Eating is such a vital part of a day for both humans and cats alike. I enjoy it immensely and I'm glad someone cares enough to always prepares my meals for me. I really couldn't be bothered. This luxury allows me to concentrate on more important things like sleep. I'm not incredibly picky, either, fortunately, which is a good thing if someone else is preparing your food. I'll eat almost anything, though. I'm not one of those high-and-mighty cats that needs its food served on a silver platter. I have to say, it would be a nice change of pace, but let's not get caught up in our desires. Before I came to live with my master, I spent long nights rummaging about in garbage cans, stealing meat from unattended sandwiches and, on occasion, simply doing without. As you would expect, I liked to chase after small birds, mice and lizards, although that was more for sport, rather than sustenance, although I've been known to swallow birds in one gulp.

I have a strange response when it comes to eating. I don't know what happens to me exactly, but when I hear the sound of a can of my food being opened, my master usually feeds me soft canned food, I stop whatever I'm doing and high-tail it to the kitchen, without stopping for any distractions. I can't explain it. It's as if something, some hidden mechanism within me, starts operating when I hear the sound of that can. If I'm particularly alert, I can hear my master or his wife take the can from the cupboard. I come running as if it would be the last time to receive such a meal and, in fact, I suppose it could. Nonetheless, it's one way of finding me when I don't want to be found, which happens occasionally, especially if the children have been tampering with me. I don't dislike the effect, but I don't necessarily want to be a slave to it, either. I suppose some things will never change.

It's just a metal can with a small ring attached to it. When the ring is lifted, puncturing the lid slightly, and gently pulled back, the lid of the can breaks away from the sides revealing the perfectly preserved contents. A miracle of an invention, really: a nigh indestructible container used to preserve food and can be easily opened. This specimen, a brownish, jellyish, meaty, substance, which falls into the bowl with a sucking sound and a little plop as it drops into the bowl. I can hear the sound from anywhere in the house. I can hear it from the depths of a dream. I can hear it cutting through loud music or noisy children. The small puncture of the lid when the ring is lifted, the sound of the sealed air releasing. I can almost smell it. My mouth is watering just thinking about it. It's some kind of cat magnet.

*

Could you imagine a cat writing? What about any other animal? I believe a snake may be able to accomplish the feat, telepath its thought to a human, and I've read some unusual stories which would give some weight to theory, but that's really neither here nor there. Can an animal use its imagination as humans do and then channel those ideas through a human tool? Well, look no further. I am proof of it. Amazing, but true. Take a good look. Now that I mention it, go into your bathroom (sure, take this book with you) and take a good look at yourself. What do you see? Any resemblance? No, not to me. Do you have a pet? Any resemblance to your pet? Why do I ask? You see, it has been said that pets often resemble their masters, but I don't think that is the case. I believe it is the master which resembles its pet. In any case, I don't believe there is quantifiable evidence to prove it one way or the other.

You must be smiling to yourself. It's almost enough to make a cat laugh. I assure you, this is no laughing matter. I could have done as much when I discovered my true ability, that is, laugh, but I had to retain my composure in front of my master who was busy scribbling away as he channeled my exposition. Besides, I needed to retain my own focus. I wouldn't want him to suspect the true source of his efforts, and what would he think if he saw his pet having a good belly-laugh? I think it would be rather sinister to look at, and I get goose bumps just thinking about it.

And could my master possibly suspect it? I'd often wondered it, especially when we first began, if he could root out the source of his recent writing prowess. Does he feel or sense it? He is generally so oblivious to the comings and goings of the rest of the world, let's not mention his own life and family, that he probably wouldn't be able to recognize it. Can he feel my thoughts forcing their way in among his own? Does a fight ensue, for example, do the more dominant thoughts take over or are they merely accepted? Is it pleasant? Things I may never know, I imagine.

*

And what do I call it? Is it an experiment? Is it a story? A collection of stories? There's no direction, there are no well-developed characters, aside from myself. There's no plot. There's, perhaps, nothing that would interest a human, unless they would want to take in a vision of the cat's side for a spell.

This is the ultimate in meta-fiction, if I do say so myself. Is it, thought? A new genre, even, although what do I know? A cat. A story about a person who is writing a story about a cat that is writing a story about a person who is writing a story about what the animal sees and hears. Maybe it's a meta-story. A story about a story. It's clear, in any case, that it's bordering on experimental, but I wouldn't want to force myself into a corner. I hate putting labels on things. Sometimes, these things tend not to live up to people's expectations.

*

Perhaps, those of you with weak stomachs should skip this section. I'm not in the habit of making warnings, but if you are snacking on something or reading this while you are eating your dinner, you may want to hold off. These kinds of things inevitably happen to everyone, even cats, and are not at all uncommon. I started to feel something strange happening inside me. It all started in the morning. I was making my usual rounds around the house, looking for any intruders, sniffing around the kitchen and really just looking for a nice place to stretch out and get some sleep. As I get older, I find myself looking for more opportunities to, for lack of a better expression, take a cat nap.

While crossing through the kitchen, something seized control of me. I stretched my head and neck out as far as they could go. Something definitely didn't feel right and I started coughing and wheezing rhythmically. I don't know how to describe it, really. I couldn't breathe clearly. Something was caught in my throat. I couldn't breathe. After 10 or 12 attempts to dislodge the object, lasting for perhaps two full minutes, something came out. It looked like a wet, hairy piece of lint, long strings of saliva still clinging to my mouth and whiskers. Another hairball. I was never ready for them. I felt much better and began cleaning my face and paws.

Even though I could breathe again, I didn't feel completely well. I slowly made my way out of the kitchen. I stopped in the laundry room, in between the kitchen and the garage, feeling a terrible pain in my stomach, and started retching violently. This was not a hairball. The morning's food came up in a thick, clumpy mess in front of me on the linoleum. I was disgusted. Linda came walking over, usually always in the kitchen when she was at home, alerted by the unusual sounds and foul food that I had ingested, which was now coming out of me.

"Oh, Buddy. Did you eat something bad? Are you Ok, kitty?" Her voice was soothing to me, but I could only blink at her. I felt like I would vomit again and began licking my face slowly. "I hope that's all of it," she said and hurried off to get something to clean my vile gift. I took a few steps more toward the garage and leaned violently forward again, sticking my neck out, and expelling what little evil was left within me. "Oh, Buddy, you need to go lie down." I wanted to go outside. Linda leaned over and began wiping up the mess. I looked up at her and meowed faintly, a victim of the inner-workings of my body, but thankful for her understanding.

I finally escaped without further incident to the garage and made my way outside. The sun was shining brightly. The cement walkway was cold as I padded along trying to collect myself a little. Vomiting had left me in a bit of a haze, although I felt better now with some fresh air in me and the sun warming my back. I stopped at the edge of the grass and took in the scents which were wafting over the grass, squinting as I lifted my nose into the breeze and looked into the sun. I could smell Chintzy. I lowered my head and tried to bite off some blades of grass, bobbing close to the damp ground.
- posted by Bob @ 7:12 PM 0 comments