Cats Quotes - Page 7

It takes me a while to drag him out, he's got himself stuck to the axle, and by the time I am done and stand over the body something strange has started to happen. The alley's filled with a half-dozen cats, runty little things with their ribs showing and their tails worn high like they're pointing to the moon. I stand there, breathing froth into the snowflakes and watch them gather round me, soft kitty paws, and now and then a patrol car rolls past in the distance. The cats are circling us, tails cocked at the moon, their muzzles bloodied by the tail lights' glow. They are vicious bastards, let me tell you: frost on their whiskers, eyes like cut glass, a half-dozen pairs, on me and the dead man. And then they start licking. Licking at the snow I mean, the blood in the snow, they lap it up like mother's milk. And all the while from their throats, from their whole bodies, there issues this sound, you hear it with your skin, it's like an engine running under your palm. That's when I realize they are purring, man, purring as they feed on the midget's death.

All cat stories start with the statement: 'My mother, who was the first cat, told me this,' and I lay with Jonas listening to his stories.

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 contemplationOf the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:His ineffable effableEffanineffableDeep and inscrutable singular Name.

I fall short of her standards. She made me buy cat food that hasn't been tested on animals. My cats took one bite of it, spit it out, and yelled, "Did no one test this?

Sakaki: "...Why can't we just talk it over...?"Tomo: "You can't talk to cats.

I hope people don't take kittens on a whim, like they would a toy, then not care for them.

Roen said, "I can't quit. I have rent, and a cat to support.

We...we could be friends.'We COULD be rare specimens of an exotic breed of dancing African elephants, but we're not. At least, I'M not.

Wasn't growing catnip in one's yard the kitty equivalent of giving candy to children?

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.

Guilt isn't in cat vocabulary. They never suffer remorse for eating too much, sleeping too long or hogging the warmest cushion in the house. They welcome every pleasurable moment as it unravels and savour it to the full until a butterfly or falling leaf diverts their attention. They don't waste energy counting the number of calories they've consumed or the hours they've frittered away sunbathing.Cats don't beat themselves up about not working hard enough. They don't get up and go, they sit down and stay. For them, lethargy is an art form. From their vantage points on top of fences and window ledges, they see the treadmills of human obligations for what they are - a meaningless waste of nap time.

You fuck - you ate my cat!

Another cat? Perhaps. For love there is also a season; its seeds must be resown. But a family cat is not replaceable like a wornout coat or a set of tires. Each new kitten becomes its own cat, and none is repeated. I am four cats old, measuring out my life in friends that have succeeded but not replaced one another.

You can never know where I am or what I am,But I am good company to you nonetheless,And really do regret I broke your ink

At the railroad station he noted that he still had thirty minutes. He quickly recalled that in a cafe on the Calle Brazil (a few dozen feet from Yrigoyen's house) there was an enormous cat which allowed itself to be caressed as if it were a disdainful divinity. He entered the cafe. There was the cat, asleep. He ordered a cup of coffee, slowly stirred the sugar, sipped it (this pleasure had been denied him in the clinic), and thought, as he smoothed the cat's black coat, that this contact was an illusion and that the two beings, man and cat, were as good as separated by a glass, for man lives in time, in succession, while the magical animal lives in the present, in the eternity of the instant.

This will not be the end of the Clans. As long as I have breath in body, the Clans will be safe.

Faraway a leopard barked that high, dissatisfied deep roar it cuts off so sharply, as if its annoyance is too great to express, can only be appeased.

MiaowConsider me.I sit here like Tiberius,inscrutable and grand.I will let "I dare not"wait upon "I would"and bear the twanglingof your small guitarbecause you are my owland foster me with milk.Why wet my paw?Just keep me in a bagand no one knows the truth.I am familiar with witchesand stand a better chance in hell than youfor I can dance on hot bricks,leap your heightand land on all fours.I am the servant of the Living God.I worship in my way. Look into these slit green stonesand follow your reflected lights into the dark.Michel, Duc de Montaigne, knew.You don't play with me.I play with you.

Pets reflect you like mirrors. When you are happy, you can see your dog smiling and when you are sad, your cat cries.

The cat . . . is for the man who appreciates beauty as the one living force in a blind and purposeless universe.

Tramps and vagabonds have marks they make on gateposts and trees and doors, letting others of their kind know a little about the people who live at the houses and farms they pass on their travels. I think cats must leave similar signs; how else to explain the cats who turn up at our door through the year, hungry and flea-ridden and abandoned?

LanguageCrickets chirp,Birds sing, Dogs howl,It's their own thing.Cats purr,Mice squeak,Cows moo,It's not what you think.Whales whistle,Dolphins click,Snakes hiss,So listen to this.Sheep baa,Rabbits twitch,If you can't speak,It's only a glitch.A body speaks,Their hands do wave,They're all speaking together,Now don't be so naïve.It's all a language,Which we don't hear,b\Because it's not our own,What do we care!

Wrinkles was her big gray cat. Sierra named him Wrinkles because when he was a little baby he had a wrinkly face. He slept in Sierra's room, but not always on the bed. Mommy said that was 'cause Wrinkles had an attitude. Most cats had attitudes, actually.

A cat is basically a great egomaniac who keeps the human company as long as it pleases itself.

Rousseau pounced. Men who dislike cats were tyrannical: "They do not like cats because the cat is free and will never consent to become a slave.

One reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers.

Cats do not hunt seals. They would hunt them if they knew what seals and where to find them. But they do not know, so it's okay.

