... or maybe cats.
A Meeting of the German High Command (with Cats)
Berlin, July 1914. A warm afternoon. Sun streaming in. Cats everywhere.
No one remembered who first brought a cat into the General Staff conference room. Some said it was Moltke, who blamed it on his wife. Others swore it was the Kaiser himself, insisting that even Caesar had a cat—or would have, had he possessed proper breeding.
Regardless of its origin, by the time the meeting began, every member of the German high command had one.
And every one of them was purring.
The Room Settles… Slowly
The Kaiser entered first, settling into his armchair with a large marmalade tom. He attempted a regal posture but immediately slouched when the creature began kneading his uniform coat with large, luxuriant paws.
"Right," Wilhelm said, stroking absentmindedly. "Mobilization… yes, mobilization."
Next came Moltke the Younger with a long-haired gray cat that draped itself across his forearms. He tried to extricate one hand to point at the map of Europe—ineffectually.
“We must strike at France before Russia… can… hmm… yes well…” His voice drifted off as the gray fluffball performed a full-body stretch across his lap.
General von Falkenhayn arrived last, accompanied by a sleek black creature who claimed the head of the table. Falkenhayn opened his briefing folder, stared at the complex timetables within, then, with a small sigh, set it aside when the cat began vibrating with a powerful purr.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, “our current level of preparedness is… satisfactory.”
Productivity Falls to Zero
On the wall, the grand map of the Schlieffen Plan—arrows swooping heroically toward Paris, timetables layered with precision—began to blur in everyone’s mind.
The Kaiser, attempting to recall the finer points of the plan, instead scratched under his cat’s chin.
“Now… where were we? Something about Belgium?”
Moltke shook his head sleepily.
"Belgium… mmm… too many fences. Too many schedules. Honestly, Your Majesty, who has the energy?"
"Quite," the Kaiser agreed. “So many telegraphs… so many trains… very tiresome.”
He yawned wide enough to startle his own cat, who retaliated by headbutting him until he resumed stroking.
Falkenhayn attempted one last effort at military seriousness:
“We could still enact the Schlieffen timetable if—”
His cat rolled onto its back, belly exposed.
Falkenhayn melted immediately.
“Well… perhaps tomorrow.”
The Great Unraveling
Minutes passed. Or an hour. Hard to say.
One by one, the generals sank deeper into their chairs, becoming as limp and drowsy as their charges.
Someone mumbled something about Russian mobilization, but another yawn cut them off.
Someone else suggested sending a telegram to Vienna, but everyone agreed that the Austrians were terribly fussy people and could surely manage without German interference for just a few more days.
The Kaiser, with a sudden sleepy epiphany, murmured:
“You know… I’m starting to think all this… urgency… all this marching and counter-marching… may not be strictly necessary.”
The cats purred louder. A wave of somnolent peace enveloped the room.
Moltke nodded sagely.
“We should perhaps consider… slower options.”
“Much slower,” Falkenhayn added.
“Infinitely slow,” murmured the Kaiser, his eyes now fully closed.
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