On mobility and terror

Yes, we're all moved in. Unless you count those three boxes in the bedroom, but I don't. In fact, I refuse to even look at them. If we ignore them long enough they are sure to unpack themselves. Either that or the cardboard will deteriorate so much that the contents will just spill out, which I will then consider "unpacked." Problem solved. Or I could toss my un-hung curtains over the top of them and voila, they become a very clunky set of occasional tables. It's creativity like that that should get me my own Martha Stewart-esque magazine, I tell ya.
During the move Thomas has learned some new things. He is now mobile. He's been crawling for about two months now. The cats? Oh, they're terrified. They don't get much sleep, either. During the day a sleeping cat is an easy victim, and during the night they sit up plotting against the Drooling Menace. They slink about the house, skulking from one bit of cover to the next, jumping at small noises and muttering unkind things about their bipedal oppressors.
The Crawling Scourge has also learned how to go from a crawling position to sitting up, and from sitting up to standing with the aid of any handy bit of furniture, pant leg or unsuspecting and severely traumatized household feline. My question to the Universe today is this: Why? Why can my son crawl, stand up, cruise from end table to couch to chair, grab anything he can reach, chase the pets, find the cat food, open drawers, knock over coffee cups and pull wine bottles out of the rack long before he learns what "NO!" means? Why can he do these things before he can answer simple questions like, "Where are you going?" "Why do you want to eat cat litter?" and, "Who's your dealer, young Crack Weasel?"