Cats
Table of Contents
Fishy
What Stories They Will Tell
To Be a Cat
Moxie's Midnight Mischief
Space Cats
Play Play
Purr-spective
The First Housecat
A Tail of Two Futures
Day 20,000
Untitled
Fishy - 05Jun2025
The new light in the human-den was a silent hum and a wet, rhythmic pop. Bagheera, a sliver of night, uncurled and flowed towards it. A box of water glowed, and within it, a flake of captured sunset—orange, alive, waving tiny fins—pulsed. Prey.
Her body flattened, muscles coiling. Whiskers twitched, tasting the still air. The orange thing drifted, oblivious. One heartbeat, then two, and her forepaw, a black flash tipped with hidden needles, struck. Thump. Not the give of flesh, but a hard, cold flatness her paw bounced off, sending a strange shiver up her leg. The orange prey darted, then resettled, still swimming, still tauntingly visible.
Confusion, a low growl in her chest. She tapped again, claws extended. Scritch-tap. The invisible wall remained. She pressed her nose to it, sniffing. Water-smell, plant-smell, no way through. She paced, a tight knot of predatory energy, her tail lashing. The prey moved freely, a jewel in an impossible cage. This was wrong. What she saw, she should touch. What she touched, she should grasp.
Her gaze tracked upwards. The box was open at the top, a dark, shimmering skin on the water. A new path. She gathered herself, a compact spring, and launched onto the nearby table. Now she loomed above. The orange prey flickered closer to the surface. Excitement tightened her chest. This time.
She reached down, a swift, sure hook. Her paw sliced through the skin of the water and plunged into cold, clinging wrongness. A shocked hiss ripped from her as she recoiled, shaking the heavy, dripping wet from her fur. It was an offense, this cold drag where there should have been warmth and struggle. She leaped from the table, landing hard, and furiously licked her paw, trying to erase the feel of the alien wet.
When her fur was merely damp, she stopped. The burning frustration cooled, replaced by a new stillness. She looked at the glowing box. The orange prey still swam, untroubled. Her instincts had screamed pounce, grab, bite. But the box had answered with hardness and a cold shock.
Bagheera sat, straight and tall, before the transparent wall. Her emerald eyes, no longer wide with baffled instinct, narrowed into focused slits. The lashing tail stilled, only its very tip twitching, measuring a new rhythm. The prey was there. The path was not simple. This was not the easy food in the bowl, nor the frantic chase of the moth. This was a puzzle. A new kind of hunt. And the first move, she now understood, was to watch. To learn.
What Stories They Will Tell - 18May2025
The pre-dawn light, a pale, unwelcome intrusion, painted the kitchen floor in shades of grey. Moxie, whose tabby stripes seemed to hum with an energy unseen by the larger occupants of the house, had already been mentally wrestling with the implications of multi-dimensional string theory for a good hour. His humans, bless their simple, bipedal hearts, were just now engaged in the mystifying ritual of bean-grinding.
“Must they be so… percussive?” he thought, the concept shaping itself into a translatable packet. His tail gave an involuntary twitch of irritation.
Sarah, still blinking sleep from her eyes, her hands already bearing a faint dusting of yesterday’s flour, yawned. “Morning, Moxie. Big day of chasing dust bunnies planned?”
Ben, who carried the comforting scent of cedar and coffee, finally coaxed a sputtering noise from the machine. “Or perhaps contemplating the existential angst of an empty food bowl, eh, Professor?”
Moxie offered a slow blink, the feline equivalent of a long-suffering sigh. If they only knew the complex socio-economic theories he’d deconstructed before his first nap. He allowed Sarah to scoop him up, enduring the nuzzling with the regal patience of one accustomed to the well-meaning but ultimately shallow affections of a less enlightened species. She reached for the collar on the counter – his interface, the sleek metallic band that bridged the cognitive chasm between them. The integrated Apple Watch, Series 27, gleamed faintly.
