Best 586 quotes in «cats quotes» category

The cat is the beutiful devil. And here we can use the word, even without the “a.” - from a Dec. 21 1960, a letter to Sheri Martinelli "On Cats

The cat's asleep; I whisper "kitten" Till he stirs a little and begins to purr-- He doesn't wake. Today out on the limb (The limb he thinks he can't climb down from) He mewed until I heard him in the house. I climbed up to get him down: he mewed. What he says and what he sees are limited. My own response is even more constricted. I think, "It's lucky; what you have is too." What do you have except--well, me? I joke about it but it's not a joke; The house and I are all he remembers. Next month how will he guess that it is winter And not just entropy, the universe Plunging at last into its cold decline? I cannot think of him without a pang. Poor rumpled thing, why don't you see That you have no more, really, than a man? Men aren't happy; why are you?

The cats sleep for days at a time and make love from the first star until dawn. Their pleasures are fierce, and their sleep impenetrable. And they know that the body has a soul in which the soul has no part.

The cat arrived with a bottle of Scotch.

The cat is an obligate carnivore and it is in its nature that it must eat meat. This is corroborated by the fact that cat's senses are made for “a crepuscular and predatory niche”. They are hunters, carnivores that show no developmental predisposition for herbivore lifestyle based on the current knowledge of their ancestral and genetic development.

The cat is beauty and the beast, a baffling blend, a wicked feast. For all who dream of varied light, the cat holds both the dark and bright.

The cat required far less attendance than a human child, which is one of the reasons why spinster ladies prefer felines to babies.

The catte is... in youth swyfte, plyante and merry and lepeth and reseth on all thynge that is before him, and is led by a strawe and playeth therwith. And is a righy hevy beast in age, and ful slepy, and lieth slily in wait for myce... and when he taketh a mouse he playeth therwith, and eateth him after the play... and he maketh a rutheful noyse and gustful when one proffereth to fyghte with another.

The cat uses trees, as stated, as many things but here it would not uncommon to see the oak as the marker, not the stone. Cats would spray the tree, not necessarily the rock. A rock as a further marker would be a non-essential redundancy that a cat would more or less ignore. It would be like saying one needed to ignore the law of God (written on the stone) to honour their promise to not honour foreign gods. The human reaction of obvious strangeness would begin here. If the tree is seen as an item to climb, the rendition would get more queer to the human interpretation.

The chick last night marked you,” he said, gesturing to my throat. “Might be a stalker. You’ll want to prepare to wake up with your balls removed.” “Raven might cut off my balls, but not because she’s a stalker. More like she’s just in a bad mood or gassy.” Tawny looked at me then shook her head. “Oh, Vaughn. You’re fucked.” “Actually, I was and quite well. In fact, I think she bruised my hip bones.” Laughing, Tawny cuddled against Judd. “When’s the wedding?” Once Judd started laughing, I flipped them off and looked at my menu. “We’re fuck buddies. Nothing more.” Judd nodded. “Makes sense. A man of your stupidity couldn’t handle a relationship. Best to keep your life simple.” “She’s hot. That’s all I care about.” “She is hot,” Tawny said, smiling easier now. “She could probably land a rich guy with those looks.” “Did you just call me poor?” “I only mean she could get someone better than a manwhore with commitment issues.” “Fuck you,” I said and Judd looked ready to hit me. “I could commit if I wanted to. If I wasn’t expecting to die soon, I’d commit all over the fucking place.” “You don’t even have a pet.” “Who would take care of my pet when I died?” “If it was a cat, we’d take it in.” Judd frowned. “No more cats.” “One more wouldn’t hurt. In fact, if we have a bunch of cats, people will stop asking when we’re having a kid.” Judd’s frown disappeared. “Another cat wouldn’t be the end of the world.” “Judd’s the one who can’t commit,” I muttered. “He’s married and we have two cats. We’re plenty committed. You’re the one getting hickeys from a girl who likely will marry someone else in a few months.” “Why a few months?” “I don’t know. I just feel like she’ll be married in a few months. A rich guy.” “Are you psychic now?” “Yes, I’m going to open a shop and tell people their fortunes.” Smiling, Judd kissed her forehead. “A businesswoman. That’s sexy.” “Don’t even think about ditching me again so you two can fuck. You can hump each other later.” “Oh, we will,” Tawny said, waving over the waitress.

