I live with three Maine Coons.
There. I’ve said it.
Not merely live with three Maine Coons. I cohabitate with them.
The distinction matters.
People who have never shared a home with Maine Coons assume they are simply oversized cats.
This is a charming misunderstanding, much the way visitors assume they understand Santa Barbara after spending a long weekend on State Street and taking three photographs of the Santa Barbara County Courthouse tower.
No.
Maine Coons are something else entirely.
They are part cat, part philosopher, part therapist, part union organizer, and part Bernese Mountain Dog in a fur coat.
The house largely belongs to them.
They roam where they please, form alliances, break alliances, hold lengthy negotiations over food and territory, then somehow restore peace by bedtime.
In many ways, they resemble Congress.
Only more productive.
I’ve come to believe every healthy government needs three essential constituencies:
- The food thief
- The aristocrat
- The mystic
Fortunately, my household already has them.
Take Zelda.
I call her Piglet.
Piglet operates under a simple political philosophy:
If food exists, it should belong to Piglet.
If Mercy is eating, Piglet arrives.
If Poppy is eating, Piglet arrives.
If a human is eating, Piglet arrives.
If someone is merely thinking about food, Piglet is already conducting inspections.
She never says thank you because, in her view, she is simply restoring fairness to an unequal system.
Then there is Mercy.
Mercy is a Russian Maine Coon of such extraordinary beauty that she looks less like a house cat and more like she stepped out of an expensive European perfume advertisement.
I call her the Czarina.
At feeding time, while Piglet is conducting aggressive food acquisition campaigns, Mercy surveys the proceedings with visible disappointment.
The pushing.
The shoving.
The complete collapse of civilized standards.
Then she quietly leaves.
Mercy learned long ago that there is no need to fight with competitors if you can lobby the decision-makers.
A graceful stretch.
A delicate chirp.
An expression suggesting great personal hardship.
Within minutes, a human opens a special can of food.
Mercy has never held elected office. Yet somehow she always gets exactly what she wants.
Finally, there is Poppy.
A ginger-colored Maine Coon who appears to have achieved enlightenment sometime around 6 months of age.
While Piglet pursues food-security initiatives and Mercy quietly manipulates the levers of power, Poppy drifts through the house like a small orange cloud of contentment.
She doesn’t compete.
She doesn’t campaign.
She doesn’t form coalitions.
Power appears to hold no interest for her whatsoever.
She simply appears beside you, purrs, and looks up with eyes so sweet you begin questioning every selfish decision you’ve made since elementary school.
How could one not take care of Poppy?
Either she understands the universe will provide, or she understands that humans are astonishingly easy to train.
Watching these three has led me to a startling conclusion: We may be studying governance in all the wrong places.
After years of careful observation, I have drafted what I call:
The Official Rules of Maine Coon Governance
Rule #1: Fight Fast. Forgive Faster.
A disagreement should never last longer than a nap.
Rule #2: No Meeting Should Last Longer Than a Catnap.
If discussion exceeds 45 minutes, everyone must find a sunny patch of carpet and reconsider their position.
Rule #3: Whoever Wants the Most Food Sits Closest to the Bowl.
Transparency matters. Especially when Piglet is involved.
Rule #4: Every Leader Must Occasionally Miss a Jump.
Humility should never be optional.
Rule #5: Spend More Time Looking Out Windows.
It is surprisingly difficult to maintain ideological outrage while watching a hummingbird.
Rule #6: The Softest Voice Deserves Attention.
Poppy never demands anything. Yet everyone checks on her first.
Rule #7: A Warm Lap Is a National Resource.
Use it wisely.
Rule #8: Independence and Affection Are Not Opposites.
Maine Coons understand this better than people.
Rule #9: Groom Yourself Before Criticizing Others.
Need I elaborate?
Rule #10: At Day’s End, Everybody Comes Home.
This may be the most important rule of all. The older I get, the more I appreciate what the cats understand naturally.
Piglet has never watched cable news. Mercy has never posted an angry comment online. Poppy has never unfriended anyone.
Yet somehow they have mastered the difficult art of sharing a life with creatures who are different from themselves.
They disagree.
They compete.
They occasionally annoy one another.
Then they move on.
There is wisdom in that.
At a time when so many people seem eager to sort themselves into tribes and corners, three Maine Coons continue to share the same house, the same humans, the same sunbeams and ultimately the same life.
The remarkable thing about our three cats is not that they are different.
It’s that they remain together despite their differences.
The food thief.
The aristocrat.
The mystic.
Every day includes some disagreement, negotiation or minor drama.
And every evening, there they are.
Piglet, dreaming of universal food redistribution.
The Czarina, reviewing palace affairs and staffing decisions.
And Poppy, imagining a world in which everyone gets along and every bowl remains full.
They do not agree on everything.
They do not behave alike.
Yet somehow they make it work.
Which leads me to wonder whether civilization is less complicated than we imagine.
Maybe the goal was never perfect agreement.
Maybe the goal is simply maintaining the relationship after the disagreement.
Showing up tomorrow.
Sharing the house.
Sleeping under the same roof.
And if all else fails, perhaps we should hand the government over to three Maine Coons.
Though, in fairness, Piglet would immediately nationalize the food supply.
The Czarina would insist on better furnishings in every federal building.
And Poppy would spend her first 100 days purring on a sunny windowsill.
Which sounds ridiculous until you remember that peace, comfort, and enough food for everyone have been humanity’s goals for several thousand years.
So perhaps the Maine Coons are onto something after all.
And, at the very least, they are considerably more pleasant to watch.
