Mr. Whiskers has been unusually affectionate with me today, and ordinarily that would be a pleasant development. Unfortunately, I know too much now. There was a time when I might have interpreted a cat climbing onto my lap as evidence that he loved me, trusted me, or had finally recognized that I am the person in this household most deserving of his loyalty. Recent events have forced me to adopt a more cautious interpretation. We have already established that Mr Whiskers is capable of using affection to obtain food, that he has successfully convinced multiple adults to feed him the same breakfast, and that he understands enough about our individual routines to approach whichever household member is least informed about what the others have done. So when he climbs onto my lap while I’m watching television, curls into a ball, and starts purring against my stomach, I don’t immediately pet him. I look down at him and say, “What do you want?” He closes his eyes and purrs louder. That isn’t an answer, but given his history, I don’t think it qualifies as a denial either.
The strange part is that he doesn’t lead me toward his food bowl. I check anyway because I’m not reckless, but the FED THE CAT notepad clearly shows that Pandora fed him at 6:52 that morning, and John added a second entry at 12:14 indicating that Mr Whiskers received three treats. John even underlined the word three, presumably because we’ve all learned something about evidentiary standards where this cat is concerned. His water bowl is full, his litter box is clean, and there are no obvious feline emergencies requiring my attention. Nevertheless, everywhere I go, Mr Whiskers follows. I sit on the couch; he climbs onto my lap. I go to the kitchen; he follows me. I go upstairs to get something from the bedroom; he follows me up the stairs and sits outside the door. When I come back down, he walks beside me with his tail straight up like we’re conducting an inspection together. By the fourth occurrence, I stop considering this random affection. There is clearly an objective.
I find Pandora in the kitchen and ask whether she’s noticed anything unusual about Mr Whiskers. She looks toward the doorway, where he is sitting approximately four feet behind me. “He’s following you,” she says. I tell her I’ve already established that. What I’m asking is whether she has observed any additional behavior that might explain it. “Maybe he likes you.” I remind her that we recently proved Mr Whiskers uses affection transactionally. Pandora says we proved that he likes food. I consider explaining the distinction but decide we’re close enough. John comes into the kitchen looking for something in the refrigerator, and I ask whether Mr Whiskers has been following him. “No.” Pandora? “No.” This is significant. Out of three available adults, the cat has selected me exclusively. John closes the refrigerator and says, “Congratulations.” I tell him this isn’t necessarily positive. “It’s a cat following you around, Hal.” I point toward Mr Whiskers. “Exactly.” John looks at the cat, then at me, and says, “I’m going back to my room.”
The behavior continues throughout the afternoon. Mr Whiskers follows me into the living room, the kitchen, the hallway, and even the laundry room, where he sits in the doorway while I move clothes from the washer to the dryer. At one point I deliberately walk upstairs, turn around, walk downstairs, cross the living room, circle the kitchen island, and return to the couch. Mr Whiskers completes the entire route behind me without hesitation. Pandora watches from the dining table. “Are you testing the cat?” she asks. I tell her I’m establishing whether his behavior is location-dependent or subject-dependent. “And?” I look down. Mr Whiskers is sitting beside my foot. “Subject-dependent.” Pandora nods slowly. “Good work.” There is something about her tone I don’t appreciate, but the methodology is sound. Then Mr Whiskers meows, walks several feet toward the hallway, stops, and looks back at me. I stand up. He walks farther down the hall, stops again, and looks back. “Pandora,” I say, “he wants me to follow him.” She doesn’t even look up. “Then follow him.”
Mr Whiskers leads me down the hallway toward the small storage closet near the stairs. He stops directly in front of the door and sits. This is the first genuinely unusual development of the day. The closet contains cleaning supplies, extra paper towels, a vacuum cleaner, several boxes, and assorted household items that nobody wants badly enough to organize properly. There is nothing in there that should interest a cat. I open the door. Mr Whiskers immediately stands, steps inside, and stares toward the back corner. I turn on the light. Nothing appears unusual. He looks at me, looks toward the corner, and meows. “What?” I ask. He meows again. Pandora has now joined us, mostly because she heard me having a conversation with the cat. John emerges from his room a few seconds later for the same reason. The three of us stand in the hallway while Mr Whiskers stares into the closet. “Well,” I say, “this is objectively strange.” John asks what we’re looking for. I tell him I don’t know yet. Pandora says, “Maybe something fell back there.”
I start moving things. Behind a package of paper towels, nothing. Behind the vacuum cleaner, nothing. I pull out a cardboard box containing extension cords, an old flashlight, and several objects nobody remembers purchasing. Mr Whiskers becomes increasingly interested as I get closer to the back wall. Then I move a reusable grocery bag and hear something roll across the floor. Mr Whiskers lunges after it. I reach down before he can get there and pick up a small plastic ball with a bell inside. Pandora immediately recognizes it. “Oh, there it is.” Apparently this is one of Mr Whiskers’ favorite toys, which I vaguely remember because for several weeks he repeatedly knocked it across the hardwood floor at approximately two in the morning. Pandora says it disappeared several days ago. Judging by the dust on it, it had rolled beneath the closet shelving and become trapped behind the grocery bag. Mr Whiskers had apparently known exactly where it was but lacked the necessary combination of opposable thumbs and household authority to retrieve it himself.
John starts laughing. I don’t see why. “He spent the entire day trying to get you to open a closet,” he says. I point out that this means my original conclusion was correct: Mr Whiskers did know something. Pandora says nobody disputed that the cat knows things. The question was whether those things justified an investigation. I hold up the ball. “He identified a missing object, selected the household member most likely to respond to anomalous behavior, maintained contact with that individual for several hours, and ultimately guided him directly to the object’s location.” John says, “He wanted his toy.” I tell him those descriptions are not mutually exclusive. Mr Whiskers jumps against my leg, so I toss the ball down the hallway. He tears after it, catches it near the stairs, bats it against the wall, and chases it back toward us. Pandora watches him for a moment and says, “Well, at least you solved this one.” I tell her I prefer to think of it as successful interspecies communication.
That evening, I’m on the couch when Mr Whiskers climbs onto my lap again. This time I don’t interrogate him. I scratch behind his ears, and within a minute he’s asleep, purring against me while the recovered ball sits on the floor nearby. I have to admit that perhaps not every display of affection is transactional. Maybe sometimes a cat simply wants to be near someone he trusts. It’s a comforting thought, and for several minutes I allow myself to enjoy it. Then Mr Whiskers wakes up, climbs off my lap, walks toward the hallway, stops, and looks back at me. I stare at him. He meows once. “No,” I say. He meows again and takes two steps toward the storage closet. From the kitchen, Pandora calls, “Don’t do it, Hal.” I remain seated. Mr Whiskers continues staring at me. “I’m not doing anything,” I call back. Then I notice the plastic ball is no longer on the floor. I look toward the hallway, then at the cat. “You lost it again, didn’t you?” Mr Whiskers turns and walks toward the closet. I get up. “This isn’t an investigation,” I tell Pandora. “We have an established recovery procedure now.”