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  I thought that if guardians could recognize and massage this present state of confidence, as simplistic as it may seem, it could help them head off most of the “symptoms” they complain so bitterly about, including cases of aggression and inappropriate litterbox behaviors. As I paced around the room, trying to humanize this strut, this confident swagger, the first vocal manifestation of the physicality came out of my mouth—the gusto-filled refrain from one of my musical heroes, Muddy Waters: “I got my mojo workin’!”

  The hook had come, and I was not about to let it slip away. I had to wake myself up. I splashed water on my face. I slapped myself on the back of my neck, something I think a friend of mine taught me in high school to keep me awake during class. I even stepped outside my apartment into the Colorado winter in the dead of night, in nothing but my robe, partly to keep my mojo working and partly just to be aware of the moment, because I was so sure that it would be one I’d want to remember. And I was right; as time has gone on, it’s not an exaggeration to say that almost everything I have built in the name of helping cats revolves around humans understanding Cat Mojo.

  NOW, WE’RE BACK in Buenos Aires, back to the moment of crickets and creeping dread. I’m on that stage, asking the audience a simple question: “How many people here know what the word ‘mojo’ means?” Two, maybe three people—out of five hundred—raise their hands. I had built my career on a word that was falling on not just deaf ears, but on very confused ears.

  Because of the language barrier (and because I am completely panicking and without words, English or otherwise), I have no choice but to demonstrate. I am forced back to that night in Boulder, forced to find and deliver that hook again; I need to find something that (a) my audience can relate to, and (b) my translator can translate. And all I can think of is Saturday Night Fever. And that scares me.

  I have no time to consider whether this would be a really bad, evening-sinking choice . . . so away I go, painting a picture, faithful to my teenage memories, of the opening frames of the movie:

  The Bee Gee’s “Stayin’ Alive” is pounding. The camera captures the sidewalk of Brooklyn, tracking upward from ’70s fabulous-looking shoes. It starts to pan up from hem to belt of flared-out and equally fabulous pants, past the silky, open-to-the-chest shirt, finally rising to reveal John Travolta, a.k.a. Tony Manero. He is carrying a can of paint in one hand and a slice of pizza in the other. And we discover, from shoes to perfect hair, the definition of swagger; Muddy Waters must surely be nodding his head in vigorous affirmation from somewhere in the great blues beyond—Tony has his mojo workin’.

  I pause a beat to gauge response. Between the increasingly frenetic tempo and tone of my interpreter, and the steady outbreak of knowing smiles throughout the theater, I know the audience is getting it. So I begin to imitate the Manero strut.

  Tony knows things. In the spirit of mojo, he doesn’t know these things as a way of convincing himself of his status. He. Just. Knows. The girls want to be with him, and the guys want to be him. Most important, Tony knows that Tony owns Brooklyn. Or at least this couple of blocks of Brooklyn. And that is understood wordlessly, spoken through the Mojo-fied language of swagger. The Manero strut is not a walk of demonstration, of proving. It is simply the outer manifestation of a grounded inner sense of ownership and belonging. The pizza grease dripping off his chin, the cans of paint that signify his lack of status, even the unresponsiveness of the numerous women he is catcalling along the way—none of it matters.

  Doing the Manero strut back and forth across the expansive stage has me winded. With my hands on my knees, I look up and am met with excited murmurs and head nodding, telling me that I just dodged a bullet for sure. Having my feet held to the fire by a language barrier is the best thing that could have happened. That night in Buenos Aires marks a maturation of the concept of Cat Mojo, not only because I can define it in a way that I never thought I had to, but because I now know that I can show anyone, regardless of cultural differences, what mojo is, and that their mojo comes from the exact same place as Cat Mojo.

  FROM MY LATE-NIGHT epiphany in Boulder to the night in Buenos Aires seventeen years later, to every live performance, every in-home consultation, every class I’ve taught, and every episode of My Cat from Hell—it all leads us here, to this book: Total Cat Mojo. My primary occupation through these years actually has not been about solving cat issues, but about teaching you how to find, cultivate, and hold on to mojo. Am I referring to you or your cat right now? Well, both, really. Because if you got your mojo workin’, it’s a heck of a lot easier to bring it out of your cat. And if your cat has his mojo workin’, it’s enough to make any human smile with envy . . . even Tony Manero.

  Section

  ONE

  The History of the Mojo-fied World—From Raw Cat to Your Cat

  Cat Daddy Dictionary: Cat Mojo

  For cats, Mojo is all about confidence. Mojo is proactive, rather than reactive. Cats’ source of Mojo is unquestioned ownership of their territory and having an important job to do within that territory. That job is a biological imperative that cats inherited from their wildcat ancestors, and I call it: Hunt, Catch, Kill, Eat, Groom, Sleep. When we create a rhythm that mirrors that of the Raw Cat—the ancestor—we’re there. When cats are at home inside their bodies, they can make the space outside their bodies their home as well.

  1

  Who Is the Raw Cat?

