What My Cat Would Wear If He Had Opinions
Hemingway has been staring at me with increasing judgment for the past twenty minutes. He’s currently perched on the windowsill like a tiny, furry fashion critic, watching me try on three different cardigans in succession. I can practically hear his internal monologue: “Humans. So dramatic. So unnecessary.”
This got me thinking — what would my cat wear if he suddenly developed strong opinions about clothing?
Knowing Hemingway, he would be an extremely particular dresser. Minimalist but luxurious. Judgmental but cozy. Zero tolerance for anything itchy, restrictive, or lacking in dignity.
First and foremost, he would demand only natural fibers. Cashmere would be non-negotiable. I imagine him in a soft, charcoal-gray cashmere turtleneck sweater — but only the finest quality, probably sourced from some obscure Scottish farm he researched extensively in his mind at 3 a.m. while knocking things off my nightstand. Nothing synthetic. Nothing that pills. He would give me that slow blink of disapproval if I even suggested otherwise.
For bottoms, he would absolutely refuse pants. Hemingway has made his position on pants very clear over the years (mainly by trying to murder any pair I attempt to put on him for photos). Instead, he would wear a perfectly tailored wool vest in deep forest green. It would have tiny, elegant brass buttons and a subtle herringbone pattern. Very intellectual. Very “I read poetry and judge your life choices.”
Outerwear would be dramatic. A small, tailored black wool cape with a high collar. Not because he needs it for warmth — he has four layers of fur — but because it would look majestic when he jumps from the bookshelf to the couch. He would insist on a tiny hood for dramatic effect when he wants to ignore me.
Footwear? None. He has strong views about shoes. He believes humans wear them because we are inferior at landing on our feet. However, he might tolerate very soft leather booties in winter, but only if they have sheepskin lining and zero bells. Bells are beneath his dignity.
Accessories would be carefully curated. A simple leather collar with a small silver tag engraved with “Hemingway — Professional Nap Critic.” Maybe a delicate silver chain with a tiny bell he could remove himself when he finds it annoying (which would be immediately). On special occasions, he might allow a silk bow tie in burgundy — but only ironically.
His color palette would be sophisticated: deep olives, charcoals, warm browns, and the occasional touch of mustard yellow (to match my corduroy jacket, though he would never admit he’s coordinating with me).
I can already picture his ideal outfit for different occasions:
Writing sessions with me: The cashmere turtleneck vest layered under the wool cape. Intellectual and slightly superior.
Sunday morning at the Brooklyn Flea: A lightweight linen vest (breathable for all the judgmental walking).
Bad days when I’m sad: He would curl up on my lap wearing nothing extra, because according to him, the best comfort is pure, unadorned cat.
The truth is, Hemingway already has impeccable style. He moves with natural elegance. His fur is always perfectly maintained. He never wears anything he doesn’t want to wear. In many ways, he’s a better dresser than I am.
Watching him has taught me something important about personal style: the best outfits are the ones that feel completely authentic to who you are. Hemingway doesn’t dress to impress anyone. He dresses (or doesn’t dress) according to his own comfort, dignity, and mood. And somehow, he always looks perfect.
Maybe we should all take fashion advice from cats more often.
They don’t chase trends.
They don’t buy things they don’t need.
They know exactly what feels good and what doesn’t.
And they never apologize for taking up space or having strong opinions.
If Hemingway could talk, I suspect he would look at my overflowing closet, give me one slow blink, and say: “Fewer clothes. Better quality. More naps.”
And honestly? He’d probably be right.
So here’s to dressing more like cats: with confidence, comfort, and zero tolerance for anything that doesn’t spark joy (or at least a good long stretch in the sun).
Wear your story.
