Lido, the Philosopher’s Cat
In 2011, amidst the chaos of Siam Square in Bangkok, a small, scruffy street cat began following me. The air was thick with the scent of fried food and exhaust fumes, neon lights flickering above a restless crowd. She trailed me past the old Lido Cinema, weaving through street vendors and tuk-tuks, unbothered by the city’s perpetual frenzy. I picked her up, assuming I’d find her a home.
But Lido, that is how I called her, had other plans.
From the streets of Bangkok to the great Swiss nowhere, she has been my silent companion. She now roams the hills and forests of the Alpine Hinterland, far from the heat and dust of Thailand. She lives with me and my daughter, in a world utterly foreign to where she started. And yet, she remains the same. Watching. Thinking. Following.
We might ask if there is something more to her than meets the eye. The ancient Egyptians saw cats as sacred, divine creatures that could navigate both this world and the next. Did they sense something we no longer do? If so, what is Lido’s secret?
More than just a cat, she acts in ways that defy expectation. Unlike most of her kind, she follows. She trails me to the supermarket, shadowing me like a dog. She has an unusual presence—aloof yet attached, free yet faithful. What does she know that we don’t?
And then comes the deeper question: How does Lido perceive the world?
Her journey has taken her from the frantic streets of Bangkok to the quiet stillness of the Swiss countryside. She has witnessed both human chaos and solitude, neon-lit sidewalks and mountain paths. Yet she walks through both with the same silent acceptance, the same enigmatic stare.
Does she see a world of threats and opportunities, like a cybernetic system adjusting to its inputs? Does she live entirely in the moment, like a Taoist sage? Or is she simply a creature without illusions, embodying a Nietzschean will to power, shaping her own reality without a trace of doubt?
Let’s take a closer look at Lido, the philosopher’s cat.
Lido’s world is built on instinct, but it is not mindless. If anything, it is sharper than ours. She moves with the precision of an observer who does not need explanations, only patterns. Humans ask, analyze, overthink; Lido simply knows.
She navigates both the wilderness of Swiss hills and the structured human spaces of homes and supermarkets without hesitation. To us, these are separate domains. To Lido, there is no distinction—only places where she must either be cautious or confident.
This is where her dog-like behavior becomes most fascinating. Unlike most cats, who mark their territories and avoid the unpredictable, Lido is drawn to the journey itself. She follows, explores, and integrates herself into my movements without hesitation. There is no concept of distance, no fear of the unknown.
One could say she embodies existential courage—the ability to step into uncertainty without retreating into comfort. She does not "choose" this path in the way a human would, but perhaps that is exactly the point. She simply acts. She moves with pure intent, without second-guessing her own existence.
Lido and the Nature of Perception
How does Lido see the world?
Neuroscientists would say her vision is tuned to movement rather than detail. Behaviorists would say she perceives the world through scent, sound, and the subtle shifts in her environment. But philosophers might take it a step further—what is her experience of reality?
Maurice Merleau-Ponty, with his emphasis on perception and embodiment, might argue that Lido does not separate herself from the world as we do. There is no internal narration, no abstraction—only direct, unfiltered experience. In that sense, she is more in tune with reality as it is, unburdened by the illusions humans wrap around themselves.
To Lido, the supermarket is not a store. It is a space filled with smells, flickering lights, the shifting of people in motion. The mountains are not “beautiful” or “peaceful” in the way we describe them—they are paths, ledges, hiding places, the scent of prey on the wind.
Her world is not named—it simply is.
Lido as a Mirror
Perhaps this is why I find myself studying her as much as she studies me.
She is, in a way, a living Rorschach test (btw. the Swiss psychiatrist worked in the town where Lido now lives)—Lido is a "creature" onto whom I can project my own questions. Is she free? Is she attached? Is she a wanderer, or does she always come home?
And if I ask those questions about her, am I not really asking them about myself?
She followed me in the streets of Bangkok, and I thought I was saving her.
But over the years, I’ve come to suspect she was the one watching over me.