Leo ate the Z key on my laptop. That has to be a metaphor for something. Or maybe it’s just been Leo’s lifelong dream to stop me from realizing my lifelong dream. He is that kind of cat. The asshole kind.

Sometimes when I’m making a sandwich I’ll give Leo a piece of cheese to distract him from manically licking the outside of the package of turkey, and invariably one of the dogs will use his millions-of-years-of-evolution-honed skills to sense the distribution of human-grade food and come running from whatever couch cushion he was planted on to protest the unfairness. That’s the message they convey through their expressions—Oliver’s one of childlike perplexity; Whiskey’s rooted in his profound belief in justice—that this unequal opportunity for processed provolone is unfair.

Unfair. This, from two dogs who sleep on a Westin Heavenly mattress; who spend one day a week at doggy day-camp frolicking in splash pools and sniffing dozens of dog butts; whose only responsibility in life is to make absolutely certain the  UPS delivery man does not murder us in our sleep. It is unfair that the cat gets to lick a miniscule piece of cheese until it is dried up and stuck like plaster to the granite countertop.

I don’t think cats have a sense of fairness. Cats are essentially shameless. The entire existence of YouTube is based on our collective marveling at the absence of humility amongst the feline species. I’ve lived with cats my whole life, and I’ve been privileged many a time to one of them joining me in a room, contorting into a position straight out of the Kama Sutra, and then engaging in a thorough and vigorous cleaning of his taint. Cats will stare you down while digging their claws into the purple tweed chair you bought two years ago after fantasizing about owning a purple chair for like a decade. Cats will leave you to sleep cold and alone all night and then curl into a warm, purring cuddle-ball under your chin three minutes before your alarm goes off. And then they will burrow into the coziest possible nest of pillows and covers in your bed while you get ready for work, occasionally parting one eyelid and giving you a slight nod just so you are made fully aware of what you are missing. Dogs can be jerks, but cats are dicks.

And that’s how it should be. Because if dogs woke up one day and decided to be as self-interested and violent as most cats, the results would be pretty severe. If I chose not to give Leo the piece of cheese, and instead tossed him onto the kitchen floor like he deserves, the worst he could do beyond destroying all of my furniture is ninja-attack my ankles. Which he does a lot, usually at night when I’m going to the bathroom, so I know it’s annoying, but it’s unlikely to warrant medical attention. The worst my dogs could do is kill me. They could watch me give cheese to the cat and then refuse to give cheese to them, and they could just be like, well, this is the last straw, the final stroke of injustice, and with one meaningfully exchanged look and a sigh of resignation, they could relieve me of my essential organs in like 20 seconds.

But then the provolone would still be on the kitchen counter, and Ollie has hip displaysia and can’t jump too high, and Whiskey has issues with spatial problem-solving, so they might still be screwed out of their treat. Leo would most certainly take one look at the carnage and trot into the bedroom to puke up cheese on my pillow and then curl up tight for super-cozy nap. So maybe God had a plan after all. He gave us dogs, big and strong and totally lacking in self-awareness, and he gave us cats, small and feisty and super good at getting cozy.

After Leo is done being super cozy in this dog bed, he’s going to scratch the shit out of that chair.

Oliver is celebrating 2,920 days straight of not letting the UPS man murder our entire family.

Whiskey could write a five-volume history of the canine justice system, but he can’t walk through half-open doors.