Table of Contents
Purr-spective
The First Housecat
A Tail of Two Futures
Day 20,000
Untitled
Purr-spective - 22Dec24
A streak of black and brown fur sliced through the warm patch of afternoon sunlight, disturbing dust motes that danced in the beam like tiny stars. The living room lay quiet except for the soft whir of the ceiling fan, its blades casting spinning shadows across the similarly tabby colored cat lounging on the carpet below. Maisie's ears swiveled toward the sound of pattering paws, her whiskers quivering as they sampled the air currents. Her clouded eye, the color of morning fog, might not see the approaching kitten, but her other senses painted a vivid picture of the impending ambush.
Tiny claws snagged her tail, and Maisie spun, whiskers brushing empty air. The scent of triumphant kitten – milk-sweet and charged with energy – had already darted away, accompanied by the soft thump of paws on carpet.
Moxie's fur bristled with excitement, making him appear twice his size as he bounced across the room, his small frame barely containing his boundless energy.
"Mrrrp!" Moxie chirped, his tail held high like a victory flag. He bounced from paw to paw, unable to contain his excitement, each movement a celebration of his successful sneak attack.
Maisie's whiskers twitched as she caught the breeze from his movement, tracking his victory dance across the sun-warmed carpet. She flicked her tail, smoothing the ruffled fur with practiced dignity.
"Small but mighty, aren't you?" she rumbled, her tone somewhere between amusement and resignation. Her nose tracked his location even as her ears caught the sound of the cats' human shifting on the couch, watching the scene unfold with thoughtful eyes.
As the afternoon sun crept across the floor, casting longer shadows through the windows, their human rose from the couch with purpose. In their hands, they held something that made a gentle tinkling sound – a sound that would soon become very familiar to young Moxie. The kitten, distracted by a stray dust bunny under the coffee table, didn't notice the approaching footsteps until gentle hands scooped him up.
Something cool slipped around his neck, and a bright chiming filled his ears. He twisted, trying to escape the sound, but it followed his every movement like an echo of his own energy. The orange tiger-striped collar, adorned with a small silver bell, caught the fading sunlight as Moxie shook his head in confusion.
The living room had transformed into a different battlefield by the time Moxie attempted his next ambush. Shadows stretched across the floor like reaching fingers, and the evening air had grown still and cool. His bell's cheerful tinkle betrayed his position as he crept toward Maisie, who lay grooming herself near the bookshelf. Before he could pounce, she pivoted smoothly away, her whiskers forward in what could only be called a smirk, her movements fluid and precise despite her blindness.
"Mrrrow?" Moxie complained, pawing at the bell. Each bat of his paw brought another betraying chime, the sound bouncing off the walls like tiny laughing stars.
Maisie's whiskers twitched, catching the subtle air currents that carried both sound and scent. "Sound carries, little one," she purred, her whiskers twitching with amusement.
She demonstrated with a perfect pounce in his direction, guided by the bell's chorus.
Finally, after his fifth failed ambush attempt, Moxie sprawled onto his back on the carpet, his bell giving one final dejected tingle as he accepted his defeat.
Night settled over the house like a soft blanket, bringing with it a peaceful quiet broken only by the gentle hum of the heating vent. The lamp in the corner cast a warm glow across the room, creating pools of golden light and deep shadows.
Moxie found Maisie curled in their human's lap, her purr a soft thunder in the twilight. From his vantage point on the floor, he watched her nose twitch at passing air currents, her whiskers adjusting to catch the slightest movement – a world of sensation he'd never considered before, rich with information his eyes couldn't capture.
His bell announced his approach as he jumped onto the couch, the sound softer now, almost musical in the quiet room. Maisie's ear flicked at the sound, but her purr didn't falter. Moxie stepped carefully across the human's lap, each paw placement deliberate and soft, mindful of the noise he made. The bell whispered as he settled into the curve of Maisie's body, his own purr rising to harmonize with hers like a gentle duet in the night's silence.
She turned her head and stuck out her tongue, finding his ear without needing to see it. The gentle lick said more than words could, a bridge between their two worlds.
