DATE: Thursday, June 19, 1997               TAG: 9706190416

SECTION: LOCAL                   PAGE: B2   EDITION: FINAL 

TYPE: Column 

SOURCE: Guy Friddell 

                                            LENGTH:   54 lines

WHEN LIFE FAVORS THE DOGGONE DOGS, IT'S THE CATS WHO GET THE LAST MEOW

As befits those whose ancestors were revered as gods, America's cats disdained findings last week that dogs have been man's best friend for 135,000 years.

``So what have dogs done in that time,'' an elegant Persian sniffed, ``except pant and slobber and track mud on the Aubusson.''

``How do you spell that?'' I asked that haughty cat.

``If you have to ask, you needn't know,'' she said.

The cat, she said, is the aristocrat, kin to lions.

And, in truth, cats in Egypt kept rats out of grain bins. Sun goddess Bubastis had the head of a cat.

Phoenician traders took Egyptian cats to Europe. Mating with wild cats, they bred domestic cats that traveled with colonists to the New World. They became ancestors of most of the cats in the United States. True bluebloods.

Independent-minded cats won't deign to do silly tricks, but they are adept in opening refrigerator doors.

That they are much beloved is evident in statistics from the American Pet Products Manufacturers. Some 54.6 million dogs are pets, compared with 66 million cats.

Among 68 million pet-owning households, 36.4 million have dogs and 31.5 million have cats.

Those figures break down to 1.5 dogs per household and 2.1 cats.

A friend who harbors three cats explains that boisterous dogs need endless attention. Cats consider them big babies. Dogs demand more hours than many Americans can spare from their jobs. It is easier, she said, to mind three cats than tend one dog.

The lordly cat can be left alone for hours without sniveling. It is confident its provider will return and it has the wit to amuse itself. The graceful cat walks as if it is picking its way through glass.

You never have to bathe a cat. It grooms itself. To a cat every day is an Easter parade.

My friend had two cats - Shadow, a smoke-gray male, and Maeve, a long-haired patchwork cat - until a tabby showed up in the garden. Wary, standoffish, the stray valued her selfhood. Though famished, the new Garden Cat declined to let anyone touch her, and she refused to accept food.

What kept Garden Cat around was her fascination with Shadow. They became pals; she shared his food, and, finally, friendship with their provider.

``To bring Garden Cat into the circle,'' her provider said, ``took another cat.''

But the emerging triangle displeased Maeve. She hissed, cuffed at the other two cats, and became out of sorts, frowsy.

Then, seated on a front step, I felt something fan the back of my neck, and then a push under my elbow as Maeve came under the crook of my arm and wound around, settling in my lap, fond as any dog.

She had found another stray.

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