A pet store is a celebration of dogs' existence and an explosion

Hear the clever and playful words of Sloane Crosley: “A pet store is a celebration of dogs’ existence and an explosion of options. About cats, a pet store seems to say, ‘Here, we couldn’t think of anything else.’ Cats are the Hanukkah of the animal world in this way. They are feted quietly and happily by a minority, but there’s only so much hoopla applicable to them.” Though spoken with wit, these words conceal a profound reflection on how societies honor different creatures, and how joy can be found either in loud abundance or in quiet reverence.

In her saying, Crosley contrasts the dog and the cat not in their essence, but in how the world celebrates them. For the dog, mankind has built a temple of commerce—aisles overflowing with toys, treats, costumes, and devices. To enter a pet store is to be overwhelmed by the sheer volume of objects designed to delight the loyal companion. It is, as she calls it, an “explosion of options,” a feast for the creature whose place in human society is one of open exuberance.

But for the cat, the world seems more reserved. The shelves are fewer, the celebrations quieter. The cat does not seek parades or pageantry, nor does its nature invite them. Like Hanukkah, Crosley suggests, the cat is celebrated with intimacy rather than spectacle, embraced deeply by those who know its worth, but without the thunder of universal acclaim. The cat is the holiday of light in the dark—a minority joy, modest yet enduring, cherished in the silence of homes rather than the roar of festivals.

The ancients themselves knew such contrasts. The Egyptians exalted the cat as divine, building temples to Bastet, goddess of the hearth and protector of the household. Their devotion was quiet, sacred, and filled with reverence. In contrast, the Greeks and Romans celebrated their hounds with public hunts, triumphs, and statues—a grander, louder praise for the companion of the chase and of war. Thus, even in antiquity, the duality Crosley observes was present: one animal exalted in quiet joy, the other in public splendor.

Consider also the example of St. Roch of Montpellier, remembered not only for his healing but for his dog, who brought him bread and comfort while he suffered in exile. The dog became a symbol of loyalty, celebrated in sermons and stories. Yet the cat, though rarely sung of in public, lived in monasteries, quietly keeping watch, guarding manuscripts from mice, its work largely unsung. Here we see the same truth: some creatures are honored with spectacle, others with silence, yet both enrich human life in their own way.

The lesson of Crosley’s words is not to scorn one kind of celebration for another, but to recognize that not all greatness demands hoopla. Some joys are found in abundance and noise, others in subtlety and peace. The dog thrives on human applause, but the cat thrives on the quiet love of the faithful few. Both teach us something of life: that glory comes in different forms, and that worth is not always measured by the size of the feast but by the depth of devotion.

Practically, this means: celebrate the things you love in the manner they call for. Do not force every joy into the shape of spectacle. If your heart delights in dogs, then run, play, and make loud your praise. But if your spirit belongs with cats, then cherish them in stillness, honoring their mystery without the need for endless invention. Learn to love not only with noise but with silence, not only with gifts but with presence.

Therefore, O seekers of balance, remember the teaching hidden in Crosley’s humor. Life is not only parades and fireworks—it is also candles lit quietly in the night. Let us honor the dog with our laughter and games, and the cat with our stillness and awe. For in doing so, we learn that celebration takes many forms, and that true love knows when to shout and when to whisper.