What does it mean to be feline? Does anyone know?
This is a human question, of course; a cat understands it own secrets,
and guards them with a yawn and the swipe of a dainty paw.
Is the essence of the cat in the twitching whiskers, the flick of a tail?
Or is it in the half-lidded stare that gloats in its own supremacy,
that predatory surveyal of its domain?

No matter how friendly, the cat will never tell. In their eyes, I think,
the Egyptians had it right - worship, worship, worship,
and never question. The mystery is everything!
No mere human, of course, could ever really hope
to attain to such a Mystery; it’s the secret of ages,
passed from mother to kitten for generations.

Perhaps that is what it means to be feline: to be forever a mystery,
laughing in the face of those who can only wonder at your greatness.