave of my hand and a cheery “Get down now.” In response, I get The Stare. The incredulous, wide-eyed “Surely you don’t mean I must bestir myself to acquiesce to your plebeian demands” stare. Rendered without a blink.

I put my stuff in the backseat to give the cat time to adjust to her looming new reality as the Dethroned Princess. Hands now free, I approach her to execute The Removal. I’m not sure what law of physics turns an eight-pound cat into a two stone paperweight, but suddenly my quick scoop becomes a full-on deadlift. I heft her, meowing in protest and claws scrabbling, and set her on the floor. Then I get in the car, trying not to feel guilty at the sight of my Woefully Betrayed and Tragically Abandoned cat as I drive away.

One Last Ploy for Common Sense

Recently I made one last attempt at coaxing common sense to the fore in this situation. Perhaps feeling the car move would convince my cat of the prudence of getting down on her own. So I left her on the hood, got in the car and started the engine. She watched me through the windshield. I honked the horn. She yawned. I put my foot on the brake and shifted into reverse. She blinked sleepily and closed her eyes.

Feeling like the mom whose reverse psychology ploy failed with her two-year-old, I was now committed to actually backing out of the garage with my cat on the hood. Fervently hoping the neighbors were not outside, and nobody had the SPCA on speed dial, I rolled slowly out of the garage. A few feet clear of the garage bay I paused and punched the button to close the overhead door. As usual, I waited to make sure the cat didn’t run under the descending door and trip the sensor so the door went back up.

Oh wait.

The cat was still on the hood. Sighing, I admitted my defeat, set my parking brake and reached for the door handle. I glanced at the windshield, expecting to see a victorious gloat from the feline furball on the other side.

But she was gone. From her vantage point on the hood, my cat had seen the garage door closing, creating a barrier between her … and her food dish. She had jumped down, streaked under the door (tripping the sensor as usual) and bee-lined for her bowl. By the time I pressed the button to close the door again, she was happily munching her way to a full belly.

So, now I shake the food dish before I get in my car. I guess common sense can be learned after all.