I dreamed. I didn’t know it was possible for cats to dream, but there I was. A Yellowstone park ranger. Magnificent fingers. Ranger badge. Strolling through the wildflowers beneath a summer sky. When I woke up, my paws were flitting on the cold tile, and the radio was whispering in the background. Thankfully, it said, South Carolina has missed the worst of the storm.
South Carolina. So I was in South Carolina. I kept my eyes tightly shut, thinking. Reaching my pickup point was essential: the hive couldn’t find me on Earth otherwise. But how could I travel from here to Yellowstone without money or hands or the ability to drive a car? Maybe I could—
Sniff!
Something sniffed. And then I began to notice a hot, moist smell, inches from my nose. Flinging my eyes open, I lurched sideways into the air—a natural reaction, I assure you, because splayed out on the tile was a beast, camouflaged as a gigantic lump of fur.
No, not a beast? A dog. I could tell by the wetness of his black snout, and the way the tip of his tongue poked between his teeth. On Earth, dogs—not cats—are called “man’s best friend.” In those moments, I couldn’t possibly see why. He was easily twenty times my size and had so much fur—white, fluffy—that I feared I’d get lost inside it if I ventured too close.
But closer I slunk, stepping toward him, my ears pinned back.
He’d yet to open his eyes.
When he did, he lifted one eyelid, then the other. Slowly. Purposefully. You are here, he told me with his pupils, which were watery and deep, like miniature universes. My heart stuttered, my spine beginning to arch—but I picked up his language instantly. The cadence of his breath. The mellow wag of his tail. How his eyes softened as he looked at me. Dogs, I’ve learned, are like my species: they say so much without saying anything at all.
Trying to swallow my fear, I took a final step and sniffed him in return. He had a very strong smell.
You are here, he repeated, moving nothing but his pupils. There you are.
As a human, I would’ve known exactly how to respond. I’d imagined the motion of saying hello to dogs—a quick scratch of the neck, a calm pat of the head. But somehow, patting his head as a cat seemed wrong. He was clearly waiting for a response, though, and I couldn’t give myself away as an impostor, as the alien that I was.
So I let out a kind meow, almost a mrrrrr—something of my own creation. He appeared pleased with this, because suddenly he lumbered up, dragging his tongue over the crest of my face. Correct me if I’m wrong, but none of you’ve had firsthand experience with this particular dog’s tongue. What you must understand is: he has a very significant tongue, full of saliva. My fur spiked. My nose scrunched, causing me to sneeze repeatedly.
At least I wouldn’t need a bath on Earth.
He inched back, admiring his work, sunlight dancing around his paws. Then he told me, in a series of friendly snorts, that he would keep my secret. I followed his eyes up to the table, where a dozen envelopes lay in plumes of confetti. So he’d seen me destroy the letters. And perhaps he knew—that I was not of this Earth.
We’ll blame the letters on the birds, he said, woofing once. He motioned with this nose to the bright windows. The birds.
I hadn’t the faintest clue what he was talking about. But he had such confidence in this idea that I went with it.
I decided to test the waters even further, offering a friendly joke.
Knock-knock, I said, imitating his harmonic woof, scrounging in my belly for the sound. A “woof” wasn’t out of reach for me like human language was, but what I produced wasn’t exactly right. I attempted it again, experimenting with a bit more vibration, then throwing in a few tail wags for good measure.
His ears perked. The door? Is someone at the door?
No, I said, more pleased with my dog noise this time. It was a joke.
I did not hear the doorbell. At the doorbell, I will bark.
I fanned my whiskers, softening my eyes. You must say, “Who’s there?”
You know who is at the door? Intruder? Friend?
Well. Never mind.
Backing slightly away from him, I stretched. Stiffness ran through my limbs. One downside of having a body is that it can fail you. Sometimes you wake up and there are aches where there were no aches before. Feeling untidy, I started licking the white fur of my bib. The licking was a surprise to me, and I pulled back, hair on my tongue, startled. What was happening to me?
I tried not to dwell on it for too long.
