Which I did.
“Got a hair ball?” Norma asked, giving me a once-over.
Obviously I hadn’t perfected the language quite yet. I tried again—much louder this time, with more full-throated action, my voice bouncing off the glass. And the penguins turned, away from the fish, away from Olive and Q. I had their complete attention.
It put me rather on the spot.
“What the—?” Norma said.
And I said, Huuuh-huuu-huuuun-eeeee-oooo, adding honk after extended honk until my message was clear. The penguins were resistant at first. I was a stranger, after all; we’d only just met. But it wasn’t about me, I told them. It was about the girl.
“Leonard,” Olive mouthed to me, her cheeks flushing. “What are you—?”
The penguins pivoted, circling around her, until it was just Olive in the middle of them all. And then, all at once, they bowed in her direction, each lifting a flipper into the air.
Olive’s face showed nothing.
Nothing and then—
She broke into a grin, clasped her hands over her mouth, and started to cry.
You’ll have to forgive me if I’m getting a little emotional, but I’d very much like to keep this image. This is how I’d like to remember Olive, after I say goodbye to Earth: deliriously happy, tears of joy streaming down her human face.
I know it’s just wishful thinking, though.
I won’t be able to feel those memories at all.
So much for staying under the radar. My little stunt with the penguins was incredibly noticeable. Days later, Q was still bringing it up.
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said, shaking his head as he squeegeed the tank glass. “Never in all my years. It’s like . . .”
“Like . . . what?” Olive said cautiously, wringing her hands.
Then he shook his head again, brushing off the idea.
That Tuesday, Olive and I bought a gigantic paper calendar from the boogie board store. It had drawings of seashells in the corners and a shark announcing the days of the week. “This way we can count down,” she said, as if I wasn’t already numbering the hours. “I wish we could just leave now. But we have to plan the timing right. If we go too early, Norma and my mom will know I’m missing, and they’ll come get me, and then you’re toast. I’m not abandoning you with all those bears in Yellowstone. This gives us enough time to get there—and not get caught before you’re picked up.” We tacked the calendar low on the wall in Olive’s bedroom, and she circled July 18, the night we’d leave for the park. Not long ago, I’d written ALIEN in this very spot.
“I’m still working on Norma,” Olive said. “Maybe she’ll come through, once the Save the Sea Turtles event’s over. But I have some other ideas, too. You said your planet is made of helium, right? Maybe we could get a bunch of balloons, like in that movie Up, and fly them across the country? No, you’re right—that’s silly. And kind of impossible. How do you feel about the train?” After batting plans back and forth, we always returned to the same point: that we needed the help of someone who wasn’t eleven years old.
“We’ll think of something,” Olive said. “I promise.”
But she was sounding less and less sure.
My tenth evening on Earth, I learned that most alien films aren’t as kind to extraterrestrials as E.T. As we were flipping through channels, I meowed sharply, asking Olive to pause on a movie about the destruction of a city. There were tentacles in the background.
“Are you sure you want to watch this?” she asked, her eyebrows frowning in that human way. And I was. Incidentally, the film was part of a marathon: alien movie after alien movie. Explosion after explosion. Little green creatures tearing apart the world. So this is what they really think of us, I mused, eyes glued to the television. Eventually, Olive flicked off the screen, saying that we should relax on the porch swing instead.
“That’s not how I see you,” she said, rocking us back and forth. “I hope you know that. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand.” Her fingers fell across my fur, and I leaned into her palm, into her familiar scent: cinnamon toast and raspberry shampoo.
We spent most evenings this way, just the two of us. Some mornings, there were human lessons and the occasional errand. I visited my first “Walmart,” a palace of human objects, where Norma bought peanut butter in bulk and Olive selected a new litter box: a fancy one, with an electric scooper. Only slightly less impressive were the gigantic plastic balls by the register; I’d seen planets smaller than those balls. What was their purpose? Why did humans enjoy them?
