What then?
Never trust a human. That’s what my species believes. We are warned very clearly before our departure to Earth, about maintaining the secret, about the consequences of saying, I am not like you. I’ve heard this argument so many times before: that revealing ourselves would place our entire planet at risk. Wouldn’t the humans – especially the humans – try to invade us, colonise us, change everything that we are?
By now, you might have figured it out: that I believe in the goodness of people. That I was willing to give up anything and everything to become one, even for a month. Even for a day. Of course, there was a chance that humans would visit us, disrupting our lives of logic and harmony – but I still remember staring at a dark horizon and wishing that humans would come.
Maybe someone, then, would care about my day.
9
A man named Q met us at the aquarium door, and at first I didn’t identify him as human. He was wearing a foam fish head, an enormous backpack, and a shirt with a variety of palm trees. A Hawaiian shirt, I’ve come to understand – the king of shirts. If I could wear any item of clothing, it would be from Hawaii. For a second I was envious of him: how he so easily extended his hand to Olive, greeting her in a way that I never could.
“You must be Olive-the-granddaughter. I’m an old friend of Norma’s,” Q said, tipping his fish hat, then peering down at me. His skin was white, and his eyes, I would later realise, were the same colour as the aquarium tanks. “And who’s this? My new boss?”
Olive giggled – the first time I’d heard a human laugh outside a television programme. The noise unravelled me slightly; I didn’t know anything could sound like that. Like lightness itself.
“This,” Olive said, “is Leonard.”
Q sized me up. “Nice lookin’ cat,” he finally said, which I knew was factually untrue. Hadn’t he noticed the chip in my ear? The way my tail bent to the side? Thankfully he made no comment about letting a cat into an aquarium. What he did was open the door.
Inside, the walls glittered. A colossal model stingray shimmered from the rafters. I had never pictured an aquarium – had no episode of I Love Lucy to guide me – so each curve of the wall, each bend of the path, felt like landing on an alien planet all over again. Everything was brilliant and quiet and blue, tanks lit up in the near darkness. And so many fish! Gigantic fish! Miniature fish! Fish with golden fins, swishing tails, stripes down their backs. I froze on the rubber floor, in the halo of a penguin footprint, absolutely in awe of life on Earth.
Norma volunteered to take Olive to the office, but Q said, “Nah, let her stick with me.” So we followed him. Olive hooked her hands into the pockets of her overalls and gazed with big eyes at the tanks, watching the fish dart. I saw something of myself in her, the way she was taking in her environment, full of wonder.
“You know,” Q said, clapping his hands together, “Turtle Beach Aquarium is older than the town itself.” I think he got the distinct sense that Olive and I needed to be entertained – that otherwise we’d be wandering alone through the shark tunnels, through the Underwater Explorer Passageway, where jellyfish plumed in the dark.
Despite my focus on accessing a spare computer, I found myself – quite against my will – wrapped up in the mystery and amazement of it all. Q spoke with such gusto, as I’d hoped to on Earth. His life was the human existence I’d wanted for myself.
“When the first settlers came to Turtle Beach, they said, we don’t need no stinkin’ banks, no stinkin’ grocery stores – all we need is an aquarium that is just the right amount of cheesy. With plenty of whirly thingamabobs on the walls for the tourists. There also must be ice cream, of exactly two flavours, and this place must exist forever, even in the event of an apocalypse.”
Olive blinked, a smile curling on her lips. “Is any of that true?”
Removing his fish hat, Q clucked his tongue. “Hard to say. Sometimes we have three different ice creams. Don’t try the clam flavour. Bad clams, man.” He swept his brownish hair back with one hand. “Joking aside, we do a lot of good here. Most of these fellas have been rescued from one place or another: fishing nets, washed up on the coast, injured by boats. Some of them we can rehabilitate; others will just have to stay a while longer, but we sure are lucky to have them around.”
Trailing along a set of penguin footprints, illuminated from below, we curved into a tunnel, glass arching over our heads. Light and dark swirled in patches. Rotating my ears, I looked up to see two enormous creatures, circling with swift strokes of their tails.
“That’s Steve,” Q said. “And that’s Martin. You afraid of sharks?”
