Since time immemorial, a single haunting question has plagued the human race, lingering in an unresolved state. Are cats better than dogs?
You won’t get an impartial answer by asking their owners, that’s for sure. Even people who have never owned a pet know that there are DOG PEOPLE and CAT PEOPLE, and never the twain shall meet.
There are weirdos out there who own both, but we all know they’re mentally ill, and probably trying to conduct some bizarre experiment in animal husbandry, if you take my meaning.
No, for all pet owners, it’s one or the other, and owners of each kind of pet will not only get in your face about their particular preference, but they will be humongous dicks about it to boot. At The Z Review, we decided to conduct an experiment, to determine once and for all, which animal is the superior pet, the cat or the dog?
After months of strenuous, backbreaking, scientific analysis, our results are in. Cats are better. Way better.
A simple, unjaundiced look at the facts will support these findings. Apart from the fact that they throw up constantly and leave mystery shits in strange places when they’re mad at you, for the most part cats are total shade queens. They will not look you in the eye, acknowledge you in any way or utter a peep of sympathy when you are beset with personal problems.
Cats don’t care if you live or die, which as the owner is pretty awesome. As long as you feed them and scoop their little Tootsie Roll poops, you will have a faithful servant who does none of the irritating sucking up that ruins so many master-subject relationships, and which dogs engage in constantly.
Dogs are slobbering doofuses who are far too forthcoming with their emotions and tend to smell bad. Talk to the hand, bitch. No one is interested, least of all me, unless you happen to be eating someone’s face on “Game of Thrones.” Then we’re cool.
This might be a good time for me to betray the fact that I am myself a cat owner. My cat is named Captain Wacky, a deep “Simpsons” joke that only a select few will recognize.
We picked Captain Wacky up 13 years ago, when we moved into an apartment in Manhattan’s East Village that was infested with mice. Captain Wacky was only a few weeks old when we brought him home but holy shit he loved killing and got right down to it, with fervor, excitement and verve.
He would take individual mice into the bathtub, from which they couldn’t escape, and bat them around for hours before ending their misery. I must stress that we adopted him from his mother at the age of about six weeks, so he received no training whatsoever in mouse torture. He just had a preternatural, innate appetite for it. It wouldn’t have surprised me to see him wearing a mask made of mouse skin, just to show everyone who was boss.
Today, we live in a ground floor apartment in Brooklyn. Our entire building is completely infested with mice, except for our apartment. The people I know with dogs regularly regale me with tales of their dog’s uselessness in dispatching these critters, to which I would ask them why they bother.
“Get a cat,” is my perennial advice. Not just in dealing with vermin, but in order to populate your home with dignified creatures that don’t give a shit whether you live or die, and don’t slobber all over you the minute you walk in the door.