"I've done it," my master said, elated, as he entered the kitchen. I followed him down the hallway. I didn't want to miss his conversation, even though I had almost no energy left. Linda was preparing their dinner.
"Done what?" She was fiddling with the stove and didn't turn away from it. The kids were watching TV in the living room.
"I've thought of a new idea for a novel."
"Oh?"
"Yes."
"What's it about?" She turned and faced him.
"It's about a cat. A cat that has learned to write." I walked between them, purring and rubbing against their legs. He reached down and ran his hand along my spine and tail. "You're going to help me, aren't you, Buddy?" I meowed and looked up at him.
"Maybe he's hungry," Linda said, walking over to the pantry and taking out a can of cat food. My mouth started watering. I could practically smell it. "It's about a cat?" She walked over to my bowl, opened the can and emptied the contents into my bowl. I went over to the bowl and started indulging myself, even though I wasn't that hungry just then.
"Yes."
"Hasn't that been done before?" She walked across the room and threw the can away. She turned back to the stove and stirred the contents of a pan which was beginning to sizzle and smoke. With a click, she turned on the overhead fan.
"Well, I suppose it has…."
"Mommie," Ryan's voice from the living room, "is dinner ready yet?"
"No. A few more minutes, honey," she shouted back. "I'll call you when it's ready."
"Yes, I suppose it has," my master repeated. "I don't know if my story is any different from those other stories, but I'm excited about it, and that's a good thing." My master was leaning on the counter with his hands in his back pockets. "Do you need any help?"
"No, you can continue writing if you want. I want to read it when you're finished."
"Ok." My master started to leave the room.
"I'll send one of the kids to get you when everything's ready."
"Ok." I followed my master out of the room. He looked down at me trotting after him. "That's right, I need you to come with me, Buddy." He leaned down and picked me up, propping me up on his left shoulder, a lofty position from which I preferred to view my domain. I purred quietly against my master's warm neck.

*

First, I learned to read, which awakened my intellectual spirit, dormant in me for so long, dormant in the minds of my forefathers, the majority of who were no more than alley cats and strays, by sitting near my master while he was writing or reading one of his many books. I would follow his hand or listen as he read his childish verses and witticisms to himself. Invaluable training, now that I think about it, ultimately helping me to discover my true potential and opening my mind to new ideas. I also began to learn about things I that I had heretofore only heard about in stories.

When he couldn't write, my master would, as a last resort, open some book or other to give him inspiration, and I came to cherish those times. The books contained a multitude of subjects and writing styles. I had my favorites. He was always bringing home new books or borrowing books from his friends. Books which seemed to reproduce on their own as the piles of them would continually grow, some placed properly on the bookshelves, which lined the walls of the study, others piled on the floor or on the extremities of the desk.

I would read with him, sitting near him on the desk or in his lap. Sometimes he would read to me, stroking my head and neck, as if he thought I cared for his stories or human ruminations. Most of it was useless, from a cat's perspective, but I thought my master had better than average taste. As an observer of the human condition, I didn't really have time for fiction and other nonsense that my master pored over, so many volumes of poetry, which were his favorites, often returning to well-worn copies again and again, looking out the window wistfully and reciting memorable lines. I was more interested in science and history. Alas, I'm straying from my initial idea. Please forgive my digressions but, as a cat, I may be prone to them.

*

My master was sick all day. He didn't get up to go to work or eat with his family in the morning, as he usually did. I slept with one eye open at his feet. The house was silent, except for the sound of knives and forks scraping against the plates. He slept most of the time, rather like a cat, now that I think about it, curled up under his blankets. He awoke periodically to use the restroom, pour a glass of water, or I don't know what, poke around in his house.

He turned on the television and watched for a little while. Everything was old Western movies, soap operas, and election coverage. America was voting to elect a new president, a ritual which occurred every four years. My master was actually quite interested in the outcome. He fell asleep with the TV on and I did the same. After a few moments, the sound of my master's voice roused me. "Dub-dub-dub." I never heard the likes of it before, and he continued. "Dubya." It was almost inaudible. He was talking in his sleep and sounded a little like Elmer Fudd, a character in a cartoon that Ryan often enjoyed. I usually sat in front of the fireplace when Ryan was watching cartoons as I liked to watch them, myself. He started up again, stuttering, his eyes moving haphazardly below their lids. "Dubya, dubya, dubya." Perhaps he was thinking about a website. It was nonsense to me. I could read a novel, but I had trouble parsing gibberish. "Juh-orge dubya." He didn't make another sound.

He awoke after a few hours and clicked off the television, apparently not very interested in catching up on what he missed. Even though he was sick, he seemed to be enjoying himself. It seemed a special treat that the house was empty and he could do as he liked, even though he wasn't in the best condition for enjoying it properly. I took it for granted that the house was mine. I knew my master would keep to himself, though, and that I could do as I liked.

*

I learned to write, although not in a physical sense. It was such a tedious process. I can't pick up a writing implement and force words from it, as you humans can. I must say, I consider myself a self-taught writer, even though I learned by meticulously observing my master, often for dull hours at a time as he looked at words in the dictionary, fumbled with translations or simply fell asleep at his desk. Obviously, you may have never seen a cat do it, but I am living proof. These are my words.

Once, I tried to write by nudging the pencil across the page with my nose, but I found that lacked the necessary leverage to properly manipulate the tool. A cat's nose, sometimes found to be somewhat moist, could leave a wet streak on the page when performing an action of this kind, as mine proved to do. So rather than forming words or even the semblance of them, only damp streaks appeared. It seemed a crude way to express myself. I tried with my paws, but it soon turned into a game and, after a number of minutes in defeating a pen or pencil, or stopping and finding my own tail between my paws, I would realize I wasn't getting anything accomplished and wander off to pursue more effective possibilities. I wasn't sure if I could, but I had to find a way.

My master left his computer on, and I attempted to imitate his actions by pressing the keys with my paws. I thought I would be able to figure that thing out. Something like this turned out:

dskjljnn bgvygu9iedjkdebv m,,edsnoisedm,ndchbsjdsklmp[m o0s-ajk11okqwp
hjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj

This was, unfortunately, illegible, although, possibly highly experimental. I just couldn't get the letters I wanted without pressing the keys around them. I would probably have to invent my own mechanism. A tool for cats to record their thoughts.

My master, upon returning to his desk, looked at me and thought that I had merely walked across his keyboard.
" Oh, look at that. Did you walk across the keyboard, my little friend?" He smiled to himself, his expression suggesting that he thought it somewhat cute. "You think you can write, do you, Buddy?" The lack of fingers could not be ignored. I was truly frustrated.

*

I did learn, yes, although it doesn't work for long. How can a cat write? I can't recall if I explained myself properly or not. It's not difficult, though, really. I merely focus my attention on my master and the words appear on his paper. I think about something and he writes it. The first time it happened, I was repeating a phrase over and over and over in my mind. I am a cat. I am a cat. It appeared on my master's paper. I was, of course, amazed when I discovered it. Also, I felt quite spent, as if all of my energy had escaped from my body. I can't really explain it any better than that, but there you have it. My master has become my writing implement and, as has been previously demonstrated, he has been more than happy to acquiesce.
- posted by Bob @ 1:14 AM 0 comments