The soft dictatorship

The personal is political and the political is personal.

I personally favour a socially liberal, free political environment, but I live my life under a 'dictatorship of the soft'. This is not at all what Marx or Lenin saw coming, but all they had to deal with were kaisers and czars. I have cats.

The prevailing system in this household is what I call 'unenlightened furry despotism'. The supreme ruler is Spot, whose picture appears above.

Imperious Meow, aka The Despot, established her rule at the age of three months. One evening she rounded the corner into the living room and saw me on the couch, with the ironing board open next to me. She jumped up on the board, from which vantage point she could look down on me. She made eye contact and then barked a sharp, concise command: "Meow!"

I didn't understand right off what she was trying to say. I looked at her and responded with my own "meow!" She looked indignant. "Meow!" she repeated. Because it was so cute, I kept responding in kind, but she eventually wore me out. Once I remained silent for a good couple of minutes, she seemed satisfied and jumped off the board, headed for a victory celebration of piling individual pieces of paper under my bed - she used to do that, very methodically and purposefully.

All semblance of equality disappeared that night. In the picture you can see her sitting on the imperial pillow her grandmother bought her, where she symbollically sits on and smothers a wolf. She only climbs down when she wants to play with something, use the litter, explore the balcony or hallway, or terrorize her twin brother, Ares. For food, she issues commands from the pillow. For affection, the same thing. If Ares eats treats or drinks water while she is on her throne, she barks and moans at him until he goes away.

Ares and I are both stronger than her but we do what she says. It's said that no dictator rules for long without the implicit consent of his or her subjects, and I think this is a good example - we have internalized the idea of her dominance to such an extent that we don't even question it anymore. And when my obedience wavers, she sprawls on her back or side, revealing her soft, white, furry tummy, which she knows I can't resist. She's also not stingy with corrective measures such as nosebites and swats across the face or arms to protest real or perceived slights.

The Despotic Kitten is also an expert in psychological warfare. She stares Ares down to back him away from his chicken-flavoured treats. Spot doesn't like them herself, but she doesn't want him to enjoy them, and has kicked them out of his bowl and used them as toys. She sometimes stands at the entry to the balcony when he's out there, barring him from coming back in.

Spot cultivates a cult of personality, and I'm not the only one who gets sucked in. Spot and Ares turn six on Saturday, and my crazy-cat-person mother sent them cards and a 20-dollar bill for cat toys, of which they already have plenty. She also sent them a Mozart music DVD meant for human infants and toddlers, to develop their aesthetic and mental capabilities. Although the gifts are to be distributed equally, my mother has confessed a special love for Spot, who seems to return the affection. I think it takes one control freak to truly appreciate another.

OK, enough for now. I'm being summoned. The hind paws are elevated and the expressive green eyes are shining brightly. "Meow," she said.