I know the world has heard from cats before. There was really nothing special about me. I wasn't trying to do something new. There were millions of cats before me. I am not the first cat to speak out nor will I be the last. Neither am I even the first animal to voice an opinion. Animals have been communicating with humans, in one form or another, since the beginning of time. You can do your own research in that regard. I've heard of some cats in stories who learned to speak the languages of humans, which seems an amazing feat, for they have many. I have heard of cats who could steal things, although I can't imagine it. I have even heard of humans who can turn themselves into cats in an effort to either walk among us or deceive one another, I can't remember which. The details are not that important.

I am writing a story, though, and that is important. Does it matter if I am a cat or not? Why is my story so important? Does it matter if it is written by a cat? Why must it be written now, near the end of this year as Winter begins to set on this place? Well, most importantly, I had only recently discovered my ability to write or, rather, to write through my master. In that regard, it was simply the earliest possible time. A matter of circumstance. When one learns how to ride a bicycle, what is it that they want to do? Ride the bicycle, and it was the same with me. I wanted to ride. I had a vision. As a result of my discovery, I had, unbeknownst to my master, become his muse, which is the way I preferred to look at it. I know I mentioned my distaste for poetry, which might cause suspicion among some of my readers, especially when I liken myself to a muse, champion of poets, a position often reserved for the moon or a woman, but it is simply the best way to describe the relationship. You may think to yourselves that this cat suffers from some sort of grand delusion. I won't be offended. There may, perhaps, be some truth in your assessment. What are your credentials as a reader? It's a rhetorical question but, in a nutshell, I assist my master. I transfer my ideas to him. He feels inspired and records them as his own. He feels as if he has accomplished something genuine, and my vision reaches the world. It works for me.

*

Unfortunately, my master has never had anything published, which may present a problem in the proliferation of my vision. He doesn't have the necessary experience to fully facilitate this effort. This story was, in fact, the longest piece he has successfully sustained, previously only scratching out a handful of lovelorn sonnets and a smattering of to-do lists, now perhaps lost in one of his desk drawers. My message may not reach the world with the immediacy in which I intend, but we must work on one thing at a time. Consider it a work in progress. It was enough for me to get the ideas on paper. We must work toward the successful completion of a manuscript. After that, the world would be our oyster. Unfortunately, humans took an incredibly long time to recognize the changes that were necessary to accomplish their goals, many of them preferring to live in a dream for their entire lives.

*

This was my vision. It was my dream and I believed in it, even if it was only the foolish dream of a cat. Reach for the stars, even if you don't have an opposable thumb. I didn't want worldly possessions and accolades. I didn't want to vote or lead a revolution. I didn't want to drive a car or ride a bicycle. I didn't want to be a famous musician or an actor. I didn't want money. What could a cat do with wealth? I just wanted to share my vision of the world. What I could see. Dare to dream. I remember having this dream from a very young age.

Cats have dreams, just as people do. It's true. We can sleep at will, which is a wonderful trait, due, in part, to our exceptional ability to concentrate on what we are doing. We begin dreaming almost immediately and you may have often observed one of us working at it. Our eyes twitching, our mouths opening slightly, our whiskers trembling ever so faintly after passing from the waking world into the netherworld of dreams. We react in a manner very similar to the way humans react. I related a story about observing my master while he was asleep, translating his dream-speech for you in a simple phonetic manner, which is the best I could do as a cat, so you know to what I refer when I say that we are similar.

You may assume that some cats also talk in their sleep, although no human, or very few, rather, could understand them. Much of what we say, for we are cats, can be conferred through simple gestures or variable glances. We don't need speech in the way that humans do. Much more of our communication occurs telepathically. As I communicate with my master, and steer his thoughts as they materialize on paper, I communicate with other cats. Unfortunately, we must be within plain sight of one another or nothing extraordinary happens. It's as if the sight of one another created a kind of wire between us through which any number of suggestions might pass freely. I cannot communicate with the cat in the house across from me, unless we are both sitting in our front windows, looking at each other. If I can't see him, we cannot communicate directly. It's very simple really and makes complete sense if you think about it.

As I was saying, cats dream, and I often experienced a recurring dream.

I would be quietly walking through a large garden, putting my nose in great flowers of various shades and scents, swatting insects, and plainly enjoying myself underneath the bright sunshine, squinting up into the blue sky every now and again when I caught a whiff of something new and delicious on the breeze, or when I heard the sound of a bird or the scratching of a mouse. It is early morning. Spring. As I roam, the garden seems to be immense. I can see no end to it, although there is a large hill nearby. I wade through the perennials and roses for what seems hours, without a care, never losing interest in my languid pursuits which were more than pleasing me. Oh! Here is a beautiful yellow tulip, there a strange beetle, trundling across the damp earth. Is that a bumble-bee touching down within a floppy red hibiscus? What's this caterpillar doing under my paw? Have you ever seen a butterfly that size? The curiosities were endless.

The garden was full of lesser creatures: mice, birds, insects, squirrels. Animals that I could catch. I would chase them about, and I considered myself an exceptional hunter (although my skills had diminished somewhat since coming to live with my master and his family), but I could never catch any of these creatures. I would chase them up and down trees, over small rocks and into holes. They were simply much too fast for me. If I was stalking some unsuspecting songbird or mole, of which there were many, I would soon find that I had been distracted by something else. A new variety of rose, a faint unidentifiable sound, a strangely sweet scent. I never crossed paths with any other cats or any other creatures which were threatening to me. I felt completely safe in this environment and roamed about carelessly.

Eventually, I began climbing the hill, which was not strenuous, wandering around small fruit trees and shrubs, flushing out butterflies and all manner of flying insect. The sun was so bright and warm I was beginning to think a nice sleep would be pleasant. The gentle breeze was an attack on my senses, bringing me the sounds and scents of things that were still unseen. The hill was covered all over with grass and little yellow daisies. Insects were buzzing all around me. There was a large rock at the top of the hill and I leaped up to take a better look at this garden. A lizard scattered away, leaving me alone on my stone perch. The great throne of the garden. I blinked. I looked around me on all sides and, as far as I could see, the garden stretched out to the horizon, like the great flowered hands of the Earth holding the sky. Where was I? I couldn't come up with an answer so turned around a couple of times, and curled to sleep.

I usually wake up at this point, kneading the blankets with my claws and purring softly. I feel a bit stupid, as you sometimes do after a dream. It's simply the end of the dream and there is something like a silent alarm clock that wakes me at this moment each time. I'm not sure how often the dream occurs. Once every few months or so since I was a kitten. I feel good when I wake up. Well-rested. I like it. What does it mean? I don't know. Do I look like a psychologist? Actually, you probably don't know what I look like whatsoever. I haven't told you anything about my appearance up to this point. I look like a cat, that much is obvious, but the rest of the details, I realize, are in question. I suppose I should take a moment to describe myself in more detail. All in due time.
- posted by Bob @ 6:16 PM 0 comments