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THE MEMOIRS OF A CAT
expressed in the system of phonetics called human. language. His egocentrism quite amazingly and illogically has made a virtue out of this really humiliating restriction upon his power of expression and understanding. He stakes his claim to superiority on the doubtful ground that the power of articulated speech marks him out as a special creation of his God. I say, his God, because his God, being made by himself after his own image, must be a human God, utterly incapable of having any mutual understanding with the rest of the organic forms evolved out of the primeval slime. We, naturally, have no use for such God. Our God must be of our kind. A nice, swaggering tom cat, for example, is the ideal object of adoration and worship for a young pretty thing like myself. (By the way, did I mention my sex ?) Being an Indian she-cat, I, of course, have inherited the most outstanding and lyrically praised characteristics of Aryan womanhood. The male being, to whom she happens to be hitched on, is the God incarnate for the female. This is not particularly an Indian principle; for, essentially, this idealised code of female conduct is based upon a carnal, and therefore natural, desire. I share this habit of the female to worship the male; because it is the sublimated super-structure of a biological urge which is the only convincing expression of divine purpose, if one is to make such an assumption to make up for human ignorance. But let me not
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