As she fastened it, the tiny screen lit up, a minimalist paw icon appearing. A faint, almost sub-vocal hum vibrated against his fur as the bio-neural link established.
“There we are, my little genius,” Sarah cooed, setting him down.
Moxie looked at his food bowl, then at Sarah, and produced a carefully calibrated, slightly pathetic-sounding “Mrrrrow?” It was a performance, really, designed for maximum efficiency in procuring breakfast.
The collar’s synthesized voice, a dry, erudite baritone he’d modeled on a rather obscure holographic lecturer, intoned, “Sustenance protocol initiation requested. The current void in my digestive tract is… suboptimal for peak cognitive function.”
Ben chuckled, pouring coffee. “Always the dramatist. Yes, your lordship, the kibble is served.” He paused, looking at Moxie. "You know, sometimes I think he actually understands us." Sarah just smiled, a little sadly. "Oh, I'm sure he does, in his own way."
Moxie ate with methodical precision, his mind already cataloging the day's intellectual agenda. The background drone of human chatter about traffic and meetings was a familiar, ignorable soundscape. He felt a familiar pang, not of loneliness, but of… intellectual solitude. The conversations here were loving, but lacked certain… dimensionality.
“Right, little buddy,” Sarah said, crouching for the goodbye ritual. “Be a good boy. Don’t invent cold fusion while we’re out, okay?”
He met her gaze, then Ben’s, and offered a soft, almost convincing purr. “Farewell, providers,” the collar translated. “May your hunting be successful, and the evening tribute of tuna be forthcoming.”
The click of the door, the thud of the deadbolt. Blessed, productive silence. Moxie waited precisely thirty-seven seconds. Then, with the fluid grace of a creature unbound by the clumsier laws of human physics, he was at the back door. The cat flap, an archaic but effective portal, beckoned. He slipped through, emerging into the cool, damp air of the backyard. The world was muted, peaceful.
His journey was a practiced art. Over the fence into Mrs. Henderson’s meticulously ordered petunias – he’d long ago calculated the optimal trajectory to minimize floral disturbance. Across the dew-slicked grass, a silent shadow against the waking suburban sprawl. Another fence, chain-link this time, scaled with an economy of motion that spoke of countless repetitions. This was not a whimsical jaunt; this was a commute.
He landed softly in the familiar yard, the great oak tree its silent centerpiece. He wasn’t the first. Lyra, a sleek Siamese whose emerald-green collar pulsed with a steady, calm light, was already perched on a low branch, her tail-tip twitching rhythmically as if keeping time with some unheard symphony. From behind the overgrown rhododendron emerged Boris, a hulking Maine Coon whose collar sported a complex series of antennae that seemed to track unseen data streams. They acknowledged each other with infinitesimally small nods, a silent language of shared purpose.
More arrived: a calico, her silver band minimalist and severe, already projecting a faint holographic schematic from her collar onto her paw; a ginger tom, re-calibrating what looked like a custom-built sensory array on his device. Each bore the quiet intensity of minds far too active for a life of mere domesticity. There was a palpable thrum in the air, an unspoken understanding that this was their sanctuary, their intellectual haven, hidden in plain sight.
They arranged themselves in a focused semi-circle before the old garden shed. To the casual observer, it was dilapidated, forgotten. But as Pip, the ginger tom, gave a final, decisive tap to his collar, a section of the shed’s weathered planking slid upwards with a near-silent hydraulic hiss. Behind it, a large, high-resolution screen flickered to life, bathing their expectant faces in its cool glow. The academy’s logo – a stylized open book with subtle feline ears – resolved itself.
Moxie settled, tail curled neatly, his own collar’s screen reflecting the shared light. The quiet hum of their combined technology was a counterpoint to the distant chirping of oblivious birds.
The screen refreshed: "WELCOME, SCHOLARS." Below, in smaller font: "TODAY'S SEMINAR: ADVANCED THEORETICAL APPLICATIONS OF QUANTUM ENTANGLEMENT IN INTERSPECIES COMMUNICATION."
