Cats are the aristocrats of the domestic kingdom. You don’t own them. You apply for residency in their palace, and if you’re lucky, they grant you probationary butler status. The vetting process is ruthless but disguised as charm: Can you open a can on command? Will you abandon your nap to play or offer a fishy treat? Are you willing to sleep in a position that requires spinal realignment to avoid disturbing them? If you pass these tests, you will live the rest of your days serving a small, fuzzy monarch who sometimes murders socks and delivers them to you like a hunting trophy. Breed is irrelevant—Bengals, Persians, shelter enigmas—they all know they are the reincarnation of Cleopatra, lounging on your furniture as though it were a throne and surveying their kingdom with bored contempt. They tolerate your presence because you keep the kibble flowing and the lap warm. Occasionally, they reward you with a slow blink, which is the feline equivalent of a papal blessing. Today is their day...