Cats and babies

The fact that I’m still alive is surprising to say the least.

Every day, my life is a constant struggle against the innumerable dangers that surround me. Some are obvious; cycling to college focuses the sum hatred of all commuters on my little two wheels. My home is no safer; I actually pay for deadly substances like electricity and gas to be pumped through into my living space. At night, I sleep with a blanket and pillows. How I haven’t smothered myself is a mystery.

But of all these dangers, there are two I am especially wary of. These nemeses are all the more dangerous because they are so often overlooked. They are commonly encountered by most people every day, in some shape or form. Most don’t pay them a second thought but I pay them third and fourth thoughts. Even fifth thoughts when I’m feeling particularly paranoid. Knowing of the threat they pose is one way of protecting myself against them. I’m talking about cats and babies. Don’t laugh.

It is a criminal offence to carry a knife but there is no such crime for carrying a cat, despite having more than a dozen times the number of blades. I have personal evidence that a cat’s claws can penetrate denim, corduroy, lead and human skin – in that order. Just as an offensive weapon cats are dangerous, but it is coupled with a cold and most supreme intelligence. The most benign expression I have ever read in a cat is one of weary tolerance. Cats are more than capable of taking over the world. The only reason that they don’t is that they would have to feed themselves afterwards, which would be the most tremendous bother. But conspiring to ruin my life and/or corduroy trousers is child’s play for them.

I have personal evidence that a cat’s claws can penetrate denim, corduroy, lead and human skin – in that order.

Babies are even worse because they are even more innocuous. They just lie there all day, laughing and crying, eating and pooping. Not an obvious danger to anyone, providing they’re wearing nose-clips at all times. They don’t even seem to have the same otherworldly intelligence of cats – or do they? We talk nonsense to babies and suppose that they have all the smarts of a steamed pumpkin. I think these biases colour our views. Ask a baby about the missing works of Shakespeare or the Riemann hypothesis or string theory and you may be treated to some very sagely stares. But sadly we don’t – instead, we dangle our keys in front of them.

This constant underestimation combined with a child-like image of justice can lead babies to be pretty vindictive. You make choo-choo sounds with a spoonful of mushy peas; the only fair retaliation is to vomit over the back of your fancy evening dress. If you happen to be wearing it at the time, that is just icing on the karmic cake.

A house with both a cat and baby is where angels fear to tread. Cold intelligence and tempered, pure, diapered vengeance is a match made in the darkest bowels of hell. There is nothing a cat and a baby cannot do and heaven help you if you have crossed them. For this reason, not only do I lock my doors at night – I also lock the cat-flap.

What terrifies me most is not cats and babies themselves – though awful in their own right – but what they can become. Cats are only ten minutes down the road genetically, or two missed meals, away from the leopard, the most deadly of predators. And babies?

We all know what they grow up into.