world of scent open to her now. She smelled old meats and boiled cabbage, and distantly smelled a trace of lilac perfume she had dropped before finding the lamp lit street where she had begun her adventure.
She followed the subtle scent of lilac and got closer, until the scent gathered into a definable cloud of density. And she followed the path of scent away from it, trotting, until she found herself at the house where she had lived.
At the door she trembled, remembering too well her former treatment. She was betting she might be better received now that she was walking on four legs again, but emotionally she was not so sure.
She did not think she could bear to see, again, the alarm in the eyes of her former servant Evie. Evie might have been a servant, but she was bigger than Muffins and could do harm. Muffins worked up her courage and stroked the door screen with her paw, mewling as loudly as she could.
At first there was no response, but just as Muffins was about to turn away, there was a rattle and the swinging sound of a heavy door.
At first Evie looked at her with blank confusion, but in a moment comprehension registered and her face changed and the outer contours of her eyes expanded. At first Muffins thought it was from anger and began to back away.
Meanwhile, Evie expelled a heavy breath and rushed out the door. Muffins felt herself gripped beneath her belly and lifted, and soon her fur was wet with kisses, and it was hard not to struggle against the fierceness of the welcome.
Muffins was carried inside. She let herself go limp for the ride, staring at the familiar surroundings, until Evie set her on the floor. “Oh Muffins, I was so afraid that awful girl had stolen you, that thief. Can you believe that bitch stole my dress? Who does that, steals a used old dress? But you must have escaped, because here you are! Such a smart kitty!” She leaned down and stroked Muffins on the head and kneaded the loose skin on her neck as Muffins unleashed a rumbling purr. “Such a smart, smart kitty!”
Within hours Muffins was sprawled in front of the fireplace hearth, her forepaws stretched across her carpeted scratching post stand. Her food dish was inches from her along with an empty saucer that had contained warm milk, an intoxicating creamy elixir that had made her feel warm inside, warm and safe and loved.
When she had first gotten home, she investigated all her favorite places to make sure things were still the way she had left them: the plastic milk rings and bread wrappers she had pawed under the refrigerator, just within her reach.
She had not seen any string since she got home, sparkling or otherwise, though she had searched for it. She remembered so well the joys of gamboling and frolicking and chasing, and the feeling that all that mattered in the whole world was catching the glittering string and showing it who was boss.
She wondered if returning to her old self was the salvation the woman had talked about. It had seemed so dramatic at the time, so profound, with all the tingling and the sparkling air, yet the only result was that she was back to her old life. If returning to cat-hood was salvation, what had been the point of any of it?
Maybe it was to make her aware that having to clean toes every day was nothing compared to the difficulty of being human, which had appeared to be awfully complicated and confusing, with all the sinning, saving, and trying to live forever.
She wondered if what the lady said was true, that lives were not eternal without divine help, and if someday Muffins was going to die. She could not believe it, not now, because the moment she was in felt eternal to her, with the warmth from the fireplace, the sound of embers popping, the crackle, and the belly full of milk.
Muffins looked around and wondered, “What if this is all there is, the milk and the warmth, and the soft carpet, and the cool wind coming in from the crack in the windowsill, letting me know that outside it is dark but inside there is light and life?”
She tensed at that thought, all there is. But then she remembered the sparkling twine in all its beauty. She stretched her forepaws, let herself go deliciously limp, and thought, “Then I will take it.”
With a languorous yawn, Muffins closed her eyes.
The Aliens Do Laundry
(A parable about first contact with a coy alien species)
The day humanity discovered that it was not alone in the universe, the world rejoiced. At least most of it did.
There were orations and celebrations and irate pulpit sermons, and military mobilization, and fear. The news had lifted everyone from personal concerns, dull jobs, and tepid sit-coms as they contemplated all the beauty and terror of the discovery: We are not alone.
What did it mean for the earth? What was to be done?
The U.S. Defense Department knew, or thought it did. When it came to aliens, one could not be too careful. It manufactured new weapons and recruited new soldiers. To assume that an unfamiliar race of intelligent beings was friendly would be folly. Most likely the aliens would want to colonize earth in order to exploit its valuable resources.
Though cautious, the White House chose to publicly view the event in a positive light. In a speech the president reached unprecedented levels of grandiloquence in which he took all the credit for the discovery. “I am deeply humbled to report that this momentous event has occurred under my watch. You see? I promised change and here it is.”
The speeches were overflowing with wonderful sound bites that people would repeat for many days to come. “A new chapter of our history is being written,” he said, “and every day is going to be a new page.”
During these speeches protesters gathered on the White House Lawn holding illegible signs. What they were protesting and chanting unclear. Each person seemed to have their own idea of what needed protesting.
A few were conspiracy theorists who doubted the aliens existed and thought the government had invented the story to protect itself, as a diversion from sex scandals that had swept the White House in recent months.
On the opposite end, cults sprung up that worshiped the aliens as gods. Naturally, a few of the cults drank poison and died. One cult believed that Planet Zod was their ancestral home, which they equated with Eden in the book of Genesis. They believed that their spirits would be received by the Zodonians.
Despite those tragedies, the discovery of extraterrestrial life was the most magnificent and beautiful and horrible thing to ever happen to humankind. In every culture, new art flourished. New literary forms were created. And there was a pervasive feeling that all humanity was witnessing a spectacular revolution.
Everyone seemed to exist in a constant state of amazement. Everyone was desperate to see what the aliens would say next. What did they look like? What were their bodies made of? What were their customs?
But gradually humankind began to notice something unsettling. Despite copious radio messages being fired through space, the aliens were not “answering the phone” anymore. Where were they? Why were they so silent? Weeks passed, then months. Finally, a year passed.
In response to hundreds of desperate inquiries about themselves, the Zodonions at last replied. Decoded, the message said: “You wanted to know if you were alone in the universe. We have generously answered your question. But frankly we have no interest in your planet. If you continue to clutter our air space with unwelcome inquiries, we will be forced to issue an Arg Arg. Please do not contact us again.” No one knew exactly what an Arg Arg was, but many suspected it was a kind of cosmic restraining order.
If the aliens had announced that they were going to invade and colonize earth, humanity could not have been more devastated. Humans had always assumed that if they did make contact with intelligent extra-terrestrial life, the aliens – bad or good – would be just as thrilled to discover humans as the humans were to discover them.
Despite the discouragement, astronomers continued to blast off more inquiring messages, to which they received no response. It was unbearable: the expectation, the curiosity, all the preparation; and then, silence.
The collective sanity of earth-beings buckled. New scandals erupte
d. An official at the U.S. Defense Department colluded with an astronomer in sending a message of his own: “Our planet is full of delightful resources such as water, air, salt, and precious minerals ripe for exploitation. Surely there must be something here that you would like to mine or harvest. I am sending you some helpful coordinates. Please invade our world at once and promise to take me to your planet with you. Other than our highly colonizable resources, my planet sucks.”
The world held its collective breath in preparation for the coming cataclysm. The Defense Department pointed nuclear weapons toward the skies. Doomsday enthusiasts prowled the streets with signs and looked creepy on purpose. Americans set flags in their windows and candle flames flickered in every church.
After many weeks of praying and preparation, the worst thing of all happened and also the least expected: nothing. The streets remained silent. No doomsday interstellar messages interrupted regularly scheduled television programming. No high tech bombs rained in the streets.
The newscasters feigned enthusiasm, but anyone could see the dullness in their eyes. Viewers recognized the look because it was what they felt. The lack of an invasion was not just anticlimactic, it was insulting. The aliens did not want our natural resources, even after they had been explicitly offered. What was wrong with our resources, and
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