The Kanaani Cat and Rosh Hashanah: The Animal That Still Remembers Eden
by Rabbi Mikhail Salita
Rosh Hashanah is not just the Jewish New Year. It is the birthday of Adam, the first human being. But before Adam was created, the animals were already here… first the birds, the fish, the wild creatures… and only then — humanity. As if G-d wanted to remind us: life came before us, and we were born not to own the world, but to care for it.
When Adam opened his eyes, G-d said to him, “Here is the garden, here are the trees and the animals. Take care of them, for besides you, there is no one else who can.” From that moment, our mission was clear — to guard the garden, not to destroy it.
There is a beautiful Midrash. When Adam ate from the Tree of Knowledge, the harmony of the world was broken. Even among the animals, everything changed. The cat became a hunter, the mouse its prey. The mouse, they say, began to speak lashon hara — gossip — about the cat to Adam. Adam rebuked the mouse and drew the cat closer. Since that time, the cat has lived beside us, but it was never fully tamed. In its quiet independence, it reminds us of the Garden — of freedom, balance, and peace.
The Kanaani cat is a descendant of that first wild cat. She comes from the Holy Land, from the same soil where, according to our sages, the Garden of Eden once stood. Perhaps the cats of Eden never left — perhaps they stayed there, watching over the land that once knew perfect harmony. The Kanaani is a biblical cat — a reminder of creation’s purity and of our place within it.
I live with three such cats — Laila, Arbuz, and Haifa. Today, I received their official pedigree from the Association of Rare Breeds of Cats (ARBC). Registration with TICA and WCF is already in process. That is why I decided to write this article today — the day ARBC officially recognized my three Kanaani cats. For me, it feels like a sacred day — the rebirth of a legendary breed that carries the memory of Eden.
When I look into Laila’s eyes, I see something ancient. She often comes close, touches my nose gently with hers, and I feel she is saying: “I remember.” And in that moment, I know — the Garden is not gone. It still lives quietly within us.
On Rosh Hashanah, we dip bread in honey for a sweet year. We eat many fruits — symbols of joy, abundance, and life. I no longer eat meat. Chicken doesn’t speak to me anymore. But fish — yes, fish feels different. Fish are pure. Their eyes never close; they are always turned toward the light, toward the Creator. When I eat fish, I feel cleansed, as if returning for a moment to the simplicity and holiness of the beginning.
I attend two synagogues — Chabad Lubavitch of Flatbush with Rabbi Zalman Liberov, and the Brighton Beach Synagogue with Rabbi Nathan Arister. Rabbi Liberov is one of the kindest people I have ever met. The food on his table always carries the fragrance of kindness — especially on Rosh Hashanah, when every bite seems to be seasoned with warmth and joy. Rabbi Arister, who also serves as a doctor at Maimonides Hospital, does not eat meat. His example inspired me. In him, I see how faith, compassion, and science can live peacefully in one soul.
The world has become too fast… too industrial. Animals have become numbers, and compassion — a rare thing. But that was never G-d’s plan. The Divine plan was harmony — not cruelty.
The animals were created before us. They were with us in the Garden. They were with us in Noah’s Ark. And they are still beside us now.
The Kanaani cat — wild, ancient, and gentle — looks at us from the soil of the Holy Land and seems to whisper…
“Remember the Garden. And protect what was entrusted to you.”