If cats were double the size they are now, they'd probably be

Hear the playful yet profound words of Douglas Coupland, who said: “If cats were double the size they are now, they’d probably be illegal.” At first this saying seems like mere jest, a light remark on the feline creature. Yet hidden within it is a great truth about the balance of nature, the subtlety of power, and the fragile harmony between beauty and danger. For the cat, beloved companion of humankind, is both tender and feral, both affectionate and predatory. It is adored in its smallness, but its very instincts, magnified, could inspire fear and prohibition.

The cat is a paradox among creatures. In its present form, it fits into the home, curling in the sunlit window, a symbol of grace, mystery, and companionship. Yet at heart, it remains a hunter, a descendant of wild predators. Its claws, its teeth, its stealth—they are softened by size, but not erased by nature. Coupland reminds us that scale alters perception: what is charming in the small becomes terrifying in the large. A gentle swat becomes a strike; a playful bite becomes a wound. Thus, if the cat were doubled, mankind would see less of a pet and more of a predator, one to be restricted, perhaps even forbidden.

The ancients too understood the danger of size and scale. Consider the lions of Rome, which in the Colosseum were both feared and revered. Their power was the same in essence as the cat’s, yet magnified into something deadly. Where a housecat hunts a mouse, a lion fells a man. The difference lies not in spirit but in scale. And so Coupland’s jest points to a sobering truth: it is not always the nature of a thing that changes, but the measure of its strength that determines whether man embraces it or outlaws it.

History gives us vivid examples. In ancient Egypt, the cat was worshiped, honored as sacred, even mummified with reverence. Its smallness and mystery made it an emblem of divinity. Yet in medieval Europe, when superstition ran high, cats were feared, linked with witches and demons. Even without doubling in size, their enigmatic presence stirred dread. Imagine, then, if they had been as large as wolves or leopards—surely they would not have curled at the foot of our beds, but stalked us as rivals.

Yet there is also deeper wisdom here about human perception. For what we call illegal often arises not from the essence of a thing, but from our fear of what we cannot control. The cat teaches us that we tolerate and even adore power when it is contained, diminished, or domesticated. But when that power grows beyond our control, we condemn it. This is true not only of animals, but of ideas, of movements, of voices. What is charming in weakness may be banned in strength.

Thus Coupland’s words are not only about cats, but about the balance of power itself. They remind us to respect the hidden strength in the small, to see the hunter in the playful, to remember that even gentleness has claws. They call us to humility: for what we laugh at in the small could overwhelm us in the large. And they call us to wisdom: to discern not only size, but essence, when we judge what is safe and what is forbidden.

So let your action be this: cherish the small powers in your life—whether the affection of a cat, the kindness of a friend, or the spark of an idea—but do not forget their hidden strength. Respect them, guide them, and recognize that scale can transform blessing into burden. Learn to see beyond size into essence, and judge with both caution and gratitude. For as Coupland teaches with humor, the little cat we adore could, if magnified, become a creature mankind itself would outlaw.