My Life as a Cat

by Carlie Sorosiak

  Just then, Olive glanced down at me, a hint of a smile on her face.

  And it struck me that maybe I should smile back.

  Person-to-person interaction depends on knowing when to smile. It’s about waiting until the exact right moment, and unleashing the appropriate grin. There are so many variables. Do you smile with or without teeth? How much should your lips stretch? And how do you recover, if you get it wrong?

  So, from a safe position on the rug, I gazed up at Olive, stretching my lips as far as they would go. Something told me I was missing the mark; it felt strange, to expose my teeth so flamboyantly to the air. And Olive was leaning closer, tilting her head to the side.

  “Are you OK, Leonard?”

  I’m disturbed by how simple-minded I was. Cats rotate their ears, vibrate their tails, rattle their chests; they do not smile.

  Olive stared at me for a good minute, a searching look in her eyes. If Norma hadn’t asked if she wanted popcorn, calling her into the kitchen, I’m not sure what would have happened. Would she have confronted me? Asked more questions?

  Are you really OK, Leonard?

  Leonard, what are you?

  13

  I had to be more careful, more catlike. So, after the movie, I ate my kibble with caution, selecting one piece at a time. See! my every bite shouted. I am convincingly feline! I am real!

  The rest of the evening, I lumbered around in a sort of dazed panic, overthinking every step I took. Would a cat be more graceful? Jump more? Meow with greater frequency? And how could I evade danger – slippery patches on the tiles, pollen lurking in the air? Despite my exhaustion, I stayed up quite late that night, mulling over how I could avoid detection, travel to Yellowstone, and (quite importantly) remain alive.

  My homesickness was only increasing. Earth had all this oxygen, but where was the helium? Where was the pale peach of helium clouds, the blue neon of helium rivers? I longed for the mellow swoosh of it. I longed for the nights when I’d hover at the edge of a crystal mountain, watching the stars dip and collide. There, I didn’t have to worry – because worry did not exist.

  I was still getting used to the unsettling feeling of being alone. Bodies can be useful, but they’re also a barrier. Earth had so many barriers. And I missed the comfort of knowing that the hive was there, always there – a part of me as I was a part of them. All of us together, never lonely.

  “I’ve never had a pet before,” Olive said, breaking my thoughts just after midnight. In the darkness, I was curled at the foot of her mattress, my paws tucked under my chest; I found that I actually enjoyed a higher position, rather than slinking under her bed. It felt safer that way.

  To my surprise, Olive switched on the lamp and gazed at me. “I’m not sure if I’m doing it right, this whole ‘pet owner’ thing. I don’t even like the word ‘owner’. You belong to yourself. Did you know that, pound for pound, the house cat is the fiercest animal alive? They’re perfectly designed to hunt – and really, really good at it. Ancient Egyptians even worshipped them. There were cat gods and everything.”

  I blinked slowly, my eyes adjusting to the light.

  “Which makes sense,” she continued, sitting up. “The fierce thing. I think you’re pretty brave, living in a new place and all. You could be really feisty or mean if you wanted to be, but you aren’t like most cats, are you?”

  My pupils dilated. Did Olive know? Had I given myself away with that smile?

  “I can tell you’re super smart. Maybe the smartest cat I’ve ever met. It’s the eye contact thing, like you’re actually listening. And it’s nice to have someone listen and not, you know, judge you.” She paused, elbows on her knees. “Maybe you can promise me something.”

  I wasn’t sure. Honestly, I was confused. What could I promise to her that would mean anything at all?

  “Just…” she said, chewing her bottom lip. “Just don’t think I’m weird like some people do. So here are a few things that you should know about me up front: I like overalls. They’re comfortable and they have big pockets, which are useful. Especially if you’re carrying treats for animals. I love animals a whole lot. One of the things I know about my dad is that he did, too. So I’ve collected all of these facts about them – and I like sharing them with people. Did you know that the milk of a hippopotamus is pink? Cool stuff like that. But my mom’s boyfriend, Frank… He told me…”

  My stomach tangled.