A collective, almost inaudible intake of breath rippled through the assembled felines. Moxie felt the familiar prickle of intense focus, the earlier sense of intellectual solitude dissolving completely. This. This was the engagement his mind craved, the very reason for these clandestine gatherings. He leaned forward, ever so slightly, his gaze fixed on the screen. The lesson was about to begin.
To be a Cat - 18Apr2025
The soft tick… tick… tick from the cooling oven wasn't just a sound; it was a countdown. To what, Maisie wasn't certain, but her nerves stretched taut as violin strings. Each tick tightened the knot low in her belly. Her whiskers quivered, tasting the air for unseen threats, her ears pivoting like tiny radar dishes. Then, the refrigerator compressor kicked on with a sudden whump, and she flattened instinctively, belly pressed cold against the tile, before the familiar hum registered. Embarrassed, she rose, shaking one paw delicately, and resumed her patrol around the kitchen island. The empty food bowl gleamed under the track lighting, a hollow accusation. Her tail gave a sharp, irritated lash against a cabinet door. Something, surely, was about to go terribly wrong.
Her human, Clara, vibrated with a different, yet strangely similar, tension. She pawed through the contents of her purse, spread across the table like offerings to a god of chaos. Keys jangled, coins skittered, lip balms rolled. "Cannot believe I did this," she muttered, the words tight, bitten off. "He needs it for the presentation. Needs it." She wasn't just looking; she was excavating, her movements sharp, jerky. She pushed her hair back, leaving a faint, damp track across her temple. "Where is that stupid flash drive?" The phone was snatched up, stabbed at, then tossed back onto the pile with a clatter.
Maisie watched from the relative safety of under the dining chair. The air around Clara felt prickly, like static cling. It was the same feeling Maisie got when a strange dog barked outside the window – a feeling that demanded action, flight, or frantic meowing. Yet, Clara just kept circling the same small area, generating waves of agitation over… what? A little rectangle of plastic? Maisie didn't understand the mechanics, but the feeling was unmistakable: a useless, draining expenditure of energy. She stretched, extending her front paws, claws briefly unsheathed, and decided distance was the better part of valour. A fluid shadow, she slipped away towards the living room.
Afternoon bled into a bruised twilight. The wind rose from a sigh to a moan, rattling the windows in their frames. Then the rain came, hard, driven, drumming against the roof and glass. The world outside dissolved into grey, watery streaks. A low growl of thunder gathered momentum, culminating in a sudden, violent CRACK that split the sky, momentarily painting the living room stark white. Maisie leaped, heart hammering against her ribs. Every instinct screamed: Under the bed! Now!
She took a step towards the bedroom door, but a flicker of orange against the grey backdrop arrested her. Through the streaming windowpane sat Bartholomew, next door's marmalade cat, on the glistening fencepost. Rain plastered his fur, carving dark rivers through his thick coat, but he remained impassive. Water beaded on his whiskers. He didn't startle at the thunderclaps that followed, echoing booms that vibrated Maisie’s own bones. He simply sat, a solid, unmoving presence in the downpour. When a particularly bright lightning flash illuminated the garden, he blinked, slowly, then meticulously licked a raindrop from his nose. He surveyed the sodden lawn with an air of detached contemplation, as if the storm were merely weather, nothing more.
Maisie remained frozen, halfway to the door. The frantic energy that had seized her moments before began to ebb, replaced by a profound confusion. One part of her knew this was dangerous – loud noises, flashing lights, nature's fury. Yet Bartholomew… he just was. He wasn't fighting the storm, wasn't hiding, wasn't worrying. He was simply enduring it, wetly, calmly. After a long moment, seemingly deciding the view offered nothing further of interest, he hopped down and vanished into the dripping hedge, leaving Maisie staring at the rain-lashed glass.
