“The cats are tired of cuddling, we want to cuddle like pigs.”
I tend to think, these lines Chukovsky wrote under the influence of strong drugs. But...

There was a cat in our village. Healthy, type of Maine Coon, only smooth hair and completely black. They called him Begemot, as in Bulgakov. They thought he was silent, never heard him whisper, only whispered when he was struck. Sometimes we let it in the kitchen to heat up at the stove, the good does not scratch and the furniture does not scratch. So, he lives on the street, and his bowl stands at the door to the house. Local gastarbayters hold a dog, a small housewife, whether a puppy or a child. He usually sits on a chain, but sometimes he is released to run. Then the dog climbs everywhere you can climb and pick up everything to eat. He came to us at the site. A large dog or man would not slip through, and this man managed to climb between the bars of the fence. Behemot sits on the doorstep. Our old cat, seeing the dog from a distance, usually climbed onto a tree, and in desperation bended her back, pressed her ears and began to whisper, trying to scratch the dog by the nose. Behemoth quietly watched until the housewife struck a cat’s bowl with chicken bite. When the dog swung his nose into someone else’s food, the cat jumped, ran to the dish and, as he approached the dog with a slow step, the cat started realistically LYING! The dog seemed to be no less of a puppy than I was, leaving where I came from. Behemoth’s “property” remained untouched until he ate.