Olive shook her head. “Not really.”
“Good. Seriously misunderstood creatures, sharks. If humans want to step inside their ocean, we should be prepared to accept the consequences. But hey, that’s just me. See those little guys, right there? The nurse sharks. They’re friendly.” He paused. “So tell me about your cat. We don’t get many cats in here.”
Olive said, “I’m not sure if he’s my cat yet.”
“I see, I see. Well, he looks like a good friend to have.”
My chest puffed a little with pride. I’d always hoped for the opportunity to be a friend – to have a friend. Even here, in the aquarium, I was mildly scared of the water: about the possibility of the tanks bursting, of somehow finding myself submerged. But another thought came, strangely, right after the fear: Olive will protect me.
“You know,” Q continued, “we could use an extra set of hands this summer, if you’re interested. Your grandmother said you’d be here until July.”
Olive squirmed. “I think I’m supposed to do arts and crafts.”
“You can make a pipe-cleaner octopus. How ’bout that?” There was a pause. “Truth is, I do a little bit of everything around here, and it wouldn’t hurt to have someone else around, help me feed the fish, clean a few tanks.”
“OK. But I’m … I’m not…” Olive blew out a breath. “Frank says I’m not very good at talking to people.”
Q frowned. “Who’s this Frank, then?”
“My mom’s boyfriend. He’s a life coach, which I guess means he tells people what to do with their lives. Anyway, I like talking about animals – a lot. I know loads about them: marine iguanas, white tigers, you name it. Sometimes it feels like I’ve memorised so many facts that I might explode if I don’t tell someone. Sometimes I blurt them out at people. And then … well, I guess not everyone wants to hear about iguanas. Or naked mole rats. Or mouse deer. I don’t want to say the wrong things.”
Q thought about this for a long moment. “I happen to believe you’re a great conversationalist. And here, it doesn’t really matter how you are with people. How are you with fish? OK, OK. I’ve got an idea.” We scooted over to the next tank, where a school of butterfly fish bobbed in the fluorescent light. “That’s Cletus and Octavia and Kim. They’re very chatty, so don’t let them talk your ear off. Just say, Cletus, I ain’t got the time… What’s that?” Q cupped his hand to his ear, pressed both to the tank. “Mm-hmm, yep. Yes, I see. And then what?”
We waited as the fish spoke.
I had no idea that some humans could speak to fish.
“Well,” Q said, pulling back from the tank. “That settles it. Octavia said that you rock. I told her, ‘Kids don’t say “rock” any more, Octavia’, but she just wouldn’t hear it. So, you in?”
I didn’t hear Olive’s answer. Because at that exact moment, as I was trying to get a better look at the fish, I bopped my nose on the glass. It wasn’t a gentle bop, either – more like a smash. And it hurt, my nose lightly throbbing.
“Ouch,” Olive said, like she could feel it, too. “You OK, Leonard?”
No. No, I wasn’t. I could feel pain – not just discomfort or stress, but real, actual pain. Perhaps you can imagine the growing sense of panic that rushed through my chest. Why hadn’t I considered it before? Everything had gone disastrously wrong with my transformation, so why not this,
too? My immortality should have stayed with me, despite my earthly shell. On this planet, I was supposed to feel everything, except physical pain. Pain meant decay. Pain meant fear. Pain meant mortality.
Before my trip to Earth, I’d memorised a variety of human expressions and felt prepared to whip them out at a moment’s notice. Don’t cry over spilt milk. I have bigger fish to fry. Curiosity killed the cat. Now, the last one took on new meaning.
It felt like a warning.
In this body, on this planet, I was just as vulnerable as anyone else.
Are you still listening? Can you hear me?
I hope so. The next part is very important.
10
I couldn’t eat the crackers. We were in the staff lounge, crowded around the table with a package of saltines – which were salty, as their name suggested – and I couldn’t eat them. I couldn’t eat them because I was a cat, and if I did, the salt would crystallise in my bladder, forming a harsh chemical block, and I would be unable to urinate for many days. Apparently this was extremely painful. All of this was told to me by Q, who sat munching the saltines, his arms slung over the back of his chair.
