It was nearly five o’clock when the Cat came by for a visit.
“Hello, cat,” I said.
“Hello, friend,” replied the Cat. “How was your day?”
I was taken aback instantly. Now, wait a minute, I thought. Had the Cat just spoken to me? Frightened, I attempted to proceed as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
“Um, not too much. Well, I had a midterm.”
“Oh, really?” asked the Cat, resting her paw gently beneath her chin as if to show genuine curiosity. “What in?”
“French,” I said.
“¡Ay, que terrible!” said the Cat, who, while bilingual, was apparently unable to distinguish between Romance languages.
“Indeed,” I said matter-of-factly, before returning once more to the realization that I was conversing with a feline.
This, I summarily determined, was a dreadful turn of events. I had suddenly, and without explanation developed the ability to communicate with animals, and was now destined to live a life fraught with inane banter whenever I met a furry creature. The downside of this possibility was spectacular: I can conceive of no circumstance in which I would want to speak with a squirrel, chat with a chicken or squawk at a sparrow. The thought of all the Doctor Dolittle references that would undoubtedly be hurled upon me by friends and family was both intimidating and mildly sickening.
The other option, of course, was that I was a prophet sent down by the Greek goddess Artemis to announce her triumphant return to Earth, bringing with her 1,000 years of suffering and anarchy. But this seemed impractical since I am monotheistic and, as Father Montgomery told me when I was 10, “far from prophet material.”
The simple notion that I was just an ordinary guy dealing with a talking cat never occurred to me. After all, I had known the Cat for years and not once had she approached me. Why should this day be any different?
Fancying myself quite the sly fellow, I decided to handle the situation reticently.
“So what did you do today?” I asked.
“Well, I napped, cleaned myself, played with that adorable mouse on a string. You know, the usual. It can get very dull around here.”
“That so?” I said.
“Yes,” she replied. “Although I suppose I shouldn’t complain. I could always be stuck living in some alley in China.” The Cat’s uncanny knowledge of world affairs impressed me at the time, though I later discovered she had taken to reading my history textbooks while I was in class.
“That’s true,” I said, somewhat astonished at my readiness to agree with the remarks of a household pet.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Oh my, yes,” said the Cat. “I could eat about a crate of Fancy Feast.”
“Careful, now. You have to pace yourself or you’ll be in the litter box all night.”
“Please,” she insisted. “That was one time!”
I was starting to enjoy myself. So much, in fact, that I once again forgot I was engaging in playful banter with a domesticated animal. I decided I needed to escape. But how was I to excuse myself from such a peculiar position?
And then, as suddenly as my exceptional new talent had come to me, I realized the perfect solution.
“Meow,” I said.
“Huh?” said the Cat.
“Meow. You know, like, ‘Meow.’”
“What did you just say to me?” said the Cat, who was now standing on her hind legs, paws at her side as she glared.
I decided to put my foot down, narrowly missing her tail as I did so. “You heard me,” I said. “Oh yeah, you heard me alright. Meow. Mee-oww.”
Stunned, angered and hurt, the Cat returned to all fours and shook her head.
“Not cool, man,” said the Cat as she walked away. “Not cool.”