The First Housecat - 09Dec24
Lightning split the night sky, revealing a small shape buffeted by the angry Mediterranean. A sodden bundle of orange fur clung to a splintered piece of driftwood, each wave threatening to tear it away. The cat—who would one day be called Bastet—had been stalking sand crabs on familiar shores when the storm struck. Now, after three days at sea, her once-proud whiskers drooped with exhaustion.
As the tides guided her towards the island that would one day be called Cyprus, a flicker of orange light caught her attention through the sheets of rain. Her muscles screamed as she dragged herself onto the beach, collapsing in the wet sand. The warmth beckoned, but memories of larger predators made her hackles rise.
Still, the hollow ache in her stomach drove her forward, one cautious paw at a time.
Strange sounds drifted down from above the beach—high-pitched sounds unlike any animal she knew. Creeping closer through unfamiliar plants with long golden heads, Bastet detected new scents: smoke, cooked meat, and something else—something that made her nose twitch with curiosity.
"Mama, can I take the scraps now?" a young voice called out in the human tongue. "The jackals will come if we leave them too long."
"Be careful, Cleo," an older voice answered. "Take the torch with you."
A small human child rose from the circle of figures around the fire, gathering bones and scraps into a woven basket. The flickering light caught her dark curls as she made her way toward what Bastet now recognized as a hole dug into the ground, filled with waste and scraps of discarded food.
The girl passed within a few feet of Bastet's hiding place. Something stopped her, and she paused to look around. Their eyes met—amber feline meeting deep brown human. The child's breath caught.
"Hello, little one," Cleo whispered, her voice barely audible above the dying storm. She slowly set her basket down and extracted a partially stripped bird bone, still rich with meat. With deliberate movements, she placed it on a flat rock nearby. "You look hungry."
Bastet remained frozen as the girl continued to the midden heap with the rest of the scraps. Only when Cleo had returned to the fire did Bastet slink from her hiding place, the smell of food overwhelming her caution.
Moons waxed and waned. The golden plants were cut down and stored in great clay vessels, their rich smell drawing tiny four-legged thieves. Bastet, now sleek and strong, crouched in the shadows of the storage house, her tail twitching with practiced patience.
A scratch of tiny claws on clay. A whisk of an orange striped tail. She lunged, her aim precise and deadly.
"Did you hear something?" One of the village men asked, passing by the storage house.
"Probably just the wind," his companion replied. "The grain's been staying fresher longer this season. Strange luck."
Later that night, as Cleo made her routine trip to the midden heap, she stopped short. There on a flat rock lay a plump mouse, grain still clutched in its tiny paws. Movement caught her eye: a familiar shape perched atop the storage house.
Cleo smiled.
From her vantage point, Bastet felt something stir in her chest—a rumble that started deep inside and grew until it filled the night air. The sound surprised her, but it felt right. For the first time in recorded history, a housecat began to purr.
A Tail of Two Futures, 25Nov24
The neighbors called her Marshmallow—not for her patchy white fur, which had long ago lost its pristine color to the grit of street life, but for the gentle soul that emerged once you earned her trust. Her left ear bore a ragged notch from an ancient fight, and a small scar above her left eye gave her a permanent quizzical expression, as if she were constantly evaluating the worthiness of her human observers.
She'd claimed Maple Street as her kingdom, all three blocks of it, moving through the neighborhood like a benevolent ghost. Each dawn found her prowling through Mrs. Chen's prized zinnias, while mid-mornings belonged to the squeaking porch swing at the Rodriguez house. As evening approached, she made her rounds to the scattered offerings left by her network of cautious admirers.
"That cat's becoming a nuisance," Mr. Peterson muttered one morning, pausing his leaf-blower as Marshmallow delicately picked her way across his pristine lawn. He glanced around before adding in a softer tone, "Though I suppose the mice situation has improved lately." That evening, a fresh bowl of kibble appeared behind his garage.
Sarah Martinez noticed the change in Marshmallow's behavior before anyone else—veterinary school had taught her the signs. The usually relaxed cat had grown restless, yowling at shadows and pacing the sidewalks like a sentry.
What happened next would spawn two very different futures, branching out like roots from a single seed.
A ripple.
"Here, sweet girl," Sarah coaxed, her voice barely a whisper as she crouched beside the humane trap. Inside, a trail of roasted chicken led to the pressure plate. It took three nights, but finally, Marshmallow's hunger overcame her caution.