Outside was the shrill call of seagulls, the sweet slap of waves. Hopping onto the windowsill, I could see that the floodwaters had receded. Everything was a flat plane of green and blue: marsh grass and trees, followed by a thin strip of ocean. I’d never viewed the ocean this close. From my galaxy, Earth is a pinprick, and water is just a color: not a moving, breathing, living thing. Not something to be painted and studied and waded in; you cannot dip your toes in a color, especially when you have no toes.
“Leonard? Leonard, where’d you go?”
Olive’s worried voice trailed through the house, and another new feeling invaded me: guilt. I felt guilty for leaving her, for slinking off in the middle of the night without saying where I was going. I called out to her with my voice, wishing I could speak words like In the kitchen! Right here! In return, the dog barked a mighty woof that was full-throated and admirable, and Olive was able to find me by the refrigerator.
“I see you’ve met Stanley,” she said, smiling a bit. “I think you’re going to be friends.”
I assumed that Stanley was the dog and not the refrigerator, but I made a mental note to check his collar later, just in case. Olive crouched down, petting the back of my neck. I’ll confess that I leaned in, just slightly. An early morning scratch is often the best kind.
A few minutes later, we crowded into the living room to eat breakfast, the little TV flickering on. The screen showed a small amount of wreckage from the storm—shingles flying, porches damaged—which seemed logical. More puzzling were the commercials. I’d seen several back on my home planet, but they were mystifying things. From what I was able to piece together, commercials were a sort of guidebook for humanity. They told you what salad dressing to buy, what mattress to sleep on, what type of medicine to consume. As a human, you should like your food “fast.” You should maintain a muscular physique. You should enjoy ball sports, play them frequently, and look forward to a time when you do absolutely nothing but golf. There was so much should, so much that made no sense.
Like everything on this planet, it was overwhelming.
I missed the straightforwardness of home: We are always calm. We notice the world. There is comfort in the beauty and peacefulness of our planet.
Still, I tried to focus on Earth’s positive qualities, the things I’d yearned for in my galaxy. An example: food. In this house, cereal was clearly highly important. Flakes don’t have the same appeal as cheese sandwiches (few meals do), but that first morning I was blinded by the variety: Coco Pops! Froot Loops! Cinnamon Toast Crunch! All in bright, colorful boxes. On the couch, Olive and Norma ate their cereal with metal spoons, exchanging words with each other.
“I’ll be honest with you, sailor,” Norma said to Olive, loosening the bandanna around her neck. “I’m out of practice with the ‘caretaker’ thing. Here’s what I do know: how to run a tight ship. That’s what we’re going to do this summer. Run on routine—like the tides. So we should start thinking about activities, things to schedule in. You like motorcycles?”
“Um . . .” Olive said, sheepish.
“Scratch that. I’ve got this motorcycle I’m fixing up—the sidecar still needs work—but I’ll put that on hold. What were you going to do this summer?” Norma drummed her fingers on her knees. “You know, before your mom and Frank decided to have you spend some time here.”
“Well,” Olive said, a hint of sadness seeping through, “my friend Hazel’s family owns a farm. They’d said I could help out with the horses and the goats and stuff. Did you know that
each baby goat has a unique call, like a name?”
“No goats in Turtle Beach, I’m afraid. What we do have is marine life—an aquarium and an ocean full of it. We could also set up some good old-fashioned arts and crafts.”
From my position on the rug, I studied them—these people. Norma was stiff, rugged, like the core of an exoplanet. And Olive was a ball of energy, like a dwarf star. As she chewed, her feet moved to a soundless beat, and her eyes blinked sharply. Call it my hyper-intelligence, call it one species recognizing another, but I had the distinct sense that Olive was smart. Incredibly smart. Something about the way she carried herself, the way she observed.
“You haven’t touched your crunchies,” she said to me after finishing her cereal. A frown creased her forehead. “You’re not hungry?”
Oh, I was. There was a grumbling, rumbling sensation in the pit of my stomach. I’d been trying to ignore it, because if anything was going to signal this cat is not a cat, it would be this: I had no idea how to consume food. Even as I watched Olive’s jaw work, I couldn’t quite figure out the mechanics. I’d assumed that I’d have time to practice, as a Yellowstone ranger, in the privacy of my own cabin.