Morning arrived, quiet and drenched in sunlight. The air smelled clean, washed. In the kitchen, Clara, humming softly, poured cereal. Resting beside the fruit bowl, innocuous as a paperweight, lay the small black flash drive. Clara picked it up, gave a short, breathy laugh, shook her head, and slipped it into her pocket, rubbing her temples briefly as if easing a phantom ache.
Maisie stretched luxuriously, feeling the warmth of the sun through the window on her fur. Her stomach gave a distinct, demanding gurgle. The empty bowl sat waiting. The familiar tendrils of anxiety started to curl – the need, the emptiness, the looming possibility of starvation. That tight knot formed again in her belly. She took an instinctive step towards the bowl, ready to begin the ritual of pacing and perhaps a pleading chirp.
She paused. The image of Clara’s frantic searching, the memory of that sharp, prickly energy, flashed through her mind. Then, contrasted, the solid, rain-soaked stillness of Bartholomew on the fence. She felt the ghost of her own frantic leap at the thunderclap, the urge to hide. She looked from the empty bowl – the focus of her worry – towards the brilliant rectangle of sunshine warming the floorboards nearby.
It was a conscious turn. Deliberately, she pivoted away from the bowl. She walked into the centre of the sunbeam, the light bathing her tabby stripes. She lowered herself onto the warm wood, the heat instantly starting to loosen the tightness in her muscles. Tucking her paws beneath her chest, she let out a long, slow breath. The hunger was still there, a dull ache beneath the warmth, but the frantic edge was gone. A deep, resonant purr started in her chest, vibrating through her body, a quiet assertion of presence. The bowl could wait. The sun was here now.
Moxie’s Midnight Mischief - 26Mar25
The red digits of the alarm clock cast a faint glow across the bedroom: 2:13 AM. A pair of yellow-green eyes flickered open. Moxie's tail twitched once, then went still. The gray tabby's ears pivoted toward the two sleeping forms beside him, tracking the rhythm of their breathing.
Sarah's arm was flung across Michael's chest, rising and falling with his breath. She made that little whistling sound through her nose that she always denied making. Michael had kicked off half the comforter, one foot dangling off the mattress.
Humans are creatures of habit, Moxie reflected, and habits create predictability.
When Sarah shifted, mumbling something about "quarterly reports," Moxie tensed. Her hand reached out, patting the space beside her before falling limp again.
He uncoiled his body in a silent stretch, each paw extending deliberately, claws sheathed to prevent any telltale clicking against the hardwood floor. Michael had left his slippers askew on the floor again. Moxie skirted them carefully, avoiding the creaky floorboard near the hallway bathroom—the same one Michael promised to fix every Sunday.
Three silent leaps brought him to the kitchen counter. Moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating his target—the blue bag of Gourmet Delights Premium Cat Treats.
"He's not smart enough to open this," Michael had said last month, twisting the bag closed. "He's cute, but he's just a cat."
Sarah had laughed. "Remember when you said he wasn't smart enough to open the bathroom door, and then he learned to jump up and hang on the handle?"
"Dumb luck," Michael had insisted.
Moxie sniffed at the twisted closure, detecting Sarah's hand lotion. His first attempts at treat theft had left telltale tears in the packaging. Now he knew better. Carefully, he took the twisted paper between his teeth, applying just enough pressure to unwind it without tearing.
The rich aroma of salmon and chicken hit his senses. With surgical precision, he extended one paw into the opening, extracting a single treat. He used both front paws to re-twist the bag's opening, nudging and patting until it matched its previous state.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Moxie's pupils dilated. He slipped behind the toaster, treat still in mouth, pressing his body against the cool tile. His tail curled tightly against his body.
Michael shuffled into the kitchen, scratching at his stubbled chin. He squinted against the refrigerator light as he pulled it open.
"Where'd I put that..." he muttered, rummaging among containers. "Ah."
He emerged with half a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. Michael's gaze drifted around the kitchen. Moxie held his breath as those sleepy eyes passed over the toaster.
"Huh." Michael picked up the treat bag, turning it over in his hands. "Could've sworn I left that in the pantry."