  “He told me,” she finally managed, “that I was ‘socially unprepared for the real world’. That kids my age might think I’m weird. That maybe I was weird. And I … I was too embarrassed to tell my mom what Frank said. Because he’s right, isn’t he? A few months ago he even signed me up for Brownies, so that I could ‘socialise’. But I couldn’t get over what he said. So I barely spoke at all. Then I quit.” She drew in a tiny breath. “Anyway, promise you won’t think that’s weird, OK? Even after you get to know me?”

  I didn’t know how to answer her. I didn’t think she expected me to. Still, I desperately wanted to do something. To help her. To feel with her. What might a real cat say, in this situation?

  Calling on all my vocal cords, I gave a slight murrr followed by a low-pitched aaaauuuuh. It wasn’t nearly enough. It didn’t tell her that Life is so curious on Earth; it didn’t say You don’t deserve this. But hopefully it reminded her: You are not alone.

  “Thanks, Leonard,” Olive said, then flicked off the lamp.

  I lay there feeling very much like I’d dodged one thing – and stepped directly into something else. Weird? Olive? Weird meant unearthly, and Olive was firmly of this Earth. As an outsider, even I could identify her as human: someone who lived, and belonged, and spoke with intention. So I guess you could say the idea startled me, that Frank might not see what I saw, feel what I felt. Olive had rescued me in a storm. She’d given me a place to stay, these blankets beneath my paws. How could anyone see her as anything but good? As anything but purely, wonderfully human?

  I flitted, turned. And I thought about Olive – who I trusted. Who I trusted from the second we met. If she could share something so personal with me, then why couldn’t I share more with her?

  That might put your species at risk, a voice in me said.

  Olive is not just any human, another part of me argued. Wouldn’t it be so much easier, if I could just tell her what I was?

  Very carefully, I started weighing my choices. If I snuck into a car, could I guarantee that it was travelling in the right direction? If I tried to board an airplane by myself, wouldn’t someone notice me? On my journey, what would happen if a human discovered that I had no earthly home? What if they thought I might be “better off” in a shelter, trapped behind a wire cage, with no method of escape? But Olive – Olive had human hands, and a mouth that could speak words like, May we borrow this car to drive cross-country? Or, One airplane ticket, please, to travel with my cat.

  Rolling on the bed, I let the idea wash over me.

  Was telling Olive my only chance of returning home?

  14

  That Tuesday, Q picked us up on his way to the aquarium, rolling down the windows as he approached. “Leonard, my man!”

  I stared at him, sticking my head between the porch rails, and thought, Is there a good way to tell a human I am not like you? Would revealing my secret put the hive at risk, if I only told one trustworthy person?

  “Got you something,” Q said, climbing the stairs with a bundle in his hands. “Now, it isn’t much, and I’m not expecting a thank-you card, but…”

  On the porch, he bent to my level and showed me what he’d brought: a collar. My own collar. And a harness, and a leash.

  “I get it,” he said. “You’re not a dog, so you’re probably thinking, ‘What the heck is this for?’ But if you’re going to hang around with us, we’ve got to take some precautions. This way, you can be out and about.”

  The collar was sleek and black, with a silver tag that said Leonard. He slipped the loop over my head, and there it rested �
� snug but comfortable – on my neck.

  “You hate it?” Q asked.

  Quite the opposite. It hadn’t occurred to me that cats could wear collars, that I’d be allowed this bit of clothing. It wasn’t a ranger’s uniform. It wasn’t a Hawaiian shirt. But it was shiny, reflective, and could help keep me safe.

  Just like that, I was purring.

  At first it alarmed me, the way my body was vibrating. I briefly wondered if this was the beginning of another panic attack, if a second trip to the vet was in store. But the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Actually, it was great – like I was untouchable, and warm, and pleased from the inside out.

  “Good cat,” Q said, chuckling. “Very good.”

  A minute later, Norma appeared on the porch, examining me. “Shouldn’t we have him stay here, let him get some rest?”

  I countered that with a series of wails, practically flinging myself downstairs.