The Chilson District Library Bookmobile began its maiden voyage. Me, three thousand books, one hundred DVDs, a dozen jigsaw puzzles, two laptop computers-and one Eddie.

The domestic cat is a bit of a contradiction. It freely accepts human friendship while never allowing even the most contented life to dim its sense of who it is and what it is capable of.

The domesticated cat in many homes is a friend, a companion, a family member. It is seen as a symbol of grace and poise both in ancient Egypt and in modern society. Women are oft described as cats as men are described as dogs in metaphor as well. Religious adoration of cats was also in ancient Egypt.1 So in some aspects they have, at least, a religious context. This, though, is not what one should look at primarily for a clear indication of their connection to religion. They are examples of a spectrum of how natural spirituality had developed over time.

The factories, the jails, the drunken days and nights, the hospitals have weakened and shaken me like a mouse in the mouth of a hip-cat: life. - from an Aug. 1965 letter to Jim Roman "On Cats

The first thing was not to panic, because all panic does is escalate the problem. (This is the first mistake that people make in situations like this: the cats lose their pee and the humans lose their shit.)

The Fur Person learned then and there that it is better to be a philosopher than to be a king and that, all things considered, wisdom was to be preferred to power.

The gym cat appears to those who will die. He is our totem." This thought came to me a few weeks ago. I shared it with no one of course.

The house-cat is a four-legged quadruped, the legs as usual being at the corners. It is what is sometimes called a tame animal, though it feeds on mice and birds of prey. Its colours are striped, it does not bark, but breathes through its nose instead of its mouth. Cats also mow, which you all have heard. Cats have nine liveses, but which is seldom wanted in this country, coz' of Christianity. Cats eat meat and most anythink speshuelly where you can't afford. That is all about cats." (From a schoolboy's essay, 1903.)

The human race can be roughly divided into two categories: ailurophiles and ailurophobes - cat lovers and the underprivileged.

The living often don’t appreciate how complicated the world looks when you are dead, because while death frees the mind from the straitjacket of three dimensions it also cuts it away from Time, which is only another dimension. So while the cat that rubbed up against his invisible legs was undoubtedly the same cat that he had seen a few minutes before, it was also quite clearly a tiny kitten and a fat, half-blind old moggy and every stage in between. All at once. Since it had started off small it looked like a white, catshaped carrot, a description that will have to do until people invent proper four-dimensional adjectives.

The love of one cat simply can't be compared with the love of another..

The man who will not defend the honour of his cat cannot be trusted to defend anything.

The mathematical probability of a common cat doing exactly as it pleases is the one scientific absolute in the world.

The next day, Trixie pawed Maddie awake, patting her arm gently. “I’m up,” Maddie groaned, blinking sleep out of her eyes. “Mrrow.” Trixie peered at her, then gave her a soft nose kiss, her whiskers skimming Maddie’s cheeks. “Thanks, Trixie.” The gesture touched Maddie’s heart, and she wondered how she’d managed to live without a pet until Trixie came into her life.

The next morning, as I picked an Eddie hair off my pant leg, I again considered the possibility of cats controlling the world. "It's possible," I muttered to myself as I dropped the hair into a wastebasket, "that they already do.

The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter, It isn't just one of your holiday games; You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES. First of all, there's the name that the family use daily, Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James, Such as Victor or Jonathan, or George or Bill Bailey - All of them sensible everyday names. There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter, Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames: Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter - But all of them sensible everyday names. But I tell you, a cat needs a name that's particular, A name that's peculiar, and more dignified, Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular, Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride? Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum, Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat, Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum - Names that never belong to more than one cat. But above and beyond there's still one name left over, And that is the name that you never will guess; The name that no human research can discover - But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess. When you notice a cat in profound meditation, The reason, I tell you, is always the same: His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name: His ineffable effable Effanineffable Deep and inscrutable singular Name.

Then I laughed because here I was having a conversation with a cat about having a conversation with a cat.

The purr is very important. It's the purr that does it every time. It's the purr that makes up for the Things Under the Bed, the occasional pungency, the 4 a.m. yowl. Other creatures went in for big teeth, long legs or over-active brains, while cats just settled for a noise that tells the world they're feeling happy.