  THERE IS ANOTHER cat living inside your cat. Strip away the “creature comforts”—the cat beds, the mouse-shaped toys, a life spent looking out the window, or lying peacefully on the couch. You might see a glimpse of that other cat when she wakes you up in the middle of the night hunting your toes under the blanket—and there you’ll find that “other” whom I call the Raw Cat. In essence, the Raw Cat is your cat’s ancestral twin. These twins, separated by eons, are nonetheless in very close contact, as if there were a tin-can-and-string telephone connecting them through their DNA strands. Through that straight and unadulterated line, the Raw Cat sends constant transmissions to your companion about the urgency of securing territory, hunting, killing, eating, and staying ever alert, because just as cats hunt, they are also being hunted.

  Everything about our cats, from their territorial identification and nutritional requirements to the ways they play and behave, are linked back to their raw twin. These characteristics all represent a shared prime objective, passed down with minor dilution, over tens of thousands of years. In fact, when you take into consideration how many traits—both physical and behavioral—that your cat has retained from the Raw Cat, it’s safe to say that from an evolutionary standpoint, these twins are almost identical.

  Throughout this book, I’ll be asking you to tune into your cat’s rawness because that’s where Mojo lives. You’ll start to recognize when she’s tapping into her Raw Cat, and you’ll learn the importance of knowing how and where that happens. But I also want you to have a true 360-degree perspective of her moment-to-moment actions, and that only reveals itself once we understand why the pulse of the Raw Cat beats so close to the surface.

  RAW CAT ROOTS

  Once upon a time—a really long time ago—the first inkling of cat-ness happened when carnivores appeared on earth. Carnivores evolved from smaller mammals around 42 million years ago. Members of this order (which includes cats, dogs, bears, raccoons, and many other species) are defined by the structure of their teeth—which are designed to shear meat—and not by their diet. (Some members of the order Carnivora are omnivorous or even vegetarians.)

  The Carnivora (evolutionarily speaking) split into two groups, or “suborders”: the doglike animals—called the Caniformia, and the catlike animals—called the Feliformia. And what exactly helped define them as “catlike”? Well, what would you call a group of ambush hunters who tended to be more carnivorous than other members of Carnivora? I’d call that the very Rawest Cat!

  Cat Daddy Fa
ct

  The genomes of tigers and domestic cats are over 96 percent similar—meaning the proteins that make the cat “blueprint” are organized similarly in many cat species.

  A BEAUTIFUL MUTATION IS BORN! HOW NEW SPECIES COME ABOUT

  As we’re looking at our evolutionary cat timeline, you might be asking, “What’s with all of these splits and divergences?” They mark periods when there was an ancestral species—the grandparent of all those cats, so to speak—and from that grandparent, a separate family branched off to do its own cat thing.

  Specifically, new species form when genetic changes occur over time and cause populations to mutate. These changes often happen when a group of animals becomes isolated from other members of the same species. This can be due to changes in the environment—perhaps an area becomes more or less protected, or prey abundance shifts—leading some animals to move to a different territory. There can be proximity barriers, such as when islands form or a new river emerges, creating separation between groups. And there can be behavioral factors—for example, when nocturnal animals are less likely to mate with animals who are active during the day.

  Cat Nerd Corner

  Far East, Far Out: The Origins of the Siamese Cat

  When cats spread to the Far East around 2,000 years ago, there were no local wildcats for these newcomers to interbreed with. This genetic isolation led to some mutations related to appearance, which led to several of the distinct features of the Oriental breeds—including the Siamese, Tonkinese, and Birmans. Recent DNA studies suggest about 700 years of independent breeding from other breeds, and while still the same species as other domestic cats, have a genetic profile that suggests they have a unique ancestor with origins in Southeast Asia.

  These genetic changes are usually physical (if the two species have different features) or reproductive (when two species cannot interbreed) in nature. But the lines can get a little blurry—as demonstrated by the ability of humans to produce several kinds of hybrid cats. Nonetheless, the faster the animals can reproduce, the quicker these changes can take effect (in evolutionary time, of course) and lead to new species.

  THE SMALL CATS

  Small cats can be further classified as either Old World (from Africa, Asia, or Europe) or New World (from Central and South America). Old World cats include domestic cats, wild cats, fishing cats, lynx, bobcat, caracal, serval, and cheetah. New World cats include ocelots, Geoffroy’s cat, and pumas.

  There is not as clear a division between the New and Old World cats as there is within other species of animals, mainly because all cats are evolutionarily pretty tightly knit. However, there are a few behavioral differences. For example:

  Old World cats lie with their paws tucked under the body (in the “meatloaf position”), while New World cats do not.

  Old World cats are less likely to pluck the feathers from their small bird prey, while New World cats are inclined to thoroughly pluck before eating their birds.

  Old World cats bury their poop, while New World cats do not. (Imagine how different our litterbox situation might have played out had our beloved house cats descended from the New World, rather than the Old!)

  Cat Daddy Fact

  All big cats roar (except for snow leopards), but they don’t typically purr (except for cheetahs). Small cats purr, but can’t roar. This is due, in part, to a small bone in the neck called the hyoid. In big cats, this bone is flexible, but in small cats, it is rigid. The big cats also have flat, square vocal cords, and a longer vocal tract that allows them to make a louder, lower sound with less effort. In small cats, the hardened hyoid combined with vocal folds are believed to create the purring sound.

