Catakism

Most religions are practiced in places specially built for worship, such as churches, mosques, temples, or, in some cases, man caves, stadiums, and malls. Not so in Catakism. The reason there are no formal temples of Catakism is that this would require practitioners to go to a separate place to express their devotion, and this wouldn’t fly unless Cat could attend as well. And so, Catakists turn their homes, offices, and automobiles into temples to Cat, filling them with signs and symbols of our devotion.

Generally speaking, the more outward signs of their belief a human displays, the more dedicated that believer is. For instance, a casual yoga enthusiast buys a mat and a pair of yoga pants, tops it with a tank top and pops into the studio once or twice a week. A yoga devotee owns no less than three mats, has the om symbol tattooed on her shoulder, replaces her lawn with a Zen garden, and spends hours a day in lotus pose.

Likewise, you can easily tell the degree of a Catakist’s devotion by the sheer quantity of cat-themed artifacts that surrounds them.

a barrage of Cat Xing, Beware: Attack Cat, and Cats at Play safety signs lining the walkway, which, of course, is constructed with paw-shaped flagstones

a cat-themed welcome mat proclaiming Wipe Your Paws, All Visitors Must Be Approved by Cat, and Cats Welcome, People Tolerated

All this before you’ve gotten in the door. Once you step inside this Cat Chapel, your eyes will alight on:

a refrigerator covered in cat magnets holding up pictures of, you guessed it, cats

a cat-giving-birth tissue dispenser (yes, these exist and don’t ask where the tissues come out)

The sheer number of kitty-themed objects and artwork—known as purr-aphernalia—with which Catakists surround themselves is a pretty accurate measure of their degree of fanaticism. In even the most casual Catakist’s home, you cannot swing a cat by the tail (nor would you do so under penalty of death) without striking two dozen articles of religious purr-aphernalia.

So much cat-themed crap junk doodoo merchandise has been created throughout history, it is enough to fill every house on Earth from floor to ceiling an estimated seventeen times over. From cat snowglobes to kitty neckties to cat-themed caskets (yes) to guitars with cat-shaped sound holes, there is seemingly not a single object on Earth that cannot be—and has not been—manufactured in a cat-themed version. Grumpy Cat driveway sealant! Mr. Whiskers mortuary equipment! Hello Kitty grenade launchers! Felix the cathode-ray tube!

If you go to a certain popular merchandise website (okay, it’s Zazzle) and type the word “cats” in the search box, you will get more than 1.7 million product results, at last count (fact). Cat products can be found in the clothing, home and pets, electronics, office products, and art departments, and even the craft supplies section. And that’s just on one website! (Got my eye on a “Cat Daddy” T-shirt.)

Purr-aphernalia is used to demonstrate Catakists’ faith in two essential ways: by kittifying the world of humans, and by humanizing the world of cats

In both ways, Catakism seeks to bring the human and feline worlds closer together. Because Catakists can’t stand the fact that nature was so cruel as to make them two separate species.

The sheer overwhelming amount of purr-aphernalia available in the world makes it necessary to cat-egorize it into classes.

While much of this merchandise might seem like junk to a casual observer, for Catakists purr-aphernalia represents the objects of their faith, much like a crucifix, a menorah, or a Buddha statue.

Every Catakist’s household contains multiple calendars to keep track of the liturgical year (National Cat Day, birthdays of all feline friends, etc.). And every one of them features images of cats. If you have a Catakist on your holiday gift list, your default gift is a cat calendar. Fortunately, you don’t have to worry if she already has one. She does, and she’s more than happy to hang up another. For a calendar is no longer a tool for keeping track of the days and months of the year—we don’t need those anymore; we have smartphones—it is a tool for measuring how long one must wait before flipping to a new cat picture.

Things that come in twelves. Twelve angry cats, twelve signs of the zodi-cat, the twelve days of Cat-mas, you get the idea.

Breed-specific, and no breed of cat is left out, picture the famous Nude Kitty Calendar, featuring the hairless Sphinx cat in poses that, once glimpsed, cannot be unseen.