At the clinic, Dr. Wong examined the sedated cat. "Community cats like this one—they're the invisible thread holding some neighborhoods together," she observed while preparing for surgery. "People don't realize it until the thread starts to unravel."
Marshmallow returned home with a clipped ear and a second chance at life. Over the months that followed, her true personality emerged. She became a fixture at neighborhood gatherings, weaving between lawn chairs at the Rodriguez family's weekend barbecues.
"You know what's funny?" Mr. Peterson remarked to Sarah one evening, watching Marshmallow patrol his garden. "I used to think street cats were nothing but trouble. Now I can't imagine the neighborhood without our little guardian."
A different ripple.
The first tomcats arrived as spring bloomed. Their battles turned quiet nights into symphonies of screeches, leaving tufts of fur scattered across manicured lawns like grim confetti. Marshmallow retreated to the cramped space beneath Mr. Peterson's shed, emerging weeks later with four hungry kittens trailing behind her.
"This isn't sustainable," Sarah said during an emergency neighborhood meeting that summer. She gestured toward a spreadsheet projected on the community center wall. "One unspayed female cat and her offspring can produce up to—"
"We see the numbers," Mrs. Chen interrupted, her voice heavy. "But these aren't numbers anymore. That's the problem. They're cats we know. Cats our children have named."
By the following spring, Maple Street had become unrecognizable. Marshmallow's descendants sprawled across the neighborhood's gardens and porches—too many to feed, too many to save. The once-proud community cat had grown thin and wary, her gentle nature buried beneath the endless cycle of survival.
"Remember when she used to sit with me while I gardened?" Mrs. Chen asked one morning, searching the shadows under her porch for yet another litter of kittens. "Now she runs if anyone gets too close. Like she's forgotten she ever trusted us at all."
The difference between these futures balanced on a single choice: whether Marshmallow's community would recognize that sometimes, the kindest love comes disguised as a humane trap and a trip to the vet.
Day 20,000, 9Nov24
I like to think I've got this whole world figured out—and I do, mostly. Being blind just means I've become an expert in the important things: the soft hills of blankets on the big sleep-place (which is obviously meant for my afternoon naps, though I generously share it with my humans), the swooshing water sounds from behind the door where Olivia performs her nightly rituals (honestly, humans and their obsession with water), and the warmth of sun-soaked library carpet fibers that tickle my whiskers (prime territory for surprise-pouncing Lucas when he least expects it).
But tonight, my favorite human—Lucas, the one who actually understands how to properly worship a cat—has brought something that's making me question my expertise.
"Ready for something special, Chloe?" His voice comes from above, all bouncy and excited. Please. As if I'm not always ready to demonstrate my superior hunting skills.
I may not be able to see with my clouded eye - or my missing one - but let's be clear: I've mapped every inch of this territory better than any GPS system those humans are always consulting. My whiskers tell me exactly where the walls are (though sometimes I bump into them on purpose, just to make Lucas feel needed), and my ears pick up even the smallest sounds bouncing off surfaces. I am, without question, the most talented huntress in this household. Probably in this entire building. Maybe the world.
I crouch, ready for whatever Lucas has planned. He's been testing different toys each night—I've overheard him calling it "feline engagement research" when he talks to Olivia. I call it "humoring the human while secretly training him to be a better servant." We both win.
Then I hear it. A strange whirring sound, followed by a flap-flap-flap that makes my ears swivel forward.
"Quack!"
Excuse me? This is definitely not one of those predictable jingly balls or those frankly insulting toy mice that don't even try to run away properly.
"What do you think?" Lucas asks, with that proud tone he uses when he thinks he's being clever. (He usually is, but I maintain a policy of not letting it go to his head.) I can smell things: plastic and dye, metal. But there's something more—something my whiskers can just faintly detect from this range: movement.
Autonomous movement.
This thing is alive.
I stalk toward the sound, my whiskers extended to their full reach. Obviously, I need to investigate this thoroughly. It's my sacred duty as head of household security.
The flapping gets more intense as I approach. My paw touches something smooth, and the quacking intensifies. I jump back (gracefully, I might add), then forward again. Color me intrigued.
Olivia's laugh drifts from the bathroom. "She's really trying to figure it out, isn't she?"
