Cats and Empathy: Do They Actually Know When You’re Sad?
It was 2 AM when my wife woke me up, her voice tight with pain.
“I don’t feel well,” she said.
I reached over. She was burning up. Fever, body aches, the kind of illness that makes you feel fragile and small. She curled up under the blanket, shivering despite the heat radiating from her skin, and then she started crying—not loud, just quiet tears of exhaustion and discomfort.
I got up to get medicine, water, a cold cloth for her forehead. When I came back, I found something strange:
Ace was sitting on her toe.
Not next to her. Not on her lap. On her toe, specifically. His little body pressed against her foot, his eyes half-closed, purring softly.
My wife looked at me, tears still on her face, and whispered: “He knows.”
The Day Ace Licked My Sadness Away
A few months earlier, I’d had a bad day. I don’t even remember what happened—work stress, maybe, or some small disappointment that felt bigger than it was. I sat on the couch, staring at nothing, that heavy quiet sadness settling over me.
Ace appeared. He jumped onto the couch, walked up to me, and started licking my hands.
Not playfully. Not because he wanted food. He just sat there, licking my hands over and over, his rough little tongue catching on my skin.
I didn’t move. I let him do it. And after a few minutes, the sadness felt… lighter.
When he was done, he curled up next to me and fell asleep.
I didn’t cry. I didn’t talk to him. But I felt seen.
The Question That Won’t Leave Me Alone
After these moments, I can’t stop wondering:
Does Ace actually know when we’re sad? Or are we just projecting human emotions onto a creature who’s operating on instinct?
It’s easy to believe that Ace “understands” us. When my wife is upset, he’s there. When I’m sad, he licks my hands. When we’re arguing, he meows loudly as if to say, Stop it, both of you.
But is that empathy—or is it something else?
So I did what I always do when I need answers: I researched.
And the science? It’s more complicated (and more beautiful) than I expected.
What Is Empathy, Anyway?
Before we talk about whether cats feel empathy, we need to define it.
Psychologists break empathy into three types:
- Emotional Contagion: Feeling what someone else feels (e.g., crying when someone else cries).
- Cognitive Empathy: Understanding what someone else feels without necessarily feeling it yourself.
- Empathic Concern: Feeling compassion and the desire to help.
For a long time, scientists believed only humans (and maybe great apes) were capable of true empathy. Dogs got a pass because they’ve been bred for 30,000 years to bond with humans.
But cats? Cats were assumed to be emotionally independent, indifferent, incapable of caring.
Turns out, that assumption was wrong.
What Science Says About Feline Emotional Intelligence
Study 1: Cats Can Read Human Emotions
A 2015 study published in Animal Cognition by researchers at the University of Lincoln tested whether cats could distinguish between human emotional expressions.
The Experiment: Researchers showed cats photos of their owners displaying either happy or angry facial expressions, paired with audio of happy or angry voices.
The Result: Cats spent more time looking at faces when the facial expression matched the voice. When the face was happy but the voice was angry (or vice versa), cats stared longer—as if confused by the mismatch.
What This Means: Cats aren’t just recognizing faces—they’re integrating visual and auditory emotional cues. They know when something doesn’t match, which means they’re processing human emotions at a sophisticated level.
When Ace sat on my wife’s toe while she cried, he wasn’t just reacting to sound. He was reading her face, her voice, her body language—and responding.
Study 2: Cats Show “Social Referencing”
A 2015 study in Animal Cognition tested whether cats engage in social referencing—looking to humans for emotional cues about unfamiliar situations.
The Experiment: Researchers placed a fan with ribbons (an ambiguous, potentially scary object) in a room. When the owner acted calm and positive, cats approached the fan. When the owner acted fearful, cats avoided it.
The Result: Cats used their owner’s emotional response to decide how to feel about the situation.
What This Means: Cats don’t just observe human emotions—they use them to guide their own behavior. If Ace sees me upset, he’s not just noticing—it changes how he interacts with the world.
Study 3: Cats Alter Their Behavior Based on Human Mood
A 2020 study in Animals found that cats behave differently depending on whether their owner is happy or sad.
The Findings:
- When owners were sad or distressed, cats spent more time near them.
- Cats showed increased “affiliative behaviors” (rubbing, purring, staying close).
- Some cats became more vocal, as if trying to get the owner’s attention.
What This Means: Ace sitting on my wife’s toe wasn’t random. He was choosing to be near her because she was in distress.
When he licked my hands, it wasn’t just grooming—it was a social behavior meant to comfort.
But Is It Real Empathy, or Just Instinct?
Here’s where it gets tricky.
Some researchers argue that cats aren’t truly “empathetic”—they’re just responding to changes in behavior that signal a threat or opportunity.
For example:
- When my wife cries, she’s quieter than usual, her movements are slower, her scent changes (stress hormones like cortisol alter body odor). Ace might be reacting to those cues rather than understanding “she’s sad.”