Cats dressed as movie stars, athletes, and historical figures. Na-paw-leon, anyone? Diane Kitten? Jack Nick-claws? Tiger Woods (nah, too easy)?

Then, of course, there are calendars of cats being sad, cats being naughty, cats at work, cats at play, fat cats, skinny cats, cats napping, cats looking wise, cats acting silly, cats looking surprised, cats looking indifferent.

In other words, take twelve random photos of cats, Photoshop them onto a generic calendar, and give it to a Catakist. Boom, perfect gift.

There is a mystical connection between the love of hot beverages and the love of cats. Every temple of Catakism has a cabinet full of cat-themed mugs. Some may be cat-shaped, some might feature photos of the human’s real-life kitties, and some will feature sayings, such as:

Still not sure if you’re a Catakist? Observe the cup you’re currently drinking from. If it features a cat face, wonder no more.

These scrolls contain snippets of wisdom, or Catma, that the faithful use to get through their day and keep the faith.

The poster business would have gone belly-up after Farrah Fawcett decided to cut her hair in 1981 were it not for cats. Who among you has not owned a poster that features a dangling cat urging you to “Hang In There!”? Fortunately for the poster industry, Catakists purchase these scrolls and use them like wallpaper in their homes, offices, gym lockers, and Winnebagos.

As with mugs and calendars, cat posters come in an infinite variety, but just a few of the obligatory cat-egories are:

Posters of “cat thoughts”—With gems like: “Get yourself a pet human, they said; it’ll be fun, they said.” Or, “I didn’t gain weight, the box shrunk.”

Cat lists—These include lists of cats’ house rules, cats’ suggestions for world peace, and cats’ Ten Commandments—and perhaps should also include cats’ top ten ways to get humans to stop making cat lists.

French cat poster art—Catakism, or Chatachisme, as it is known in Paris, has been alive and well in France for centuries, as evidenced by the never-ending stream of antique-looking French cat-themed advertising posters that populate gift shops. These posters, with titles such as “Chat Noir,” “Trois Chats,” and “Le Chat Domestique,” allow the buyer to pretend that there is a sophisticated, continental aspect to their kitty obsession. Cats, for their part, love seeing French poster art on the wall, because it signals to them that this is a human from whom they can demand crème fraîche, escargots, beurre blanc, and Brie cheese.

New Yorker cat covers—Has there ever been a cover of New Yorker magazine that did not feature a cat? Oh yes, there was the one with the kittens. And then there was the other one that showed only a cat’s shadow. A New Yorker cover on your wall gives you the pretentiousness-cred of being a New Yorker reader without the actual work of reading the magazine.

Cats Making Weird Faces—These close-ups are usually accompanied with one-word captions, such as Chillin’, Busted, Awesome, and Dude.

Cat Mockery and Belittlement—There is also a strange subset of cat posters dedicated to showing fat cats stuck in small objects, cats with cans stuck to their heads, cat faces grafted onto absurd objects, and cats wearing ridiculous things on their heads. These represent the dark side of Catakism: those “believers” who gain a sense of superiority by mocking the very thing they revere. They are the equivalent of the “rich guy slipping on a banana peel” scene in films that kept the working class happily toiling away for much of the twentieth century.

Catakists wear kitty T-shirts and pajamas to proudly proclaim their Catakistic faith. Practically speaking, however, cat T-shirts function as an early warning system. They announce to would-be lovers, friends, employers, neighbors, and landlords, “Alert! Alert! This article of clothing contains a certified (and certifiable) cat fanatic. Consider yourself duly warned.”

Just a small sampling of the 9.4 trillion choices of cat sayings available on vestments of Catakism through a popular online cat-alog:

The above represent Catakistic attempts to kittify the human world, but Catakism also attempts to humanize the feline world. One might say that Man makes Cat in his image and likeness. Just as many faiths encourage believers to make “offerings” to their deities of things that humans use and love—water, incense, flowers, fruit, etc.—so does Catakism make useless human offerings to Cat.