I’d forgotten about the computer and was trying to focus on small things. How the staff lounge smelled: soggy, musty. Noises in the background: tanks sloshing, Olive pressing the buttons of a vending machine. But realisation kept pounding me like winds in a storm. I wasn’t sure that I could feel my whiskers; everything seemed suddenly blurry.
Mortal. I was mortal. I could die on this planet – die at any moment, from anything.
“Did you know your cat’s kind of cross-eyed?” Q said to Olive, mouth half full. “It’s like he’s thinking real hard and his eyes have just – boop! Gone inward.”
“I wonder what he thinks about,” Olive said, plopping down with a can of lemonade.
“Oh, I know. How strange humans are. That’s what they’re all thinking,” Q said, gesturing behind him to the fish. “You ever wonder why we skateboard? Have pie-eating contests? My cousin Bernie, he just bought his kid one of those – whatchamacallits? Those stuffed animal horses on a stick. Calls it Mr Stickhorse. Has a theme song for it and everything: Come on, Mr Stickhorse, give me a smile! Song needs a little work, if you ask me.”
Olive took a sip of lemonade. “Rubber ducks. That’s another thing.”
“See!” Q said, slapping the table. “Proving my point. Humanity is a strange, strange beast, my friend.”
Wrapping my tail tightly around my body, I was listening but not listening – seeing but not seeing. I could feel the bones inside me. I could feel myself growing older, second by earthly second.
Norma trudged into the room at that moment, telling us that she’d updated the records and prepped food for the African penguins. “I thought we had a bunch of flooding in the sea lion centre,” she said, “but it could’ve been a lot worse.”
Could it? I wasn’t sure.
You might say that I was half in denial as we swept out of the aquarium and into Q’s car; it was bright red with silver wing tips that sparkled in the sun, and looked very much like a spaceship, if you believe any of the movies. “It’s a classic,” Q said. “And by classic, I mean it’s old, but tell me, tell me honestly, if you’ve ever seen a car this cool.”
I had barely seen any vehicles at all.
The interior was rather impressive: soft leather and windows that, when cracked, let in a briny breeze. We cruised down crowded streets as Olive tucked me to her chest, and I tried to narrow my gaze – focusing on her daisy barrettes, on flowers, on good things in the world. Norma suggested that we should purchase a cat carrier (if “travelling with Leonard” was going to be a daily activity), but my heart was beating too fast to fully process this.
I just wanted to stay alive.
“Hey,” Olive said, rubbing her dry nose against my wet one, “it’s OK. It’s only a car. We’ll be there soon.”
For a brief flash, I desperately wanted to believe that I was just a regular cat – afraid of cars, or the breeze, or travel – and I could be comforted by my human’s nose, by a soothing whisper in my ear. But my universe was imploding and Olive didn’t even know it. I had no way to tell her, no way to make her understand.
“His heart’s beating really fast,” Olive said.
“Course it is,” Norma said. “Cats hate riding in the car. He should be—”
“No, I mean really fast,” she said. “And he’s drooling a lot.”
Norma swung around in the front seat, just as my eyes began to roll into the back of my head. Eighteen hours after learning to breathe, I was hyperventilating, my chest rising and falling in rapid bursts. It did occur to me, as Q pressed the gas pedal, as Olive’s heartbeat sped to match my own, that I was in trouble. Earthly trouble. Here was another downside of having a body: sometimes you lose control.
11
Dolphins should be running the world. As much as I appreciate humanity, it’s obvious that dolphins are the most intelligent creatures on Earth. (Can you imagine humans thriving so well under the sea, growing tails and swallowing fish whole? I think not.) Given this, I’ve come to believe that veterinary offices exist for two purposes: firstly, to treat the sick and the injured, and secondly, so that humans can keep a watchful eye on every species, so none – such as the hyper-intelligent dolphin – can rise above them.
No one seems particularly worried about a cat takeover. I am unsurprised. Arriving at Turtle Beach Veterinary Clinic, my bib was slick with drool, and I looked very much the alien I was: spiky, wide-eyed and shivering. Quiet mews vibrated my ribcage. Q wrapped me in a bright green beach towel.