  Roaring may give big cats another way to control their turf without fighting or engaging in face-to-face conflict. Its sheer volume is a long-distance message—“I’m here, keep your distance please.” (For more on purring, see chapter 4.)

  With all of this talk about what separates Old and New World, big and small cats, and small from one another, we might forget the most remarkable, undeniably raw fact: all existing cat species (currently estimated at forty-one) share a common ancestor. That means that all felines are obligate carnivores, with large eyes and ears, powerful jaws, and a body built to kill. All cats walk quietly on their toes, with protractible claws, which supports their silent stalk-and-rush hunting style. And, last but not least, perhaps the most unifying (and definitely the most Mojo-rific) force connecting all felines, from lions to tabbies, is the drive to claim and own territory.

  THE ROAD TO LESS WILD: THE “DOMESTICATION” STORY

  It is difficult for scientists to form a really clear timeline of the recent domestication of cats, because genetically, physically, and behaviorally they are so similar to their closest wild relatives (so much so that there’s been a lot of interbreeding among domestic cats and other wildcat species). In fact, the word “domestic,” when applied to cats, has always struck me as fundamentally . . . well, just wrong. I don’t believe cats have ever been fully domesticated. This speaks to my insistence at seeing the rawness in your cat at all times. To me, in each moment that you identify the Raw Cat in your cat, you are disproving the very notion of domestication. That said, as we continue with our story here, let’s take a look at what we do know about how the Raw Cat gradually transformed into what we now call the “house cat.”

  For thousands of years, cats lived with and around people, but were never completely dependent on them. F. s. lybica—the ancestral species—appears to be one of the more tameable of all the closely related wildcats, suggesting a predisposition for living with humans. Ultimately, though, the pathway to evolution was laid by the benefits that cats and humans mutually provided for each other. As agriculture began to flourish in our earliest human settlements, the rodent population drastically increased. This made proximity to humans attractive to cats, and the natural pest control they provided attractive to humans. This would prove to be a recurring “win/win” theme throughout history.

  GODS AND MUMMIES

  The downside of any long-term relationship between humans and animals is that it’s not an equitable one. Humans, through the centuries, unfortunately always held the cards and could be very harsh in how they dealt those cards out. In general, cats seemed to be revered in proportion to how much a cat’s pest control prowess was needed. That said, the true human/cat roller coaster ride began in earnest as humans were left to simply appreciate cats for their unique personalities and brand of companionship. As the ride heated up, gaining momentum and speed through history, our feline friends often found themselves reviled . . . to the extreme.

  We’ve all heard stories of cat worship in Egypt. But it’s important to note that the Egyptian economy was highly dependent on grains . . . which means agriculture . . . which means rodents . . . which means, once again, cats playing their welcomed role as “nature’s exterminator.” This likely set the stage for the elevated status that would come to them in Egyptian society. (Contrast this, for example, with the many parts of Europe where weasels were already playing this exterminator role, so cats were not of particular use.)

  Still, the Egyptians revered cats, perhaps like no other culture. Cats were depicted throughout Egyptian artwork, lived in religious temples, and were kept as pets. The intentional harming of a cat brought serious penalties, and if a cat passed of natural causes, the human family would shave their eyebrows to mourn. This feline worship/devotion is documented through the mummification of cats, who were often prepared for a life in the afterworld with mummified mice to accompany them.

  But even in the cat-loving environs of Egypt, the aforementioned roller coaster would take a few unfortunate plunges. Not all mummified cats were cherished pets. They were also used as offerings to deities, and the demand for these offerings led to cat “breeding mills,” so cats could be deliberately killed and mummified.

  The prophet Muhammad was another cat lover,
and in Islamic cultures, cats have always been appreciated for more than just their extermination skills. According to one of the most well-known stories about Muhammad’s reverence for his beloved cats, when he was called to prayer and his favorite cat, Muezza, was sleeping on the sleeve of his prayer robe, Muhammad cut off the sleeve of the robe rather than disturb Muezza. (Sound familiar? How many of you have forgone getting off the couch because you had a cat asleep on your lap?)

  In other parts of the world where cats were worshipped—particularly in pagan cultures—cats’ hallowed status became tainted as the persecution of non-Christians increased. In fact, things got really bad for our cat friends during the Middle Ages, when they were associated with cults and declared unholy. It is believed that millions of cats were sentenced to death and burned in witch trials or thrown into bonfires. And if cat owners tried to protect their pets, they would face inquisition themselves.

  The sad irony is that during this time, the Black Death spread and killed thousands of people. Rats (or rather the fleas they carried) were known carriers of the plague, and killing massive numbers of cats would have certainly contributed to the proliferation of rats. Granted, archaeologists have more recently called the relationship between rats and the spread of the plague into question, suggesting that the plague spread so quickly due to close contact between humans, not between rats and humans. Regardless, killing thousands of cats could not have helped matters.