Here are some of the standard pieces of purr-aphernalia used to humanize the world of cats:

Catakists identify so strongly with their cats, they imagine cats have the same needs as humans. Even when it comes to entertainment. Cats, however, are self-sufficient entertainment-wise. Remember, they only have to fill about three and a half hours of free time every day. The rest of the time they are napping, eating, and barfing up hair balls. And when they do require stimulation of some kind, they are perfectly capable of providing it for themselves. They watch birds in the window, they hunt for mice, they torment the dog.

However, many Catakists feel compelled to insert themselves into the cat’s natural processes. Thus, they purchase an endless array of cat toys, most of which are designed more for human entertainment. (No self-respecting cat would attach a stuffed mouse to a string; no chase equals no thrill.) Then they anxiously watch to see Mitten’s look of wonder and delight when said toy is presented.

In those rare instances when Cat deigns to give the object a moment of fleeting attention, the Catakist is filled with joy. Not because Cat has finally been rescued from the depths of boredom, but because the human has finally registered a blip on Cat’s awareness radar, which makes the human feel warm and fuzzy, right?

Confuse-a-Cat toys. There is an endless inventory of “toys” designed to confuse and “stimulate” kitties by presenting them with mazes, puzzles, and hidden objects. Why we think cats enjoy having their minds scrambled is uncertain, but we certainly love to watch kitties interact with:

Whack-a-mouse-type games, where cartoonish mice, fish, birds, and frogs appear from random holes. Cats engage with these toys for a short while, until they figure out the hidden order beneath the apparent randomness. Humans, too stupid to see the hidden order, become mystified as to why their cats lose interest so quickly.

Holey boxes (boxes full of holes) from which objects of supposed feline interest are stashed. When cats realize how much work is involved in retrieving objects of dubious value, they revert to the much more fun and less challenging game of tricking humans into giving them everything they really want.

Hide-the-food mazes force Cat to solve puzzles in order to eat. Because nothing makes a cat feel loved like making it slave for every tiny morsel of food. Humans love watching cats play with confusing toys, not because the cat is being stimulated, but because the human gets to feel superior to the cat, if only for a brief, fleeting moment.

Electronic prey. Humans spend large amounts of money on electronic gadgets designed to emulate the movement of “wild” prey for cats. These come in the form of mice that run around on tracks, mice that run around loose in the house, fake fish tanks, and fake butterfly gardens. However, kitty prefers chasing the real prey you wish didn’t live in your home.

Jingly balls. Look in any direction in a cat owner’s home and you will see plastic jingly balls strewn across the floor. What you will never see is a cat playing with a jingly ball. Some scientists believe jingly balls have evolved to the point where they have gained the ability to reproduce.

Catnip-filled things. Catnip is kitty crack. Nature gave this little gift to kitty, and humans can take no credit for it other than serving as Cat’s dealer.

Laser pointers. Like catnip, the red laser light has an effect on Cat’s brain that is neurological and out of human control. Like a human who is exposed to porn, once a kitty is exposed to the red laser light, there’s no going back. Humans cherish the feeling of control it gives them over their cats. (After all, cats control humans most of the time.) That feeling soon vanishes, however, when the human realizes he is just as addicted to watching kitty chase the dot as kitty is to chasing the dot. A bad idea for both species.

Plush toys fail spectacularly because cats have zero interest in soft stuffed things that just sit there and smell like polyester—replace the stuffing with catnip, and once again you have their interest.

Random trash. Eventually the human learns that Cat will contentedly play with the wrappers, bags, and boxes that toys come in, as well as cellophane, balls of foil, scraps of wrapping paper, ribbons, bows, and packing peanuts.

Things on wands. Get a wand. Stick something on the end of it. Boom, cat toy.

The difference between a Catakist and a normal cat owner (if such a being exists) is that normal cat owners think all that’s required to own a cat is a simple litter box, some feeding dishes, and a scratching post or two. Catakism practitioners know that if you’re not spending 92 percent of your disposable income on your cat, you’re not trying hard enough. And one of the best ways to burn off some of that irksome extra cash is specialized kitty furniture and equipment.

It is the sheer quantity and creativity of cat furniture that really distinguishes a Catakism temple from a novice cat home. Walking into a Catakism temple is akin to going inside the mind of Dr. Seuss. There are tim-tumblers and zam-zankas, blam-zookas and ta-twinklers, but nothing vaguely resembling a chair that a human can sit upon.

