Feline Spongiform Encephalopathy: The Science Behind Crazy Cat Ladies

        The results of a Danish study on 45,000 women, conducted over a period of thirty years, were made public this past summer that discovered a link between cat ownership and suicide.  Women infected with a parasite found in cat feces called Toxoplasma gondii (T. gondii) were found to be 1.5 times more likely to commit suicide.  This isn't a very large increase, but when added to the findings of previous studies - links between T. gondii and changes in behavior and mental illnesses like schizophrenia and bipolar disorder - the correlation between cat ladies and madness is difficult to ignore.  Now, I realize this is a relatively old study, but I just found out about it and I have too many cat ladies in my life, crazy or otherwise, to not comment.
       

        With the cat ladies I know, the most obvious sign of insanity is the number of cats they possess.  If you met them out in public, you may not necessarily think to yourself that they were crazy; but if you were invited into their home, the words "Crazy Cat Lady" would leap into your head, completely unbidden.  According to an article on npr.org, "Scientists still aren't sure how the parasite affects a person's brain, [...] But in rodents, it causes cysts to form in areas of the brain involved in behavior.  A study of rats also found that infection caused them to lose their fear of cats and become attracted to the odor of cat urine. That behavioral change would increase the chance that a rat would be eaten by a cat — allowing the parasite to get into the cat's intestine, which is the only place it can reproduce sexually."  This is what I have observed in crazy cat ladies, as well; the more cats they own, the more attracted they are to the idea of having more.  The article notes that cats don't eat people very often, so the parasite can't benefit from infecting humans, we are just "collateral damage."

Notice All The Cat "Artwork"; The Herd Just Isn't Enough

       
        Well, scientists may still be unsure what T. gondii infection does to the human brain, but I can tell you.  The cat ladies that I know love their cats like family, take them for walks and rides in the car, and in many cases they seem to have more rights than human family members.  It's a mental illness that makes women want to dress their cats in sweaters, nuzzle them like boyfriends and eat next to them at the dinner table.  These cysts apparently form in the area of the female human brain that creates songs about the names of cats and feels compelled to ascribe human emotions to feline facial expressions.  I understand it because I've been surrounded by crazy cat ladies all my life, and because now I'm finally falling victim to the disease myself.  I realize that I am way too obsessed with my cat, but I just can't help it, so I will try to take it easy on my more advanced counterparts and keep praying that my personal case of Mad Cat Disease is a slowly metastasizing one.

My Own Private Oubliette

Have you ever felt like you’ve fallen into a hole?  Like you’re clinging to the side of a cliff, at the point where the prospect of climbing back up to the top is too daunting but you can’t see the bottom and you’re too scared to let go?  

 I’m in that hole right now, talking to you from my niche in the wall, a temporary foothold that will let go at any moment.  It might be difficult to hear me.  You may have to lean in and cup your ear.  But be careful.  Don’t fall in.  I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and if I can’t save myself, I’m afraid you’ll be on your own.

Like Alice, I was trying to avoid the mundane tedium of the everyday.  I wandered off and fell in.  But mine is no rabbit hole.  Its walls are not lined with clocks and cupboards.  There is no Wonderland at the bottom.

Truth be told, there is no bottom.  It just keeps going and going.  Its walls are lined with sharp roots and slimy fungus.  The more desperately I try to claw toward salvation the dirtier and more battered I become.

Why do I carry on this mad clawing?  It would be so much easier to cross my arms and feet and fall down into the abyss that I know will claim me in the end.  But I know someone will keep me from falling.  They will keep me from falling but won’t pull me out.  And now I’m past the point of seeking succor ~ I fend off the helping hands.  I long for the oubliette that is waiting for me.  Maybe that is what this hole is; maybe I’m in it now.

I don’t want a lifeline.  Sometimes I long to hear my own death rattle; in my morbid little musings, it is a comforting sound.  What I really want is for the people trying to pull me up to come to the same realization as me: that it is a silly venture – inane and futile.  What is waiting at the top?  My hole is dark, but it is warm.  Analogous to that of Jack the Bear, the invisible man.  His hole was bright, but he was invisible.  Mine is dark but I must be conspicuous down here because people won’t let me have any peace.

What I want is for someone to help me – but not help me out.  Help me overcome this senseless, innate need to fight my way up.  Help me tie my hands and feet together.

So I can go sailing down

Into the sadness

Into the sleep

Into the quiet

Into the deep.

But I can’t ask anyone to do that.  And no one would volunteer.  I haven’t the courage to dig in and climb up or to fold my arms and fall down.  I’m stuck here, clinging to the side of this hole.  An oubliette I’ve built for myself; teetering in a purgatory I’ve created.