Purr-fect Reflection.

After Feline Interrogatories

“It’s the 27th of January, human,” Kitty declared, her tone dripping with feline disapproval. “You’ve failed to meet your commitment.”

“What commitment?” I asked, confused, though I had a sinking feeling I knew exactly what she was referring to.

“Our annual conversation, of course. You haven’t shared it yet. Honestly, it’s like I have to manage your schedule and your creativity,” she said, glaring at me from her perch on the windowsill.

Ah, yes. The January 22nd tradition. How could I forget? Every year, Kitty—who refuses to accept a name because “humans need names to remember who they are; I don’t have that problem”—poses a question, and I, her hapless human, must answer it.

For simplicity’s sake, let’s just call her Kitty. I’d once suggested naming her something grand, like Rajesh Khanna or Hema Malini. Her reaction? Pure disdain. I even bought a dictionary to decode her responses. None of it helped.

This year, though, I hadn’t gotten around to documenting our exchange, and Kitty wasn’t about to let it slide. “Well, human? Are you going to share it, or will I have to write it myself?”

“Fine,” I said, resigned. “Here it is.”

---

The conversation began as it always does—with Kitty’s unrelenting gaze.

“Well, human, how are the butterflies in your stomach?” she asked.

“What nonsense! My digestion is fine,” I replied, caught off guard.

She sighed, as if dealing with a particularly slow pupil. “Ah, humans. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you? Intuition is one of my gifts. And telepathy. I know you dread January 22nd because you never know what I’ll ask.” Her grin stretched into something reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat—equal parts smug and unsettling.

“Let’s get this over with,” I muttered. “What’s your question this year?”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as though analyzing my soul. “Why the tiger?”

“What?”

“Why the tiger? Why this reverence and obsession with tigers? After all, we’re part of the same family. Yet, while tigers and leopards edge toward extinction, we—the smaller cats—thrive. We don’t just survive, human. We dominate. Think about it.”

Caught off guard, I stammered, “I don’t know. Tigers seem… romantic. Majestic, even. Lions and tigers are exotic. Panthers are one rank lower but still mysterious. Maybe it’s like how there are no camels in the Qur’an—only the exotic is revered.”

Kitty let out a disdainful huff, her whiskers twitching in irritation. “Human, exotic allure might captivate the imagination, but it’s the everyday, the mundane, that grounds you. You know that Sanskrit saying, ‘Dhooratah parvatah ramya’—‘the distant mountain is beautiful.’ The tiger might be fascinating, but it’s the cat that catches the rat. We’re the ones who get things done.”

As I mulled over her words, she casually threw another question my way. “Why must humans always learn something? Why can’t you just be?”

At this point, I wasn’t sure if I should feel inspired or mildly insulted. Probably both.

---

Pondering the Cat as a Spirit Animal

After Kitty’s thought-provoking interrogation, I found myself reflecting on cats as spirit animals. Could there be something profound in her presence that I hadn’t fully acknowledged before?

Cats, as spiritual guides, are believed to represent independence, mystery, and keen intuition. They straddle the line between worlds—the tangible and the mystical—teaching us the value of patience, silence, and observation. With their piercing eyes and graceful movements, cats seem to embody a constant state of mindful presence.

Kitty, for example, has an uncanny ability to read me. She knows when I’m anxious, often before I do. Her question about learning versus being hit uncomfortably close to home. In a world obsessed with self-improvement and milestones, perhaps she’s asking me to embrace simplicity. To just exist without overthinking every moment.

Spiritually, cats also symbolize transformation. They encourage us to trust our instincts and adapt to change, much like their ability to land on their feet. Maybe Kitty’s annual questions are her way of nudging me toward growth, even if her methods are unconventional (and frequently maddening).

There’s also the matter of their duality: playful yet predatory, affectionate yet aloof. Cats remind us to balance our complexities. They show us it’s okay to be multifaceted—calm one moment and fierce the next. Kitty’s critique of humans’ fascination with tigers made me wonder if we, too, overlook the value of the everyday. Do we chase the “majestic” moments in life while missing the quiet, transformative ones?

And let’s not forget their notorious independence. Cats teach us the importance of boundaries—something humans often struggle with. Kitty never hesitates to assert her space. Perhaps I could learn to do the same, to say no without guilt and prioritize my well-being.

As I sat pondering these revelations, Kitty stretched luxuriously, her eyes half-closed in what could only be described as smug satisfaction. “Finally catching on, human?” she seemed to say.

So, as much as her questions leave me flustered, I can’t deny the wisdom she brings. Maybe the true lesson isn’t in finding the perfect answer but in letting the questions transform me. After all, in the world of spirit animals, the cat isn’t just a guide—it’s a reminder to pause, reflect, and be.

Kitty, of course, takes all the credit for this epiphany. She flicks her tail and saunters off, leaving me with more questions than answers. Typical.