Then the cow asked: "What is a mirror?" "It is a hole in the wall," said the cat. "You look in it, and there you see the picture, and it is so dainty and charming and ethereal and inspiring in its unimaginable beauty that your head turns round and round, and you almost swoon with ecstasy.

The only purpose of cats is that they constitute mobile decorative objects, a concept which I find intellectually interesting, but unfortunately our cats have such drooping bellies that this does not apply to them.

THE RAINBOW OF THE NIGHT In this adventure of soul and spirit I have seen great men leave alcohol, their family, music, meditation and the company of the living saints But they could never leave behind the coffee of the late hours of the night nor his yellow cats They only fit in the children and in the rainbows of the night How can they have choice?

The realest of cats love with all of their being...

The noisy jay swoops by and reviles me, he complains of my meow and my malingering. I too am not a bit subdued, I too am uncontrollable, I sound my splenetic yowl over the roof of the house." (From Meow of Myself, from LEAVES OF CATNIP)

The problem with cats is that they get the same exact look whether they see a moth or an ax-murderer.

There are always cats around Charlie's, but they are usually refugees seeking asylum from the local rat population, and rather desperately friendly.

There are only a few things that are more entertaining than watching a cat trying to run across a freshly waxed wood floor after a ball.

There is a certain concentrated, avid-for-blood look that appears on the faces of reporters on the trail of a very big story that you'd have to visit the big cat house at the zoo to see duplicated in its primal state. From the look on Brenda's face, if a tiger was standing between her and this story right now, the cat would soon have a tall-journalist-sized hole in him.

There are those who have suggested that the tendency of a cat to play with its prey is a merciful one...

There is something about a man with a beard I cannot stand. No particular reason for it. Prejudice, I suppose. I feel the same way about cats.

There is, incidently, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person.

There is no known cure for severe affection for one's cat. The only way to relieve the symptoms is to go ahead and launch a kiss attack.

...there is the fable, Chinese I think, literary I am sure: of a period on earth when the dominant creatures were cats: who after ages of trying to cope with the anguishes of mortality---famine, plague, war, injustice, folly, greed---in a word, civilized government---convened a congress of the wisest cat philosophers to see if anything could be done: who after long deliberation agreed that the dilemma, the problems themselves were insoluble and the only practical solution was to give it up, relinquish, abdicate, by selecting from among the lesser creatures a species, race optimistic enough to believe that the mortal predicament could be solved and ignorant enough never to learn better. Which is why the cat lives with you, is completely dependent on you for food and shelter but lifts no paw for you and loves you not; in a word, why your cat looks at you the way it does.

There is, incidentally, no way of talking about cats that enables one to come off as a sane person.

There is no creature better at delicate rudeness than a cat...

There is something dead about a lawn which has never been shadowed by the swift silhouette of a dancing kitten.

There's no thrilling anticipation of the day's first cup of coffee...nor the eye-closing delight of that first swallow of sauvignon blanc in the evening. We cats have no access to everyday mood-enhancing substances. Apart from humble catnip, there is no pharmaceutical refuge if we're suffering from boredom, depression, existential crisis, or even an everyday headache.

There was once a tiger-striped cat. This cat died a million deaths, and lived a million lives, and in those lives, various people owned him. None of those people he cared for. This cat was not afraid of death. One life, the cat became a stray cat, which meant it was free. And it met a white female cat. They became mates, and lived together. Time passed, the white cat passed away of old age. And the tiger- striped cat cried a million times. Eventually, the cat died again. But this time, it didn't come back to life.

There was a sort of gallery structure in the roof space which held a bed and also a bathroom which you could actually swing a cat in. But only if it was a reasonably patient cat and didn’t mind a few nasty cracks about the head.

There were fat cats and skinny cats. The long-tailed and the bobbed. The daring young leapers, and the old windowsill sleepers. Balls of waddling fluff, smooth-coated prowlers, and hairless ones that looked fragile and wise. The tiger-striped, the ring-tailed, and the ones with matching coloured socks and mittens. There were tabbies and calicos. Manx and Persians. Siamese and Bombay. Ragdolls and Birmans. Maine Coons and Russian Blues. There were Snowshoes and Somalis, Tonkinese and Turkish, and many, many more. Brown and beige and orange and grey and black and white and silver cats, each with gleaming eyes of emerald, or sapphire, or amber. A rainbow of precious stones.

There will always be road construction in life, and never a point when all the highways are fixed. Keep walking.