Do Cats Know Too Much? A Deeply Unscientific Investigation

0 0

Right, so let’s just get one thing out the way first: cats are weird. Brilliant, adorable, fluffy little enigmas—but weird. And I say this as someone who’s lived with several of them over the years, from the angelic loaf-of-bread type who just sleeps all day, to the gremlin who knocks over mugs at 3am because I didn’t refill her bowl exactly to the line. The thing is, there’s something about cats that makes you think… do they know? Like, not just know where the treats are kept or what time dinner’s meant to happen, but know in a deep, eerie, almost-too-human way.

It starts small. Maybe you catch them staring at you from across the room with that slow blink that either means “I love you” or “I’m watching your every move.” Or perhaps you’re just sitting there, minding your own business, and your cat suddenly sprints across the flat like it’s being chased by demons only it can see. Harmless stuff. But then, one night, you’re crying into a glass of wine over a breakup, and there they are, curled up beside you—not like a dog, all sympathy and licks, but just there, existing with you in that deeply personal moment. And you realise… this little fluff monster knows too much.

Cats, unlike dogs, don’t need you. That’s the most unnerving bit. They tolerate us. They let us feed them, pet them (if they’re in the mood), and clean up their messes. But need us? Nah. They’ve got this air of superiority, like they remember a time when they were worshipped as gods in ancient Egypt and haven’t quite gotten over the demotion. And maybe they haven’t. Maybe that’s why they watch us so closely. They’re keeping tabs.

There’s that moment every cat owner’s experienced—walking into a room and seeing your cat bolt away from something suspicious, like they’ve just been using your laptop or studying the electric bill. You try to act cool, like, “Nothing going on here,” but deep down you wonder: was she Googling how to fake her own death and move in with the neighbour who has better snacks?

One of my cats used to perch on top of the fridge. Not weird in itself, but what was strange was that she’d always be there before anything dramatic happened. If I burnt something, stubbed my toe, had a minor existential crisis—bam, she was already there, judging me from her cold plastic throne. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe she could smell drama a mile away.

Let’s not forget the classic cat move: the 3am wake-up. You know the one. You’re fast asleep, deep in dreamland, and suddenly there’s a paw on your face. Or worse, the sound of something shattering in the kitchen. You stumble in, bleary-eyed, only to find Mr Fluffington sitting calmly amid the ruins of your wine glass collection like he’s just completed a performance art piece. And when you ask him “Why?”, he just blinks. Slowly. Like you’re the unreasonable one.

And don’t get me started on the bathroom situation. Why do cats insist on being there every single time? Not once have I had a private moment on the loo since adopting mine. They follow you in, sit directly in front of you, and stare. Not just a normal stare—an unblinking, soul-piercing gaze like they’re memorising every regret you’ve ever had. I’ve had interviews less intimidating.

I reckon cats know everything because they never stop observing. They’re the ultimate little spies. Dogs will react to things; cats just note them. Quietly. Like your worst habits are being filed away for future blackmail. You think they haven’t noticed you sneaking that second biscuit at midnight or talking to yourself in funny voices? Oh, they’ve noticed. And they’re silently judging.

Some people say it’s nonsense, that we’re just projecting human traits onto animals. But those are usually the ones who don’t have cats. Anyone who’s lived with one knows they’ve got this spooky emotional radar. If you’re anxious, they pick up on it. If you’re too happy, they mysteriously disappear—probably off to remind you that happiness is fleeting and dinner is late.

And then there’s the way they choose when to be affectionate. You’ll be rushing out the door, already late, and suddenly your cat decides now is the moment for cuddles. Why? Is it genuine love? Or are they just flexing the fact that they can control your life with one slow head-boop? I swear mine waits until I’ve put on black jeans just to sit on me. Not next to me—on me. Covered in white fur like a furry little revenge plot.

It’s not just inside the house, either. I’ve heard stories—so many stories—about cats who knew things they shouldn’t. Like the cat who sat by the door for three hours before their owner came home early from a cancelled flight. Or the one who wouldn’t leave a guest’s suitcase alone, only for said guest to later admit they’d brought home food from another cat’s house. Feline loyalty apparently doesn’t stretch that far.

But perhaps the most damning evidence is how cats react to certain people. They always seem to know when someone’s not to be trusted. If your cat likes your date, that’s a green flag. If they hiss or leg it under the bed, maybe take that as divine feline intervention. I once dated a bloke who claimed he didn’t mind cats but “preferred dogs”—my cat sat on his face while he slept. We broke up a week later. She knew.

So, do cats know too much? Honestly, yeah. But not in a sinister way. It’s more like they’re cosmic librarians who happen to be really into sunbeams and shredding the corners of your couch. They’re wise, aloof, occasionally demonic, but also deeply comforting in a “I-see-your-soul-and-accept-it” sort of way.

At the end of the day, maybe it’s not about what cats know. Maybe it’s about what they choose to reveal. They’re not here to please us. They’re here to remind us that life is chaotic, naps are sacred, and sometimes knocking things off shelves is just good fun.

So go home tonight, pour a glass of wine, and tell your cat your secrets. Just know they’re definitely storing them away for later—probably while plotting to sit directly on your laptop during your next Zoom meeting.