The longer I spent on Earth, the more questions I had. For example, why was stubbing a toe so painful for humans? (It’s a superficial appendage. There are nine others!) Was it truly necessary to floss? (If so, why didn’t cats do it?) And why did everyone claim there was a man on the moon? (Didn’t he get lonely, out there by himself? Might I suggest a cat for company?)
In between shifts at the aquarium, Olive let me practice my knock-knock jokes.
Knock-knock, I typed.
“Who’s there?” she asked.
Leonard.
“Leonard, who?”
Just Leonard. It is me.
Olive laughed, then taught me Monopoly. In two weeks, I learned much about recreational board games: Battleship, chess, Hungry Hungry Hippos. I’m ashamed to say that I became mildly obsessed with those hippos, violently stamping the lever with my paws, little white marbles flying everywhere—and I chased them, underneath the sofa, across the living room.
We read poetry books, too: Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and Langston Hughes; we studied them by the shore, early in the morning, until I learned the simplicity of the haiku, the openness of free verse. Finally, I wrote a poem of my own.
“Can I see it?” Olive asked—and I shyly stepped aside from the computer keyboard, letting her read the stanzas aloud.
I have hidden
your crayons
in the litter box;
maybe you were
keeping them
for later.
I’m sorry;
they were so colorful
and so bold.
“You’re a quick learner,” Olive said, stifling a giggle. “Is this modeled after that William Carlos Williams poem? Or did you really hide the crayons in the litter box? Because I don’t want to fish those out.” I assured her that the crayons were safe in her desk—and then promptly dug them out of the litter, where I had in fact tucked them away.
Let’s see. What else?
Q taught me how to high-five and called me several times over the loudspeaker at the aquarium: “Leonard to the front office! Leonard, office, please.” Olive discovered the joy of snorkeling, slipping below the surface of the water in a stream of bubbles. And I became something of a mascot for the aquarium: people began to greet me by name. You may be familiar with a certain breed of human—the “cat lady”—but quite a few of them started showing up at the aquarium, posing with me, asking Olive to take our picture. Because I was easily able to speak the language of most creatures on Earth, I helped with aquatic care as well, telling Olive: This one is sick; this one needs more food; this one is happy.
Norma kept asking, “Sailor, are you psychic or something?”
And Olive would shrug, smiling.
“I’m going to help Q give an aquarium tour soon,” Olive said one evening, right after dinner. “I actually get to talk about animals. That’s what I’m supposed to do . . . I’m just not going to tell Frank about it.” She closed the bedroom door. “I know it’s selfish, but sometimes I really wish you were coming to Maine with me. Or California. Or just . . . anywhere. With people, there are all these rules, and they’re not written down anywhere. With animals, it’s easier. I mean, I guess you’re not technically an animal, but you’re still very friendly.”
You are friendly, too, I typed.
“Thanks,” she said. “But friendly doesn’t always count in middle school
. It’s like being dropped on an alien planet.”
Obviously, I knew what that was like—how it felt to wear ill-fitting fur, to look at humans from the outside, searching for a way in. Some nights, I’d watch Olive for hours: she would practice human phrases in the mirror, plucking at the ends of her hair.
“I’m Olive,” she’d say. “Do you go to school here? Uh, of course you do. Let me start again.” Then she’d start again. “It’s Olive. Hi. Just Olive. I’m new.”
The thought resurged in those moments, crowding out everything else: Would it be the worst thing, to stay on Earth? Yes, I was desperate to see the sunrise on my home planet; yes, I missed the all-encompassing safety of the hive. But would it be the worst thing, to be there for Olive when she came home from school? To actually use my electric litter box through its lifetime warrantee? To see Maine, to keep in touch with Stanley, to—
“What are you thinking about?” she asked, turning to me.
And I told her, Say, Hello, I am Olive. Humans like hello.