- When I sit still and silent, Ace might approach because I’m not moving—making me a safe, warm surface to sit near.
In other words: Ace might not “understand” sadness in the way we do. But he’s responding to it in a way that looks like empathy.
And honestly? I’m not sure the distinction matters.
The Case for Feline Empathy
Even if Ace isn’t “thinking” the way we think, his behavior has all the markers of empathy:
- He notices when we’re upset.
- He changes his behavior in response.
- He seeks proximity and engages in comforting actions (purring, licking, staying close).
A 2019 review in Frontiers in Veterinary Science argues that we shouldn’t dismiss animal empathy just because it doesn’t match human cognitive empathy. Emotional contagion and affiliative behaviors are still forms of empathy.
When Ace licks my hands, he might not be thinking, My human is sad, and I want to make him feel better.
But he is detecting my emotional state, responding with a behavior that provides comfort, and staying close until I feel better.
That’s empathy. Maybe not the human kind, but empathy nonetheless.
Why Cats Get Unfairly Labeled as “Unfeeling”
Dogs get all the credit for emotional intelligence, and it’s not fair.
Why dogs seem more empathetic:
- Dogs have been selectively bred for 30,000 years to read human emotions and respond.
- Dogs are social pack animals—they’re wired to care about group cohesion.
- Dogs are expressive—wagging tails, excited barks, obvious body language.
Why cats seem less empathetic:
- Cats were domesticated more recently (~10,000 years) and weren’t bred for obedience—they domesticated themselves by hanging around human grain stores to hunt mice.
- Cats are solitary hunters—they don’t need pack bonding for survival.
- Cats are subtle—slow blinks, tail flicks, purring. If you don’t know what to look for, you miss it.
But just because cats express empathy differently doesn’t mean they don’t feel it.
A 2017 study in Behavioural Processes found that cats form secure attachments to their owners at rates similar to dogs—around 65%. They just show it in quieter ways.
Ace doesn’t jump on me and lick my face when I come home. But he follows me from room to room, sits near me when I work, and sleeps on my chest at night.
That’s love. That’s attachment. And when I’m sad, that attachment manifests as comfort.
The Night Ace Sat on My Wife’s Toe: A Scientific Interpretation
Let me return to that moment. My wife, feverish and crying. Ace, sitting on her toe.
Here’s what was likely happening in Ace’s brain:
-
He detected stress signals.
- Her elevated body temperature (cats can sense heat).
- Her breathing pattern (irregular, shallow).
- Her vocalizations (crying—higher pitch, emotional tone).
- Her scent (cortisol and adrenaline change body odor).
-
He engaged in social referencing.
- He checked my reaction—I was calm, not panicking, so the situation wasn’t dangerous.
-
He responded with affiliative behavior.
- Sitting close (providing warmth and proximity).
- Purring (which has been shown to have a calming frequency of 25-50 Hz, associated with healing and stress reduction—see research in Current Biology, 2001).
Did Ace “understand” that my wife had a fever and was in pain?
Probably not in the way we understand it.
But he detected distress, responded with comforting behavior, and stayed with her until she felt better.
That’s empathy.
What I’ve Learned About Ace (And Cats in General)
After months of watching Ace respond to our emotions, here’s what I believe:
1. Cats Are Emotionally Intelligent
They read faces, voices, body language. They know when something is wrong.
2. Cats Care About Their Humans
Not in the same way dogs do—but they care. Ace seeks us out when we’re upset. That’s not random.
3. Cats Communicate Subtly
A slow blink is “I love you.” A tail flick is “I’m annoyed.” Purring near you when you’re sad is “I’m here.”
If you don’t learn the language, you miss the empathy.
4. Cats Choose When to Engage
Ace doesn’t comfort us every time we’re upset. Sometimes he watches from across the room. Sometimes he leaves.
That’s okay. Empathy doesn’t mean constant emotional labor. Sometimes, just being in the same space is enough.
The Verdict: Do Cats Know When You’re Sad?
Yes.
They might not “know” in the way we conceptualize knowledge. But they detect emotional cues, alter their behavior in response, and engage in actions that provide comfort.
When Ace sat on my wife’s toe, he wasn’t thinking, She has a fever and needs support.
He was thinking (if cats think): She smells different. She sounds different. She’s not moving much. I’ll stay close.
And in that moment, that was exactly what she needed.
Why It Matters
I used to think Ace tolerated us. That he lived with us for food and shelter, and any affection was incidental.
But now I know better.
Ace notices us. He cares when we’re upset. He adjusts his behavior to our emotional states.
He’s not a dog. He’s not going to fetch my slippers or greet me at the door with exuberant tail wags.
But when I’m sad, he licks my hands.
When my wife is sick, he sits on her toe.
And when we’re happy, he slow-blinks at us from across the room—his version of a smile.
That’s empathy.
And it’s more than enough.