Cats are smarter than dogs. You can't get eight cats to pull a sled through snow.

Who would vandalize a doghouse? I ask."Cats?" Bee suggests.

Little cats mean little kids, little kids mean little cats!

I dislike this whole business of experimentation on animals, unless there's some very good and altogether exceptional reason to this very case. The thing that gets me is that it's not possible for the animals to understand why they are being called upon to suffer. They don't suffer for their own good or benefit at all, and I often wonder how far it's for anyone's. They're given no choice, and there is no central authority responsible for deciding whether what's done is morally justifiable. These experiment animals are just sentient objects; they're useful because they are able to react; sometimes precisely because they're able to feel fear and pain. And they're used as if they were electric light bulbs or boots. What it comes to is that whereas there used to be human and animal slaves, now there are just animal slaves. They have no legal rights or choices in the matter.

What greater gift than the love of a cat.

When Rome burned, the emperor's cats still expected to be fed on time.

I like pigs. Dogs look up to us. Cats look down on us. Pigs treat us as equals.

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

I explained it loudand clear. What part of "meow"don't you understand?

We may have pets, but when it comes to unconditional love, they are the masters.

Being a cat means beautiful, agile, innocent, brave, curious and trust also honorable respect for as much as not so doing bribery.

Cat rescue is like a virus," says Des placidely about the cat obsession that has taken over his life. "And once you're infected, it's incurable.

I mean to say, we all sprang from humble origins. Goodness gracious, who would have thought that a species of monkey would take over the kingdom of the world. … I cannot help but feel that the monkey was not a good choice. Surely one of the cat family would have been much more satisfactory. They have a much less emotional approach to life. ("The Shadmock")

Cats are people, and the sooner the world accepts that fact, the better off the world will be.

It was why no sane cat allowed kits to come anywhere near human beings. Humans seemed to feel that it was perfectly acceptable to teach kits to accept food from their hands as a matter of course, rather than teaching them the importance of hunting skill and self-reliance.

Like all pure creatures, cats are practical.

She's a skilled and swift fight, and I know she'll pass on her training on to you.

Oh, Hank," Susan whispered, "their wings are furry.""Oh, James," Harriet whispered, "their hands are kind.

The dog appeals to cheap and facile emotions; the cat to the deepest founts of imagination and cosmic perception in the human mind. It is no accident that the contemplative Egyptians, together with such later poetic spirits as Poe, Gautier, Baudelaire, and Swinburne, were all sincere worshippers of the supple grimalkin.

I love them, they are so nice and selfish. Dogs are TOO good and unselfish. They make me feel uncomfortable. But cats are gloriously human.

Entrails. No hissing. This is the closest we will ever come to love.

Looking back few friends had webut I've got him and he's got me.And when the golden minute comeswhen we no longer wake to smellthe river where the wild swans sailedthe orchard where the blossoms fell,we'll smile a little thinkin' of that.Me in my shirt-tails, him with his whiskersme and the cat.

Look, cat, you and I are never going to be friends. She’s going tocall you Max, but I’m going to call you Shit Head. And if you think forone second—” The cat lies down in a tight little ball of nastiness andfalls asleep. “Oh, please. Make yourself at home by sleeping on myscrotum.” I peek out into the sitting room area that connects to thefour bedrooms, and then glance back at the kitten. Releasing a sigh ofdiscontent, I pet Shit Head with one finger. He purrs extra hard, andI find myself wondering if I could train him to do things. Every heroneeds a sidekick, and I’m nothing if not a Grade-A Hero. - Dante Walker

In fiction, I exercise my nosiness. I am as curious as my cats, and indeed that has led to trouble often enough and used up several of my nine lives. I am an avid listener. I am fascinated by other people's lives, the choices they make and how that works out through time, what they have done and left undone, what they tell me and what they keep secret and silent, what they lie about and what they confess, what they are proud of and what shames them, what they hope for and what they fear. The source of my fiction is the desire to understand people and their choices through time.

I always imagined that cats were the Paris Hiltons of the pet world: They didn't quite deserve all the attention but they got it anyway.

Walter had never liked cats. They'd seemed to him the sociopaths of the pet world, a species domesticated as an evil necessary for the control of rodents and subsequently fetishized the way unhappy countries fetishize their militaries, saluting the uniforms of killers as cat owners stroke their animals' lovely fur and forgive their claws and fangs. He'd never seen anything in a cat's face but simpering incuriosity and self-interest; you only had to tease one with a mouse-toy to see where it's true heart lay...cats were all about using people

Cats will amusingly tolerate humans only until someone comes up with a tin opener that can be operated with a paw.

People happily kill other people in the name of everything from a god to a country to an overly developed sense of annoyance when someone cuts across two lanes on a freeway without signaling. Cats will, on occasion, kill other cats but for the most part they are content to puff up their furr, yowl like banshees, and rip the occassional ear off - and all this is usually done for the sake of food or protecting their own territory (which may not be condonable but it is at least rational) .

As every cat owner knows, nobody owns a cat.

When a cat flatters ... he is not insincere: you may safely take it for real kindness.

Once when I had remarked on the affection quite often found between cat and dog, my friend replied, "Yes. But I bet no dog would ever confess it to the other dogs.

John Grady looked at the table. The paper cat stepped thin and slant among the shapes of cats thereon. He looked up again. Yessir, he said. Just me and him.

Majid gave me a brief dazzling golden stare and then half-lidded his eyes again. I know when my life is being threatened.