The next week was difficult for all of us. Norma was running around, trying to firm up details for the Save the Sea Turtles event, when two hundred guests would flock to the aquarium. Turtle Beach was already flooded with tourists, eagerly preparing for the weeklong festival. In the mornings, we watched them stroll through town, poking their noses into shops. In the evenings, I could always find Olive by her computer, searching train timetables, looking for used cat carriers, mapping out our route. It scared me—how wobbly our plan was, how quickly time was passing. Actually, scared is an understatement. People do that on Earth: try to tell themselves that everything will be all right, even if the evidence is against them.
No, a closer word is panxious, which I’ve come up with just now: a mixture of panicked and anxious. You think I was petrified of noises before? That week, every little sound had me jumping. I accidentally scratched the hardwood in the kitchen after hearing a lawn mower; Norma’s motorcycle boots squeaked and I flew off the couch.
“It’s okay,” Olive reassured me, stroking my back.
But it wasn’t, not really.
Every once in a while, I’d catch snippets of conversations: Olive asking Norma to reconsider a trip to Yellowstone, Norma batting the suggestion away. Tension gripped the beach house, until it began to feel very small—and stuffy, like a backpack. Sometimes Olive would stay an extra hour at the aquarium, just mopping the same spots on the floor; and I wondered how her summer might’ve looked if I’d never shown up in that tree. Would she and Norma have flown kites in the cul-de-sac? Gone for bicycle rides? Picnicked by the shore?
Instead, Olive was giving human lessons to a cat. I’m sure you’ve been paying attention, but as a reminder, the list was as follows:
1. Go to a real movie theater
2. The creation and enjoyment of poetry
3. Bowling and recreational board games
4. Preparation and consumption of a cheese sandwich
5. Host a dinner party
Olive had been faithfully crossing off items, but occasionally she’d glance at the list, chewing heavily on her thumbnail. “Bowling. That’s stumping me. Do they even make those shiny little shoes for cats?”
I very much hoped so.
“We’re going to skip that for a moment and come back to it,” she finally said, closing the laptop, and I trusted her to keep her word, even as time slipped away.
And it was slipping, very fast. Between board games and the beach, poetry and long days at the aquarium, it felt like I’d blinked and three weeks had passed.
Finally, we decided to combine the last two items on the list. Olive and I would host a cheese-sandwich dinner party—a simple affair, arranged tastefully on the beach. Naturally, I wanted to look my best. As a human, the outfit choice was obvious: a slim-fitting suit with a bow tie that popped. Or something more casual: a linen vest with a pocket square. But as a cat, I could hardly ask for another outfit—I had my raincoat, my collar, and my stingray T-shirt, all of which were appropriate for most occasions. I also had my fur—and that, unfortunately, needed work.
You may not truly understand how it feels to be greasy, for patches of your belly to turn slick and matted. The urge did strike me quite frequently: to lick myself, to lick and lick and lick until everything was fluffy and clean. But I hated how animalistic this was. It is not a dignified posture, to stick your leg in the air and bury your face into the crease of your buttocks.
Even Olive began to notice. “You’re . . . um, missing some spots,” she said, the morning of our dinner party. “I wouldn’t say anything, but . . . you might be more comfortable if you cleaned them. I could also give you a bath? If you wanted?”
Well, that was completely out of the question. Sure, I might’ve enjoyed watching the water as it spritzed from the tap—miraculously flowing, drop by drop—but actually submerging myself in it? Never mind a rough towel or a too-hot blow-dryer with its sharp whirring noise. No. I would handle matters myself.
In the cool darkness underneath Olive’s bed, I spent two hours on my leg patches alone. I dug my nose into my belly, grooming my midsection with gusto. And yes, my fur did begin to fluff in a more presentable way. The top of my head was most difficult to reach, as my tongue didn’t extend quite that far. Eventually I learned to lick my paw first, then rub. (It didn’t take me too long to discover this; we are, after all, a brilliant species.) Then I paced back and forth on the ridge of the sofa, and carefully pressed my nose to the window glass, waiting for Olive to return from the store.