  “Leonard has spoken,” Q said, loading me into the car as the sky turned purple. It was one of those dusky summer afternoons, when the temperature hovered high, and it almost rained – but then the clouds pulled back, and there it was: a brilliantly clear evening.

  “Once a week, we come in at night,” Q explained. “In the summer, it’s so packed during the day. Can’t even elbow your way through the crowd, much less clean.”

  Chilled air whooshed past us as Norma, Olive, Q, and I slipped into the aquarium. Humans, especially those who live by the beach, turn up the air-conditioning until their skin prickles, throwing on sweatshirts to regulate their body temperatures. Since it was past closing time, the halls empty except for staff, Norma grabbed Olive a sweatshirt from the gift shop, slapping a stack of money by the register. Olive said thank you, pulling the hoodie over her overalls.

  “Well,” Q said, clapping his hands. “Time to get to it.”

  We passed signs for creatures of the deep, with names much more alien than mine: big-nose unicorn fish, big-bellied seahorse, African pancake tortoise, clownfish, foxface rabbitfish, giant Pacific octopus. Norma pointed out a few exhibits to Olive, who nodded in concentration. Listening to them speak, I made connections: that Olive’s dad was Norma’s son; that Q had worked here the longest; that – after the shrimping industry dried up in South Carolina – Norma switched from captain of a boat to captain of the aquarium. She provided daily care, rehabilitation, and record keeping for all the marine animals.

  Mostly I just watched, relaxing a little. I watched them clean the exhibits. I watched them scrape the scum from rocks and skim the water with nets. They threw slivers of sardines into the sparkling tanks, and traced their fingers along the glass, smiling as the sea lions followed. They switched on music called “The Beach Boys” and mopped the floors to a swishing beat. A small part of me despised the dampness under my paws, but other than that, everything felt … close to calm.

  “I am the poet of the Body,” a famous human once wrote. “I am the poet of the Soul.” And I wondered if that’s what I was seeing in them, in these people. Body and soul.

  “OK,” Q said after a while. “This calls for ice cream. I don’t know what ‘this’ is, but ice cream is almost always called for.”

  Norma said, “You two go on. I’ve got a date with a scrubber brush.”

  In the cafeteria, I seated myself on one of the chairs, my paws perched safely on the table – I’m not sure why this was funny, but apparently it was – and Q grabbed two small buckets of vanilla ice cream.

  “So,” he said, handing Olive a plastic spoon. “Your grandma says that you might be moving to Florida soon, starting a new school.”

  Olive winced and dug into the ice cream. “Yeah. I don’t know. That’s Frank’s idea.”

  “You don’t want to go? I understand that. But they’ve got some awesome animals down in Florida: river otters, armadillos, panthers…”

  “And the alligators,” Olive said. “Did you know that they can weigh over one thousand pounds? And you wouldn’t think it, but their muscles aren’t really that strong when they open their mouths. Like, if you wanted to, you could hold their jaws shut, with nothing but your hands. And their eggs are—” Olive paused, setting down her spoon. “Sorry.”

  Q frowned. “Sorry what?”

  “I’m being weird, with all the animal facts. That’s what some people say.”

  “Some people who?”

  Olive shrugged.

  “Let me ask you a question,” Q said after a moment, leaning back in his chair. “Do you think I’m weird?” Just then, he screwed up his face, puffing out his cheeks, widening his eyeballs like a fish.

  Olive tried, very unsuccessfully, to suppress a grin.

  “That’s what I thought. Now, I don’t want to feed you some junk like ‘everyone’s on their own path’, but in a way it’s true. There are people who take the roads and people who take the marshlands. You, my friend, don’t seem like a road taker. Anytime you want to talk about animals, I’m all ears.” Q took a breath, reaching over to pat the crest of my head. “But hey, you’ve got the summer to figure everything out. Figure out exactly who you want to be.”

  Something told me that maybe he was talking to me, too.

  That night, after returning from the aquarium, Olive asked to keep me. Keep me, for real.

  I was listening next to the refrigerator, Stanley panting by my side.

