I wonder what it is like to be a cat.
Cats may fail the classic mirror test, but I don’t think that tells us much. The test was designed around a very visual primate idea of self-recognition: “Do you see yourself in the mirror and think, Ah yes, there I am—magnificent!?”
A cat probably looks in the mirror and thinks: That cat moves exactly when I move, has my face, and is standing in my house—but he has no smell. Clearly an impostor. Possibly a ghost. Either way, he is not paying rent.
Cats live in a sensory universe we barely access. Their hearing reaches frequencies we cannot hear, their noses are absurdly sophisticated, their whiskers gather information about air currents and tight spaces, and their reflexes are basically high speed special effects. They can dodge the strike of a venomous snake and then, because apparently they have no sense of self-preservation, bat it around like it owes them money.
We experience a room. A cat experiences a densely layered crime scene: smells, vibrations, insect activity, refrigerator hum, the emotional residue of yesterday’s tuna, and the suspicious history of every shoe that entered the house this week.
I have three cats: Benny, Olive, and Macaroni (actually, they have me). I have no doubt they are self-aware—not necessarily in the “I contemplate my mortality while staring at my navel” sense, although Benny may be working on that—but in the sense that they know themselves as distinct creatures with bodies, preferences, relationships, grudges, routines, and very strong opinions about whether I have opened the best tasting cat food.
I see it in their behavior. I see it in their eyes. They know when they are being watched. They recognize when another cat is getting favored treatment. They can be affectionate, jealous, gleeful, irritated, curious, territorial, playful, and occasionally so offended by something minor that they would clutch their pearls, if they had pearls. Or thumbs.
And their lives are wonderfully immediate. Three cats doing zoomies at once is not merely funny; it is a full-scale indoor wildlife documentary, featuring sudden chases, parkour, evasive maneuvers, and at least one participant clearly pursuing demons only they can see. There is always a moment when one cat freezes, stares at an empty corner, and makes you wonder whether the house came with a ghost or merely poor wiring.
Then, fifteen minutes later, they are stretched in a sunny windowsill, practicing a level of relaxation humans can only achieve with medication or having absolutely no mortgage.
Cats are no angels. Far from it. My broken knickknacks and claw-punctured leather furniture can attest to that. Also, when I leave my dinner unattended long enough to go to the bathroom, I apparently need to enlist the National Guard. A cat can be asleep in another room, under a blanket, seemingly deceased… and still materialize beside a hamburger before the refrigerator light goes off.
I know we should be cautious about projecting human emotions onto animals. But it also seems foolish to pretend cats are little biological robots. Their emotional worlds may not be identical to ours, but they clearly have rich inner lives. They appear to feel attachment, fear, pleasure, frustration, anticipation, comfort, rivalry, and what sure looks a lot like pure joy.
So yes, I want to experience their qualia. I want to know what a sunbeam feels like when your entire body is engineered for luxury. I want to hear the hidden high-frequency gossip of the universe. I want to smell a cardboard box and receive whatever sacred intelligence cats receive from it. I want to get high on catnip—it is cheaper than marijuana, legal, and apparently produces ecstatic bliss.
I want to mind-swap with my cat(s) for a day.
No—make that forever.
I also wonder what it is like to be a bat.