“I grabbed cheddar,” she said an hour later, setting the groceries on the countertop. “And Swiss. And Brie, Gouda, American, goat cheese, Muenster, and string cheese. I’m not sure what kind the string cheese is, but it’s . . . Well, it has string in the name, so you’ll like it. You think I got enough?”
Peering into the bags, I ogled the cheese with satisfaction. I couldn’t really smell it through the thick plastic wrapping—and it all looked roughly the same color to my eyes—but this was still an important moment. I’d heard so many things about the charm of cheese, about humans delighting in the taste. Good things were surely to come.
Olive unpacked two loaves of bread—one sourdough, one wheat—then helped me wash my paws with soap and water. I flinched, whiskers bobbing, but she told me this was crucial. I couldn’t contaminate the cheese with my litter paws.
Here is what I’ve learned about the art of sandwich making. It is about more than shoving slices of cheese onto bread. It’s about the sights and the sounds of the kitchen: the refrigerator humming, the curtains swishing with wind. It’s about who you make the sandwich with—and the thought of enjoying it together. By the end, we had twenty-five sandwiches, neatly stacked.
“You know it’s just going to be me, you, and Q,” Norma said, entering the kitchen.
“And Leonard,” Olive said.
She examined the sandwiches, lifting the bread. “You don’t want to put anything else on them? No mustard? No pickles? We’ve got some lunch meat in the fridge.”
“Just cheese,” Olive said, packing the sandwiches in a wicker basket. Stanley decided at the last moment to join us in the truck—because there was food involved, and he was quite a fan of food.
The four of us drove with the windows down, the sun simmering low in the sky, the scent of salt tickling our noses: no matter where you were in Turtle Beach, you were never far from the ocean. Olive stuck one of her hands out the window, letting it swoosh in the breeze. From the back seat, I watched her—and something in me said, I’ve known you forever. Not just an earthly forever, but a deep sort of always, like I’d met her before even saying hello. There is an expression on this planet, that someone is an old soul. That they are wise beyond their years. I can tell you, without hesitation: this describes Olive perfectly. She may be only eleven, but her soul has lived and lived.
“Almost there,” she said, as Norma turned down a rocky path, the water gleaming in the distance.
; The whole thing was different from how I’d imagined. We did not spend the afternoon folding cloth napkins into elegant swans. There were no polished silver spoons, no glazed hams glinting under the light of a chandelier. But there was Q in a Hawaiian shirt, waiting for us by a sand dune, a six-pack of root beer in his hand.
“No party is complete without root beer,” he said very seriously, then smiled.
Olive unfurled a picnic blanket on the ground and unpacked the sandwiches. “Thanks for coming.”
“What, are you kidding me?” Q said, bending down to scratch my head. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world. Not every day that you get to dine with the king of cats.”
Norma snorted—but in a nice way, like Stanley laughing through the sprinkler.
We ate from paper plates. We spoke about the aquarium and the penguins. We watched the tide roll out, sloshing in waves. Nothing about it was fancy. I’m embarrassed to say that I didn’t even like the cheese sandwiches. The bread stuck to the roof of my mouth; the cheese soured on my tongue. And halfway through the meal, my belly gently rumbled. I thought maybe my food was digesting improperly—that I was lactose intolerant after all—but then it began to travel: up, up, up through my throat. It burned slightly. I started to retch.
“It’s okay,” Olive said, concern in her voice. “It’s probably just a hair ball.”
Just a hair ball! I smarted at the word.
I won’t go into any further details, because it really was too terrible to describe; let’s say that I don’t wish the experience on anyone. It itches. It burns. But afterward, the five of us dipped our toes into the sea. Olive rolled up her overalls and splashed in the water with Stanley, who shook his furry mass, droplets flying everywhere.
As for Q, he kept studying me, watching me with careful eyes. Eventually, his feet kicked through the sand, and he came to stand by my side. “You know,” he said, “Olive told me that this dinner was for you. When you find someone who loves you like that, Leonard, you never let them go.”
Leonard (My Life as a Cat) Page 9