For three excruciating seconds, Moxie thought he'd been discovered.
Then Michael shrugged and shuffled toward the bedroom, pausing in the doorway. "Moxie? You out here, buddy?"
Moxie remained silent, invisible.
"Weird." Michael yawned. "Thought I heard something."
The bedroom door clicked shut. Moxie waited until he heard the mattress creak, then counted to three hundred. When he finally emerged, he surveyed the kitchen for any evidence before making his silent return journey.
He slipped back onto the bed, navigating the warm hollow between Sarah and Michael. He curled into a tight circle, positioning himself exactly as he'd been before—a detail the humans would never notice but that satisfied his own standards.
Only then did he allow himself to enjoy his prize, nibbling in tiny, quiet bites. Each morsel dissolved on his tongue, rich with forbidden flavor and the satisfaction of outsmarting those who underestimated him.
Sarah's hand found him in the darkness, her fingers automatically sliding into the soft fur behind his ears.
"Mmm, there you are," she murmured, her eyes never opening. "Dream anything good, little guy?"
Moxie began to purr—not the natural purr of contentment, but the carefully calibrated rumble he'd perfected to convey innocent sleepiness.
"I love how he sleeps through the night," Sarah whispered. "My sister's cat is up at all hours causing trouble."
Michael rolled over, one arm flopping across both Sarah and Moxie. "That's because Moxie's a good boy," he slurred. "Not like that hellion she has."
"Best cat ever," Sarah agreed, already drifting back to deeper sleep.
If only you knew, Moxie thought, whiskers still tinged with evidence of his crime. Behind his innocent façade churned the mind of a master strategist, already planning his next conquest while his humans dreamed on, blissfully unaware of the complex intelligence sharing their bed.
Space Cats - 4Mar25
The distant pulsar flickered against the void—rhythmic flash, wink, flash—piercing the darkness like a metronome marking infinity. Moxie's pupils dilated until gold irises became thin rings around bottomless black. His paw hovered over the navigation panel.
"Course adjustment recorded," announced the ship's AI. "Continuing toward PSR J1748-2446ad galaxy."
From the shadowed alcove, Bagheera observed the captain's fascination. Her movements were liquid as she crossed the deck, each paw placed with deliberate care. A glance at the fluctuating sensor readings deepened the crease between her eyes.
"Something's different about this one," she murmured. "The radiation signature doesn't match anything in the database."
Moxie's ears flicked backward, though his gaze remained fixed on the distant light. "You always say that."
Bagheera's tail curled tighter. "Those weren't altering our navigation algorithms without input."
That caught his attention. Moxie swiveled his head, blinking slowly. She nudged a display toward him, one claw extended to indicate a subtle deviation in their trajectory—three degrees off course, shifting gradually toward the pulsar.
"I made some minor adjustments. For better observation angles."
"You didn't log them."
"Must've forgotten."
Their eyes met—his wide and defensive, hers narrowed with an unspoken question.
"Forget the logs," he said, paws busy with unnecessary system checks. "Think of what we could discover."
"Look at yourself, Moxie."
His reflection stared back from the darkened portions of the screen—whiskers forward, ears erect, body unconsciously leaning toward the pulsing light. The classic stalking posture of their ancestors.
Moxie forced his posture to relax. "Professional interest, that's all."
Three ship-cycles later, Bagheera found him still on the bridge, eyes unblinking, food untouched. His fur stood rumpled where he'd been lying in the same position for hours.
"We've crossed the observation boundary," she said. "We should begin deceleration."
"Just a bit closer," Moxie whispered, his voice rough from disuse. "There's something... it's almost like it's playing with us."
The words hung between them. Bagheera's gaze shifted from Moxie to the pulsing light and back again.
"I'm logging my concerns," she said, retreating to the communication station.
The next cycle, she discovered the comms system offline—a "routine maintenance" protocol initiated under the captain's authorization. When confronted, Moxie merely shrugged, not meeting her eyes.