But I hadn’t eaten anything since my arrival to Earth. A hungry cat—a normal cat—would eat. So I had to think quickly, as she placed the bowl of crunchies in front of me. How would a cat eat? Surely not like humans, with delicate bites and dainty fingers. Did cats use silverware? Miniature silverware?
Claws, fangs—these terrible things I had. These I would use.
I pawed at the kibble, stalling for time. Then I just hoped for the best, opening my mouth as far as it would go, lowering my head to the dish, and filling my entire mouth with crunchies. This was my first mistake. Mouths should not be entirely filled.
I couldn’t chew. I could barely breathe. Gagging, I spat out some of the kibble, sprinkling the rug with dull plops.
Olive patted me on the back. “You okay, Leonard?”
“Leonard?” Norma asked.
“Doesn’t he look like a Leonard?”
Norma cocked her head as she watched me. My cheeks were still packed full of kibble.
“I don’t see it.”
Eventually I clamped down with my teeth, willing my jaw to work. I learned how to maneuver my throat, how to produce the exact right amount of saliva without spilling it abundantly from my mouth. And all the while, Olive was there.
Perhaps I’m wrong, but I got the impression that she was cheering me on.
There is a debate in our galaxy over whether or not we have souls. I believe we do. I believe we always have. Perhaps we’ve just allowed ourselves to forget.
A famous human once wrote that “the soul travels,” that the universe is just a “road for traveling souls.” I couldn’t have explained it any better myself, except maybe to add this: Other travelers make the journey worthwhile. People like Olive, who petted my neck in a careful way. Who asked if I preferred wet food or dry, and would I like some extra cushions for my bed upstairs.
So, while I was in an incredibly difficult position, homesick and trapped and struggling with my kibble, a part of me did acknowledge that I was lucky to have landed here. Olive didn’t even yell at me when she noticed the shredded envelopes. She just sifted through the wreckage and declared, “We definitely need to get you a scratching post.”
Stanley added, very helpfully, It was the birds.
I was still in the kitchen when Norma spoke on the telephone, then abruptly ended the call. “Something’s happened at the aquarium,” she rasped to Olive, rolling up her plaid shirtsleeves. “Chop-chop, sailor. You’re coming with me. I’ve got to get the computers fired up, find some records for the Save the Sea Turtles event . . .”
My mind caught on “computer.” I knew that word. Computers are all-powerful sources of information, relied upon by humans for a variety of messages and data. You can hardly exist on Earth without one. Maybe it would provide some guidance on how to get to Yellowstone, when all I had were paws.
“My truck’s in the shop,” Norma said to Olive. “Let’s see if the bus is running after the storm. Go ahead and grab your backpack, too. It could be a while. Take something to keep you busy.”
This was when I had an idea. Or maybe it was Stanley who tipped me off, his tail thwacking the edge of Olive’s backpack. The bag was quite large for her size; it had wide pockets and was shaped like a turtle’s shell. The middle was half unzipped—open and waiting.
Now, I must say that I am not a small cat by any means. While my forelegs are slim, my stomach neatly tucked, there’s a good stretch to me. I could drape over someone’s shoulders and dangle like a scarf. So, stuffing myself into that backpack was a challenge. Stanley watched—without helping, I might add—as I waddled and wiggled, contorting my way into the darkness of the bag. Inside, everything was muffled and hot and cramped.
Stanley sniffed around me. You smell worried.
I am, I admitted, giving him a doglike whimper.
You should howl. You will feel better if you a-woo.
My whiskers softened. Do cats howl?
I will teach you, he said.
Seconds later, footsteps.
I felt the backpack lifting, heard Norma saying, “What’ve you got in here, anchors?”
And Olive replied, as they headed out the door, “Just some books about animals.”
The trick was to stay incredibly still, storing all the air in my chest. How long could cats hold their breath? I swayed in that bag, my paws tightly tucked, my body folding in ways I didn’t expect. Tail over head. Legs on back. Each of Norma’s footsteps jolted through my core. But I think it would’ve been all right, if not for the bus.
