I had been told that the training procedure with cats was

Bill Dana, with wit sharpened by observation, once confessed: “I had been told that the training procedure with cats was difficult. It’s not. Mine had me trained in two days.” At first glance, this appears as nothing more than humor, a light jest about the curious habits of cats. Yet in its depths lies a profound truth about the nature of power, the dynamics of companionship, and the quiet ways in which love reshapes us. The cat, often seen as aloof and independent, does not yield easily to command. Instead, it bends the will of its keeper, shaping their habits, their schedules, their very lives, until what once seemed ownership reveals itself as servitude disguised in affection.

The origin of this saying lies in Dana’s sharp comedic gift: he could take the ordinary and expose in it an extraordinary truth. Cats have been companions of humankind since ancient Egypt, yet their nature has never changed. They are not like dogs, eager to obey. Instead, they offer themselves on their own terms, demanding respect for their independence. Dana’s humor uncovers this reversal of roles: in the relationship between man and cat, it is often the human who is trained—trained to wake when the cat demands food, to move aside when the cat claims a chair, to respond to meows with obedience.

To say that the cat trained the human in two days is to reflect the swiftness with which love reshapes us. For when we welcome a creature, a child, or a companion into our lives, we imagine we will shape them according to our will. Yet often, it is we who are shaped. The cat’s gaze, its demands, its rhythms, impose upon us a new way of living. And though we jest at our own surrender, we accept it gladly, for in serving another, we find joy. This is not weakness, but the mystery of love: that it teaches through yielding.

History, too, gives us mirrors of this truth. In the temples of Egypt, cats were not merely pets but sacred beings. Men and women bent their lives around these creatures, feeding them, guarding them, honoring them even in death with elaborate burials. Who was master, and who was servant? The line was blurred, for the power of the cat lay not in command, but in the devotion it inspired. Dana’s quip, though playful, points to this same paradox: the trained one is not always who we imagine.

In the human heart, this story repeats itself. Parents, thinking to mold their children, find themselves molded instead—learning patience, humility, sacrifice. Lovers, entering union to shape life together, find themselves reshaped by compromise and tenderness. The cat is but a symbol of this greater law: that love reverses the hierarchy of power. It makes servants of masters, and masters of servants, until both are joined in the balance of affection.

The lesson, then, is clear: do not resist the ways love reshapes you. Do not cling too tightly to the illusion of mastery. For whether in the form of a cat, a child, or a friend, those we love will teach us more than we can ever teach them. To be trained in patience, in tenderness, in service, is no humiliation—it is the refining of the soul.

Practically, this means embracing humility in your relationships. When others demand your time, your attention, your care, do not see it only as burden but as opportunity. Let yourself be trained by love—to rise earlier, to give more, to soften your heart. For in such training, you grow into wisdom and grace. Even in the humor of Bill Dana’s words lies a secret: the cat, in training the man, gave him not defeat but delight.

So let this playful truth echo across generations: “Mine had me trained in two days.” Accept it not only as laughter, but as wisdom. For in every bond of love, it is not mastery that defines us, but the willingness to be shaped by another’s presence. And in that shaping, we discover not loss, but the deeper freedom that only love can bring.