Luxury litter boxes—Several models of unnecessarily elegant and complex litter boxes are available to the discerning cat steward, starting with the wood-paneled free-standing model with slide-out litter drawer and progressing all the way to the ultimate self-cleaning model that is hooked up to the plumbing system and has more complicated physics than the Large Hadron Collider.

Scratching posts—Designed to give kitty something to sharpen its claws on, thus preserving the human’s furniture. Every true Catakist, however, also learns the Law of the Scratching Post, which is: the odds of your cat using the scratching post rather than the upholstered chair right next to it are inversely proportional to the cost of the chair. Catakists get around this problem by eliminating human furniture entirely. A Catakism temple is a veritable forest of scratching posts in every height, width, color, and texture. Alas, the only household member who uses the posts for actual scratching is weird Aunt Meryl with the chafing issue.

Cat trees—These include all of the carpet-covered climbing structures of infinite complexity available to the cat owner eager to put his wallet on a weight-loss program. Cat trees are essentially altars to Cat. Thrones. Pedestals. Each one contains multiple platforms for easy worshipping. To a Catakist, the elaborateness of a home’s cat tree network is a measure of the degree of love and devotion she has for her kitty. For Cat, it is a measure of the degree of submission of the resident humans. When a cat tree evolves to the point of having central air conditioning, remotely controlled lighting, and automatic treat dispensers, it is elevated to the status of cat condo.

Tunnels—The average Catakist’s home has more miles of tunnel than a drug lord’s basement. Cat tunnels come in all hideous colors and can be free-standing, attached to cat trees, or built into human furniture and walls. Tunnels can also occur naturally as a result of a cat’s attempt to burrow out of a home in which a student violinist resides. To a human, a cat tunnel represents the sacred honoring of a cat’s primal secretive nature. To Cat, a tunnel represents a place to hide in order to whack the ass of a passing dog.

Cubbies, beds, and sleepy holes—Because cats nap approximately 17.5 hours a day, and in complete comfort on any available surface, Catakists naturally feel kitties need a variety of options for sleeping on. Some are meant to be slept on, yet Cat will sleep under them; some are meant to be slept under, so Cat will naturally choose to sleep on top of them; and others are meant to be slept inside of, thus you will most likely find Precious belly up beside them. After lining every available horizontal surface in the house with sleep-inducing items, Catakists can be heard exclaiming, “Look at you, Tinkerbell, all you do is sleep all day!”

Cat walkways, bridges, and trapezes—No Catakist home would be complete without a vast, interconnected system of elevated paths, bridges, and walkways designed so that Cat never has to sully herself by setting a paw on a floor covered in jingly balls.

Cat “strolling environments”—Catakists like to take their kitties for walks in strollers. Unfortunately, the open design of a standard stroller won’t work with cats, who jump out at the first street corner, head to the nearest barn, and start a family. Therefore, cat strollers are designed as rolling mini Shawshanks, keeping your kitty locked in, while you get the benefits of a walk. Because there’s nothing Cat loves more than being stuck in a small, inescapable space and shown a world of wildlife with which it can’t interact.

Cat wheels—Most forms of exercise are impractical for cats—jogging, weightlifting, Zumba. So dedicated Catakists often purchase giant hamster wheels for their kitties. Cats use exercise machines precisely the way cat owners do—once. The machine then becomes a four-foot-high, two-hundred-dollar clothes hanger much like your NordicTrack®.

And that barely scratches the surface of the purr-aphernalia found in temples of Catakism. Don’t forget waving-cat statues, cat angels, cat wrapping paper, cat throw pillows, Cat-opoly board game, cat iPhone covers, cat lamps, humorous cat trophies, etc.

If there is room in your home for the humans to eat, relax, and procreate, you don’t own enough cat equipment. Buy more.

Whose house is this anyway, yours or the cat’s? If you even have to paws to think about this, you are not a true Catakist. If you do know the correct answer—i.e., the cat’s—then why are you wasting time shopping for new end tables when they really need to be replaced by cat trees anyway?