  “I’ll walk him and everything,” Olive was saying on the phone. “Yes, Mom, walk him. He’s good on a leash. Mm-hmm. I know. I know. But you haven’t even seen him! He’s really cute, and well behaved, and he hasn’t scratched me or bitten me or anything. And he even uses the litter box – most of the time! It’s a big responsibility. I get it. But I’m also thinking … if we move to Florida with Frank…”

  Olive paused. She sucked in a breath.

  “Is it so bad,” she said, “to want a friend?”

  15

  I couldn’t let this go on any longer – not as Olive stood there in the kitchen, asking her mother, Can I keep him? Everything was stacking up: my will to live, my homesickness. And now, I didn’t want to disappoint Olive, this human girl who kept rescuing me over and over again. She was becoming attached. Wouldn’t it be kinder to say something now?

  “You hear that, Leonard?” Olive said, hanging up the phone. Excitement danced in her voice. “My mom said she’ll consider it, which is a good sign. She wouldn’t let me even think about a hamster. Or a rabbit.”

  Olive knelt down, stroking the underside of my chin. As she blinked at me, I knew that I had to be brave – like the fiercest of house cats – and tell her exactly what I was. How would she react? How horribly might this go? Anxiety surged in my stomach, but still, I mapped out a plan. Tonight, find a crayon.

  You see, my methods for telling Olive were limited. Pencils were too sharp – a danger to the eyes. Pens could burst, staining the white patches of my fur. Crayons were absolutely the answer: beautifully coloured wax sticks that were also incredibly safe. Human children used them, so how difficult could they be?

  We went to bed. After Olive flicked off the lamp, her turtle night light glowing, I scoured the house: at the bottom of backpacks, in the ceramic kitchen bowls, under tables and chairs. Luckily, there was a big box of them in the downstairs closet – ninety-six colours, sorted into shades. As a cat, my eyes were most sensitive to blues, greens, and yellows. I’m not sure if this is true for all felines, or perhaps just me, but I could see some browns, some orange tones. Still, I had a hard time choosing between SEPIA and RAW SIENNA, but eventually I selected the second: it was more E.T.’s shade of brown.

  I set to work the next morning as the humans ate breakfast; I figured it was better to work undisturbed. Rather quickly, it became apparent that gripping the crayon with my front paws was a disastrous plan. I couldn’t write straight enough. My mouth – my mouth was the key. Crunching the crayon with my back molars, I could just about steady it. True, my tongue was watering from the bitterness, and I had to breathe vigorously through
my nose to keep from choking, but once I got the hang of it, I was surprised by how cleanly the crayon wrote. It was a warm day, and the wax drifted on to the walls.

  Spitting out the crayon with an exaggerated hack, I stepped back to admire my work. The word ALIEN was haphazardly scrawled in brown letters, over a foot high, just above Olive’s baseboard. I’ll admit that panic did seize me. I was really doing this. Olive would see my work; she would know. Part of me asked, What if she is afraid of you? Another part said, What if she tells the world? I sat stiffly by the letters, taller than me, and bade my time – preparing for the inevitable shock of Olive’s reaction.

  The fur tingled between the pads of my toes.

  I began mildly hyperventilating.

  And Olive breezed in fifteen minutes later, asking if I’d seen her copy of Wild Animals & Beyond – a book she was reading, and enjoying, too. “It was right here,” she said, lifting up her pillow. “I swore that’s where I left it.”

  I cleared my throat, flicked my tail towards ALIEN, and braced myself. This was it.

  “Oh!” she said, her vision skating right past me. “In the kitchen. I think I left it in the kitchen. You coming, Leonard?”

  Alien! I shouted after her. I am an alien!

  But she was already halfway downstairs, sliding on a pair of yellow sandals, grabbing a beach towel then her book. I followed, caterwauling as she began heading in the direction of the ocean, as the screen door slapped behind us. My tail fuzzed, whiskers pulling back. Everything was happening so fast – so wrongly – that it floored me. Here I was, shouting after a human, desperately trying to tell her that I was not of this world, and the human was grabbing my harness.