By Frank Zoretich
The problem with religion so far is that humans have chosen such unreasonable gods to worship. Why haven’t we been smart enough to have gods who are easy to please, who make demands we can meet without excessive sacrifice?
It’s a problem that vexed me for years – but I’ve solved it.
Although I always liked my cat, it wasn’t until I decided to embrace theofelinity that our relationship deepened into something refreshingly spiritual.
A cat is a wonderful god. I’m not talking about the big cats like lions or tigers or the fearsome part-feline beasts worshipped by certain ancient civilizations. No, the perfect god is a house cat, a god not likely to eat you alive for some minor infraction of its rules, a god grudgingly dependent upon you for its survival, a god, in short, very much like my cat.
Scratch (that’s his name) requires only food on a regular basis, a place to sleep that’s warm and dry, and petting sufficient to energize his purr.
Prayer to a cat is entirely optional. Despite the most fervent pleading for divine favor, a cat will not intercede on your behalf. It would be a waste of time to ask a cat to improve the weather, increase the harvest, rescue you from financial difficulty, or smite your enemies.
And there is little to dread in the way of punishment for transgressions, although Scratch did once afflict me with the pestilence of ringworm.
Morality is of no concern to a cat. A cat almost always approves of whatever you choose to do in matters not directly affecting its welfare. It refrains from handing down the sorts of commandments one disobeys at risk of eternal damnation.
In matters of ritual, a cat is readily accommodated. The regular sacrifices of canned or dry food required by Scratch cost just pennies a day and can be presented without ceremony in a plain plastic bowl.
Of course, a god without at least some awesome attributes would deserve no obeisance. With a cat, the necessary aspect of terror is merely a matter of scale. To see a cat as fierce and horrible, you need only imagine yourself to be the size of a mouse. That lightning pounce! That playful cruelty! Those slit eyes! Those claws! Those fangs!
Finding a cat-god is quite simple. Candidates arrive by the litter, with more than 81 million of them currently inhabiting the U.S. There might be one with you right now, awaiting your recognition of its superiority.
I don’t mean to offend those who cling to other religions. I merely suggest worshipping the cat as an alternative to the sorts of gods who have always insisted on perfection.
As Scratch and every other cat-god knows too well, we’re only human.
Frank Zoretich lives in Seattle. Since this was written, Scratch has passed on to a realm where plump mice gambol amid fields of catnip.
