Bubble Suds: Cats Don't Understand Psychology

Cats don't understand psychology. They just don't. It's beyond their comprehension, and goes far beyond their normal thought processes: eating and being selfish.

These two things are a cats primary goal in life, so it's understandable that a concept like psychology would go beyond their intellectual capacity. But I had to test my theory.

I had various experiments at the ready, and waited for the perfect opportunity to put them to use. However, life presented me with the perfect opportunity without any preparation time and planning.

Sometimes things work out that way.

I was sitting at my computer, probably procrastinating on some project or paper I should be writing. It's usually what I do when I'm sitting at my computer. My cat, Socks, took it upon himself to jump up and settle down.

This normally wouldn't be a problem. However, he seems to struggle with the settling down part.

For whatever reason, a cat becomes compelled to cause a mass amount of havoc and destruction whenever they're faced with a desk, dresser, table, or anything else above the ground. Socks was no exception.

My recently acquired houseplants were a filet freakin' mignon, and he got the highest satisfaction out of knocking things over with the object of destruction he called a tail.

After he had successfully knocked over my lamp, unplugged my computer, and disheveled Barnaby the plant, I decided that it was time for him to leave. It wasn't as easy to do as it was to decide it. Every time I reached for him, he took it upon himself to flop onto his side in a grandiose and exaggerated fashion, and then stretch himself as far as his little contortionist body would allow. This only caused more destruction and knocked some more items and knick-knacks askew.

After much struggling on both of our parts, I finally picked him up and gently placed him on the ground.

Now, it's understandable if he didn't grasp the concept the first time. I understand, Socks. It's okay.

He didn't grasp it at all, and less than a minute later he had hopped back onto my desk. We went through the same procedures before I gently placed him on the ground for the second time.

Unfortunately, we repeated this process. The process never ended. I removed him, and he'd find a way to get back up again. My methods of getting him back onto the floor gradually grew more violent, and by the twelfth time I had resorted to heaving him onto my bed, hoping he'd get the message.

I built barriers out of stuffed animals, folders and other knickknacks I had lying around on my desk. It didn't work. He found a way to get around them or hurt himself trying, which he did on various occasions.

I'm not sure why my desk was so appealing, because it wasn't as if there was anything to gain by being up there. I've decided it was because he wasn't supposed to be up there, and much like a child he had made it his one and only goal to do exactly that: be where he wasn't supposed to be and cause trouble along the way.

Regardless, my tactics were failing. I had lost what little I had wrote of that english paper and a few sketches due to an untimely shutdown. Multiple untimely shutdowns.

As I looked at my (untouched) psychology folder, a thought came to mind. Ivan motherfucking Pavlov had led me astray.

Sock's stimulus was jumping onto the desk. The response was that he got his ass thrown off of it every time he tried. Why didn't he grasp this concept? Desk = get the hell off.

After making this discovery, I had to come to grips with the fact that my cat may be, possibly, retarded. This theory applies to all living things, does it not Ivan? Ivan?

Then again, they are called Pavlov's dogs.