So today, let’s talk about house cats. Oh yes, those furry, enigmatic, slightly chaos-loving creatures currently plotting world domination from the comfort of your sofa. Did you know that house cats are not the solitary, aloof beings pop culture has led us to believe? Oh no, my friend. Contrary to popular belief, cats have a lot more in common with lions than we give them credit for. That’s right—your sweet little Mittens might be dreaming of a majestic life in a pride, complete with dramatic sunrises, a throne made of tuna cans, and minions (which, let’s face it, includes you).

But let’s rewind a bit. I recently discovered that domesticated cats aren’t actually loners by nature. The notion of the cat as a solitary hunter has been grossly exaggerated—probably by some dog person centuries ago who just couldn’t handle the mysterious charm of felines. Scientists have found that feral cats, when left to their own devices, will often organize themselves into colonies. It’s like a feline version of The Real Housewives, featuring plenty of drama, power struggles, and the occasional catfight. These colonies thrive around shared resources—food sources like dumpsters or kind-hearted humans—and the cats even establish loose hierarchies. Your tuxedo cat with the snobby glare? He’s probably convinced he’s the kingpin of your neighborhood, ruling over a secret underground network of strays.

This brings me to one of my own cats, a Maine Coon named Taco who does not want to share the spot light today. Taco is the definition of chaotic neutral. She spends her days observing me with the kind of disapproval that suggests I’ve failed her in ways I’ll never quite understand. Every now and then, she will knock a glass off the table, just to remind me that in this household, chaos reigns supreme. But Taco is also weirdly social. She’ll follow me from room to room, chirping like a malfunctioning bird, and God forbid I close a door behind me. Apparently, privacy is a luxury I am not entitled to. The other girl, well she likes to follow me to with the dog in tow. I have an entourage.

And let’s not forget the snuggling. Oh, the snuggling. Most nights, Taco plops onto my chest like I’m some sort of human mattress. She purrs like a tiny outboard motor, and for a moment, I’m convinced she loves me. But then I remember: this is the same creature who ambushed me from behind the couch three hours ago, leaving me with a scratch that looks like I’ve survived a small battle. Right after I got home from being gone for two weeks. The duality of cats is a thing of beauty, really.

Now, about their living arrangements. Cats are territorial, yes, but they’re also surprisingly flexible when it comes to sharing that territory—provided there’s enough food and comfy spots to go around. In multi-cat households, you’ll notice that they establish their own little zones. One cat might claim the sunny windowsill, while another stakes out the prime real estate that is the top of the fridge. It’s like a miniature Game of Thrones, minus the dragons (although some cats do have that terrifying fire-breathing energy, don’t they?).

Speaking of energy, can we talk about the zoomies? What are cats doing during those 2 a.m. parkour sessions? Are they training for some secret feline Olympics? Taco, for example, likes to launch right off the back of the couch, sprint down the hallway, and skid dramatically into the kitchen, then to my room and she goes to spring board off me to get to the window then looks at me like I’m the crazy one for getting grumpy because I was asleep. Meanwhile, I’m clutching my blanket, heart pounding, convinced there’s a ghost she’s trying to exorcise. Cats: masters of chaos, bringers of nocturnal terror, and unrepentant adorers of cardboard boxes.

Let’s not overlook their communication skills. Everyone thinks dogs are the communicative ones, but cats have an entire repertoire of meows, chirps, trills, and purrs designed to manipulate their human servants. Yes, I said servants. You think you adopted a cat? Ha! That’s adorable. Your cat adopted you. Taco, for instance, has a very specific meow for each of his demands. There’s the “feed me” yowl, the “let me out” warble, and my personal favorite, the “I just knocked over your plant in leca and spilled it everywhere and didn’t like getting wet, and I dare you to stay mad at me” chirp. She always wins. Always.

But let’s get real for a moment: cats are fascinating creatures. Did you know that their purring isn’t just a sign of contentment? Studies suggest it might have healing properties—like some sort of feline magic. The frequency of their purring is thought to promote tissue regeneration and reduce stress, both for themselves and their humans. So, when Taco curls up next to me and starts purring, I like to think she’s not simply happy but also trying to mend my weary soul. Either that, or she’s plotting my demise. It’s hard to tell sometimes.

Then there’s the hunting instinct. Even the laziest house cat still has the heart of a predator. Taco proves this daily by hunting the red dot from her laser pointer, because her sister prefers to hog the nip, so with the intensity of a lion stalking a gazelle. It’s both hilarious and humbling to watch her crouch, wiggle her butt, and pounce—only to realize she’s been duped again. But in those moments, you see the wildness that still lives inside every domesticated cat. They’re not really ours; they’re just letting us believe they are. I do however always end the laser tag with the dot landing on treats I hid before hand. Though sometimes my service dog is the one to chase the laser pointer while the cat watches as if we are both insane.

Of course, cats haven’t always been the cherished companions they are today. Their history with humans is a rollercoaster of ups and downs. In ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped as gods—a fact that I’m convinced they still remember. Taco certainly carries herself with the arrogance of a deity. But in medieval Europe, cats were unfairly associated with witchcraft and met some pretty grim fates. It’s astonishing that they managed to survive those dark times. Then again, cats are nothing if not survivors. They’ve spent thousands of years adapting to human whims while maintaining their independence, which is more than I can say for myself.

As I’m writing this, Taco has decided to park herself on my keyboard, her sister on my head with the tail in my face, the dog on my legs. Maybe Taco’s trying to add her own thoughts to this piece, though all she’s managed to type is “jjjjjjjjjjjjk.” Perhaps it’s a secret feline code, or maybe she’s just reminding me who’s really in charge here. Either way, I’ve given up shooing her away. This is her world; I just live in it.

So, the next time you see your cat staring off into the distance with that enigmatic look, remember: they’re probably contemplating the mysteries of the universe—or maybe just wondering why you haven’t refilled their food bowl yet. Either way, give them a little credit. They’ve come a long way from their wild ancestors, but they haven’t lost their edge. They’re social creatures who’ve mastered the balance between independence and affection, chaos and calm, mystery and humour.

And as for Taco? She’s left and is now curled up in a ball, purring softly, completely oblivious to the fact that I’ve just spent the last hour writing an ode to her species. Or maybe she knows. Maybe she’s just pretending not to care, which, let’s be honest, is the most cat thing ever. I would love to hear about cat escapades you have had or watched. I will talk about the other Maine Coon another day because they want breakfast and I really don’t want to find out what they will do if I don’t get it like right now.