"The sensor picks up her movement," Lucas starts explaining, as if I need any help understanding my own domain. “The LiDAR…”
But I'm not listening anymore because I'm having what humans would call an "aha moment." Lucas, my devoted human who I've trained so well in the art of chin scratches and treat dispensing, has done something extraordinary. This creature—this duck-thing—somehow, some way, it responds to my presence. It moves on its own. It speaks its strange language. He's somehow given it a spark of life.
All this time, I thought he was just my beloved human, the one who feeds me (usually on time, we're still working on that) and plays with me and understands that I don't need eyes to be the magnificent hunter I am. But now I understand. He must have special powers, like the ones that make the light appear when he points a stick at the wall, or the ones that make the food appear in my bowl each morning (though he could stand to use that power more frequently, if you ask me).
I bat at the duck-thing again, earning another mechanical quack. In the background, I hear Olivia and Lucas using big words about my "instinctual capabilities." Humans always need to complicate things—I'm simply brilliant, that's all.
My universe has expanded, though I'll never tell Lucas just how impressed I am. I live with a mysterious being who can bring toys to life, who takes special time each night to reveal new wonders to me. A magical human who somehow still gets excited when I grace his lap with my presence and reward him with my purrs.
Untitled - 07Oct24
The succulent had been living its dream life. Perched on the edge of a 10th-floor balcony, it basked in warm sunlight each morning, absorbing every gentle ray through its plump leaves. From up there, it could see the sprawling city below, a patchwork of rooftops and roads, all while basking in its perfect spot. Its roots were snug in a small clay pot, the perfect amount of nutrient-rich soil wrapped around them like a cozy blanket. The human was attentive, always watering right when the succulent started to feel thirsty. Life was balanced, predictable, and full of light.
That all changed when the cat arrived. The succulent sensed a shift, an unsettling presence that disturbed the tranquility it had come to know.
The succulent first noticed the cat prowling around the balcony one sunny afternoon, whiskers twitching in curiosity. It was strange, an unpredictable creature with silent paws. The cat would sometimes press its face against the succulent’s leaves, its eyes narrowing as if deep in thought, or maybe just plotting something mischievous. The succulent, of course, had no way of knowing that the human had adopted this obnoxious creature, nor did it understand the chaos that the cat would inevitably bring. The cat seemed to take a perverse delight in disturbing the peace, batting at leaves and prowling around with that infuriating arrogance that only cats seem capable of, as if the world belonged solely to it.
One day, without warning, the cat sprang onto the windowsill, sending the succulent and its perfect life over the edge. Typical. The cat, with its reckless disregard and selfish nature, had ended everything the succulent had known. The small clay pot shattered upon impact, leaving the succulent sprawled in the dirt beneath a scruffy bush. Its roots, once held securely, were now exposed, and the succulent felt a pang of panic as its root ball was tossed out of its comfort zone. And where was the cat now? Probably lounging somewhere without a care in the world, completely unaware of the destruction it had caused.
The succulent lay beneath the bush, its leaves untouched by the sun. There was no more human with her watering can, no more warm balcony railing. Just the shade of the bush, the smell of damp earth, and the hard, unwelcoming soil below—a stark contrast to the succulent's once-perfect life. Thirst began to gnaw at the succulent. The memory of abundant water filled its thoughts. It needed to stretch out, to find a new source of moisture.
Slowly, the succulent let its roots unfurl, hesitating as it extended beyond the confines of its old root ball, unsure of what it might find in this unfamiliar ground. The earth resisted, clinging tightly in a way its nutrient-balanced potting mix never had. But the succulent pushed on, reaching downward and outward, its fine roots searching for water. The effort was exhausting, and days of struggle left the plant weary.
Then, one night, the sky opened up. Rain poured from above, drumming on leaves and splattering onto the ground, filling the air with the fresh scent of wet earth. It was nothing like the careful watering the human used to provide. It was wild, chaotic, relentless. The succulent drank deeply, its roots taking in every drop they could, the hard soil softening with the torrent.
The next morning, the sun broke through. The succulent stretched its leaves toward the warmth, its roots burrowing deeper into the softened ground, feeling a new resilience take hold. There was water, and there was sunlight. It wasn't the balcony anymore, but maybe, the succulent thought, as it unfurled a new leaf, this was okay too.