“He was fine,” Olive whispered. “He was fine and then…”
And then everything was startlingly black. Piecing it together after the fact, I understand that my eyes closed in Olive’s arms, that my body limped, and for a few moments, I wasn’t anything. I did not exist.
Johnny Cash woke me up. There were bright lights in the examination room, sharp smells and Johnny Cash playing quietly on the intercom: a gravelly song about walking a line. You may have heard of this particular phrase: that someone is “going through a lot”. As if “a lot” is a direction, something to pass over, like wading through water. This is what I remember. I remember the song – and a pair of humans hovering over me, poking and prodding this new body of mine. Swatting them away was useless, even with my claws out. My reaction time was slow, my vision foggy.
“He’s pretty young, judging by his teeth,” the vet said. “Maybe two, three years old. You say you just adopted him?”
“Yes,” Olive said, at the same time Norma added, “Not quite.”
The examination table was silver. The wallpaper was striped. A handwritten sign told us THE DOCTOR IS IN. And I lay there, blinking slowly, as the vet threw around words like “microchip”, “vaccinations” and “panic attack”.
I have blocked out so much of what happened next, but I recall thinking a great deal about immortality. On Earth, I was vulnerable. On Earth, everything was temporary. The average human lives 27,375 days, a staggeringly small number. It’s only 5,400 days for cats.
“But he’ll be OK,” Olive asked, strain in her voice. “Right?”
The vet said I needed rest. I needed calm. As a rescue, I was “going through a lot”.
That night, I opened my eyes to see particles shifting above me. And for a moment, I thought I saw an infinite wilderness of stars. I thought I was on my planet – safe, wrapped in the numbness of calm. But it was just a trick of the light, just a bit of dust, nothing like home.
12
No one talks to cats about immortality. No one questions dogs about the shortness of their existence. But humans, they are always wondering what it might be like, to live and live and live. I understand this now – where they’re coming from. After the vet, I was paralysed with fear in the beach house, afraid to move from my fluffed blankets. Every noise slicked back my ears. What would happen if the walls abruptly collapsed? If I
slipped on a banana peel, as human cartoons so often suggest?
It’s not like I had days to waste. At the end of the month, I would either make it to Yellowstone or remain stuck as a cat – without hands, without the hive, and most importantly, without my immortal life. For the record, cats do not have nine lives – only one – and I should have spent this one travelling. I should’ve been searching for bus routes, plane tickets, waterways of the Carolinas. Anything to get me out.
Instead, I sat. And I shook. And I watched Home & Garden Television for the entire next day, listening to Olive tell me about the animals in the marsh: mice and mud crabs, spoonbills and white shrimp. “You have to watch out for the gators,” she said, and it struck me that life on Earth could look extremely alien, with large teeth and green scales. And humans were scared of my species? Of us?
In that time, I also learned how to use a litter box, after sifting through pellets with my back paws, giving the impression that I knew exactly what I was doing.
But I was petrified. That should be said. I was deeply petrified: by sounds, by movements, by every jolt of the wind. I was even careful in this new litter box of mine, the safest of places, where I should’ve felt most secure – surrounded by nothing but the soothing scent of pine.
We watched E.T. that night. I like to think of this as fate, and not the whimsy of Monday evening broadcasting. After dinner, Stanley heaped himself on the linen rug, while Norma and Olive curled in matching armchairs. And I, well, I couldn’t decide if I should stay in the room. When Olive introduced E.T. as “an alien film”, my ears flattened. Would she draw the connection between this creature and me, if the idea was right in front of her?
In the end I decided to stay, because E.T. the extraterrestrial appears nothing as I do. No fur, no tail. Was it startling to see an impression of aliens on Earth, bulb-headed and spiky-fingered? Sure. But they did get my love of flowers exactly right. When E.T. revived the dead chrysanthemums, my tail twitched excitedly against the rug. I was so absorbed that, for a split second, I even forgot about my mortality. Olive knew most of the film’s lines, mouthing along with the words, and I kept peering between her and the movie, as E.T. levitated balls in a bright room – showing the humans his planetary system, his world.
My Life as a Cat Page 4