Also, dogs do not sit on a table and stare at you as if you are the one violating local health codes.
But my friend was not looking for a dog. His dog died a few years ago. His wife died just a few months ago. He travels often to see family around the country, and he did not want to rebuild his life around walks, boarding, bad weather, and the small daily tyranny of another creature’s bladder. He wanted companionship without signing up for a full-time maintenance contract.
That is where cats make their best argument. They may be emotionally evasive, structurally committed to shedding, and unhelpful in most civic emergencies, but they do let you leave the house.
Because of Enzo, I couldn’t dismiss the question as quickly as I wanted to. This was irritating. A man likes to keep his prejudices tidy.
A Maine Coon is not quite what I had meant by “cat.” Maine Coons invite exaggeration, but they also earn some of it. Maine’s own Secretary of State describes them as tall, muscular, big-boned cats whose voices are set apart by a distinctive chirping trill.¹ Anything that enters a room looking like a small weather system with paws is going to distort the record.
Enzo does not slink. He arrives. This matters. Ordinary cats, in my limited and admittedly hostile experience, materialize. They appear on counters, shelves, chair backs, and occasionally on your chest at 3:17 in the morning to see whether you are still breathing and, if not, whether breakfast might be early. Enzo comes in like a houseguest who knows where the mugs are.
He follows people around, but he does not do it with the slobbering civic enthusiasm of a Labrador who believes you have returned from Normandy because you went out for the mail. Enzo keeps a respectful distance. He supervises. He talks too, but he does not really meow. Enzo comments. He registers concern. He issues findings.
That may be the thing that sneaks past the dog-person defenses. A Maine Coon seems to like people without making a spectacle of it. A dog loves you with the restraint of a campaign rally. Enzo appears to like you while retaining counsel.
Naturally, an animal this odd has collected origin stories. The old one is that Maine Coons were part raccoon. This is biologically impossible, but I understand the error. The Cat Fanciers’ Association says the early brown tabby Maine Coons, with their bushy ringed tails, may simply have looked raccoon-like to early observers.² People saw that and decided ordinary cat biology had not done enough work.
There is also a Marie Antoinette story, because apparently every American legend needs either French royalty or a raccoon. In this version, the queen sent her long-haired cats ahead to America while planning her escape from France. She did not make it. The cats supposedly did. They landed in Maine, bred with local cats, and created the Maine Coon. This is almost certainly nonsense, but it is very good nonsense. The queen lost her head; the cats adjusted.
The less glamorous explanation is better. The Maine Coon was a working cat. Barns, docks, ships, farms, cold weather, mice. The International Cat Association describes the breed as one of North America’s oldest natural breeds and a working cat shaped by New England conditions.³ It was not built for a velvet pillow. It was built for Maine, which means fur, feet, suspicion, and the ability to get through March without making a production out of it.