One of my cats frequently chases her tail. She stares at it as she would a bird or a chipmunk, and when she thinks the moment is right, she pounces. Her prey always slips out from under her paw just when she thinks she’s got it, and she’ll often turn in circles of pursuit three, four or more times in rapid succession to see if she can catch up with it. Then she rests before trying again.
My husband thinks Spaghetti chases her tail because she doesn’t understand the nature of the thing always following her. But of our two cats, Spaghetti is “the smart one.” I’ve long maintained that she knows exactly what she’s chasing, but she keeps pouncing on her own tail because it’s just so much darn fun.
I’m glad my cat is so skilled at amusing herself. But I do not share her enthusiasm for chasing one’s tail.
As a human, I am, of course, speaking metaphorically. I don’t literally keep trying to capture my own hindquarters. (If I did, that would be an entirely different blog post. Or perhaps a different blog–or psychiatric state.) But I do feel these days like I am perpetually looking behind me, trying to catch up to what I see there. And I never succeed, so I just keep trying. I suspect I’m not the only one.