My wife and I recently returned from our first trip to Greece. Between a busy schedule of espresso, sailing, hiking, pilgrimages to historical sights, and just generally eating our way across the Hellenistic Empire, I noticed one thing in particular: cats. Cats everywhere. In the street, on our feet, in the bar, on the car. Our friends in Athens had mentioned this; the cats are very much residents of the town. It's an arrangement that goes back millenia: cats were seen as good luck as well as protectors against evil spirits; the goddesses Artemis, Aphrodite, and Athena were often seen in the company of cats and, if Greek mythology has taught me anything, it's that you don't mess with the gods or local wildlife (lookin' at you, Zeus). There was a practical aspect as well: cats helped keep rodents out of granaries and control other pests while the winding, narrow alleys that serve as streets provide shelter and a stable food source.

But what stood out to me was the organization of the felines. Regardless if you were in Athens, or Nafplion, or Ithaca, or Meteora, or Mount Olympus, the cats generally behaved the same. Sometimes they were solitary or sometimes in small groups, but their manners were always exquisite. You'd always find a cat curled up at your feet, preferably in a sunny spot, patiently eyeing you and your meal waiting for you to make the right decision to drop some of your dish on the ground. They'd never climb on the table or scratch at your leg impatiently; frankly, my cats could take a lesson from them. If anyone, either a cat or a person, broke the code, they were quick to be corrected.

One day as we were enjoying an afternoon coffee in Ithaca, we were discussing this phenomenon with a local friend of ours, another tourist remarked uninvited, "Best not to feed the cats. They're a plague, really." I honestly could not imagine a more asinine statement! Besides being a childless cat guy, we were witnessing a social order that evolved spontaneously through the self-interest of each party.

F.A. Hayek argued that many constructs were examples of spontaneous orders, and witnessing this development of cross-species law and moral code, I'm inclined to agree. In essence, this posh tourist's view was that humans were better situated to allocate the resources. Strays are an inefficient use of limited resources that could better be spent in other ways. Had I not been occupied with accidentally dropping part of a sardine on the ground in the vicinity of my feline shadow, I might have retorted. No one person, or planning body, has all the knowledge to effectively allocate resources. We are best suited to allocate our resources based on each of our needs, values, perceptions, and conditions. We are able to influence each others' behavior to develop a societal norm that fosters mutual prosperity and evolutionary survival.

But maybe I'm thinking too much about the interaction of communal cats and their adopted people. Maybe all that there is here is a bit of fish, a gentle "thank you" purr, and then we part ways, on to other parts of our lives. But even if all my waxing philosophical about spontaneous order is nothing but a bunch of hooey, with a velvety espresso in my hand, warm sun on my face, and a soft cat keeping me company, I am perfectly ok with that.