You see, public buses have a very specific scent, a highly penetrating odor that seeps into your pores; you can’t wash it off, even with extra-bubbly soap. As a stowaway, I was extremely nervous to begin with, but my anxiety spiked when—through a hole in the fabric—I saw that the bus was full of all kinds of humans. People with mustaches. People with blue hair. People licking frozen sticks, and sharing music in small pods, and bobbing their heads as they spoke with each other. Frustration and excitement battled in my belly; it was the most I’d ever interacted with humanity—and I was stuck in a backpack.
A hot backpack. A backpack growing hotter. I could hardly stand it.
Olive said, “Do you have any stingrays at the aquarium?”
Norma said, “We’ve got three.”
And I said, Mrrrrrrrr-meow-rrraaar, clawing my way out of the bag, springing into the stale air. I floated there for a startling second—and wondered, very briefly, if cats could fly. But no. The floor was tacky where I landed, coated with bits and pieces of discarded gum. Summer sun pelted my spine as I crouched low, humans glaring down at me. Some even screamed. Of course they did, with such a wild entrance.
I do wonder if I was conforming to some ridiculous stereotype of aliens: that we burst from fog or rise viciously from the sea. That we descend from clouds on otherwise perfect days, wreaking havoc on the landscape. Alien films, I’ve learned, depend heavily on this arrival—a moment of extraordinary surprise, when a creature from another universe appears with both shock and horror.
This was not how I’d imagined my first contact with a large group of people. There were no dinner forks. No crystal chandeliers. I was an outsider, unable to present a knock-knock joke, striped fur ruffling as humans clutched their chests and snickered. My heart thumped in my rib cage.
“Leonard!” Olive gasped, reaching down to scoop me up. “How’d you even get in here?”
We all lurched forward then, the bus driver slamming on the brakes and yelling from the front seat, “Please tell me that isn’t a cat!”
What other animal could I be? I suppose, if my fur was fluffed enough, I might pass for a bear (a rather small, catlike bear). Perhaps even a young tiger, in the right lighting, from a far distance away. Alas, I could not deny the pads of my paws or the sharp points of my ears, so w
e were told to leave the bus immediately—Olive, Norma, and I. We watched it spurt and gurgle away, sloshing through storm puddles, everything glistening under a thin haze of dew.
It was Olive who eventually broke the silence, her shoes scuffing the sidewalk. “I don’t understand how he even managed to get in there. It’s amazing.”
Norma appeared both impressed and displeased. “Amazing is one word for it.”
“Do you . . .” Olive said, pausing in the middle. She was still cradling me in her arms. “Do you think that I could maybe keep him? Really keep him? If we put up flyers and no one says he’s theirs?”
Norma scratched the back of her neck, just underneath the bandanna, her vest gleaming in the heat. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea, sailor. It’s a big responsibility. Huge. How does Frank feel about cats?”
Olive widened her eyes. “I can’t just turn Leonard over to the shelter. I know what happens to a lot of cats at shelters. Please? I promise that I’ll take care of him all by myself. We won’t bother you at all.”
Norma softened a bit, blowing air from her lips. “I can’t promise anything. But how about we bring Leonard to the vet, get him all checked out? Take things from there.”
The sky was simmering then, a brilliant shade of blue. My shadow interlocked with Olive’s on the sidewalk.
“Okay,” Olive said, satisfied for the moment. “Are we heading back to the house?”
“Heck no,” Norma said. “We’ve got to keep this show on the road. The aquarium’s not too far. You mind walking a bit? I can take Leonard, if he’s weighing you down.”
“No thanks,” Olive said. “I’m good.” She held me closer still, and I found—to my surprise—that I didn’t mind at all.
Perhaps I should explain the consequences of one of my species being discovered by a human. Say you’ve taken on the form of a walrus and are living in a remote pod of mammals in the Arctic. You’ve gotten the hang of your flippers; you are able to expertly wield your tusks, skillfully twitch your whiskers. But suddenly an explorer visits your part of the world and witnesses—through the night vision of his expensive camera—that instead of snoozing with the other walruses, you are waddling to the beach every evening, scrawling complex mathematical equations in the sand.
Leonard (My Life as a Cat) Page 3
