Only one character in Alien has the wits and wherewithal to survive to the end of the movie at Ripley's side: Jones the cat. While everyone else on Nostromo was screaming like chickens with their chests ripped open, Jones exhibited the cool becoming a cat. Now Jones finally gets to tell his side of the story, one filled with naps, food, and yes, the occasional alien.
Novelist and film critic Anne Billson wrote "My Day by Jonesy," a recap of the first Alien film from Jones' point of view. Apparently, Jones spent most of the film fretting over his food and being annoyed that the humans (or "can openers" as he calls them) keep waking him up from his naps. But he does take some interest in the xenomorph, which he refers to as the "hairless kitten." He also offers a very different interpretation of the film's climactic showdown:
To my surprise I see, just before the can-opener does, that the giant hairless kitten has snuck into the mini-Nostromo with us, and has evidently taken my advice to heart, because instead of thrusting its proboscis straight through the can-opener's brain, it's hanging back and acting cute. Or trying to act cute, because, frankly, it still has a lot to learn. All that coy tentacle-uncoiling doesn't seem to be amusing the can-opener at all. In fact, even from inside the hypersleep capsule I can see she's freaked out by it. She's backing into a sort of closet, as far away from the giant hairless kitten as possible, and is climbing into some sort of animal trainer's padded suit, presumably so she won't get scratched if the giant kitten lashes out unexpectedly.
I wonder whether to intervene, whether to tell her that, in fact, the giant hairless killer-kitten is really only following my advice and trying to be friendly.
But then I think, Nah. This mini-Nostromo isn't big enough. In fact it's really rather small. Room for just one cat at a time.
To think, all the carnage of the subsequent movies could have been prevented by a single cat.