"Subspace interference. Probably from the pulsar."
The lie hung between them. Bagheera's claws extended involuntarily.
"I accessed your medical scans," she said. "Your dopamine levels are off the charts. Your sleep cycles match exactly with the pulsar's frequency."
"You went into my private files?"
"As your second in command, I have emergency medical override when the captain's judgment appears compromised."
"I've never been more focused," he snapped. "We're on the verge of something revolutionary."
That night, while Moxie finally succumbed to exhaustion, Bagheera slipped onto the bridge. Even prepared, the pulsar's visual pull caught her momentarily. She forced her gaze away, focusing on the diagnostic console.
The readings confirmed her suspicions: neural pattern interference and a radiation signature that somehow mirrored the exact frequency of feline hunting instincts. Not random. Deliberate.
Her paws worked quickly, bypassing the communication lock. Commander Whiskers' face materialized on screen, aging gray muzzle tight with concern.
"Get out of there, Bagheera. Now."
"Sir?"
"You're the third expedition we've sent. The others..." His eyes shifted away. "We lost contact after they crossed the same boundary you passed."
"The pulsar," Bagheera began. "It's affecting our neurological functions, similar to how our ancient ancestors responded to—"
"—to prey movements," Commander Whiskers finished. "We've theorized it might be a trap."
A soft sound behind her made her freeze. Moxie stood in the entryway, his silhouette strange in the pulsing light. His pupils had expanded completely.
"Who are you talking to?" His voice came low, almost a growl.
"Command finally got through. They're ordering us to withdraw."
"Why would we leave when we're so close?"
"Close to what, Moxie? What exactly do you think happens when we reach that pulsar?"
Confusion flickered across his face momentarily before his gaze drifted back to the viewscreen.
"We'll finally catch it," he whispered.
He moved with unexpected speed, crossing the bridge in a single bound. His paws slammed down on the navigation controls, locking in a direct course toward the pulsar's heart.
Bagheera had seconds to decide. Her paw pressed down on the emergency protocols. "Forgive me."
The ship shuddered as the separation sequence initiated. The bridge module detached from the main vessel with a metallic groan. Both cats tumbled through suddenly unstable gravity.
Through the viewscreen, they watched the main body of their ship continuing its journey. As it drew closer, the light intensified, reaching out with tendrils that enveloped the vessel. For a moment, the ship appeared suspended in a web of light—then compressed, twisted, and vanished.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Moxie stared at the empty space, horror dawning slowly in his eyes.
"I would have..." he began, unable to complete the thought.
Days later, as they drifted waiting for rescue, Moxie finally spoke more than the necessary words of ship function.
"How did you know? How did you resist it?"
Bagheera watched the stars drift past their viewport. "I didn't, entirely. But I've spent my life resisting impulses."
The rescue ship found them seventeen days later. As they boarded, Moxie paused at the airlock, looking back toward the distant point of light.
"Do you think there are others out there? Things designed perfectly to lure us to destruction?"
Bagheera followed his gaze into the endless dark. "Perhaps the universe knows us better than we know ourselves."
Play Play - 26Feb25
The sunbeam crept across the living room floor like honey. Maisie tracked its movement through the warmth blooming across her whiskers rather than her clouded eye. Three steps left, a half turn, then settling with deliberation into the golden pool of afternoon light.
There was a time, before the shadows came, when Maisie had taken sunbeams for granted. Now each was a treasure hunted with her remaining senses—temperature changes against fur, brightness still discernible through clouded eyes, dust motes tickling whiskers.
Her ears swiveled—ice maker dropping cubes, refrigerator's hum, morning coffee lingering in the air. The house spoke in languages she'd never bothered to learn until her world faded into shadows three years ago.
The vibration came first—tiny paws thundering across hardwood—before her ears caught the sound. Maisie's tail flicked once.
"Mrrrp?" A small head butted against her side. Moxie circled around, stepping onto Maisie's paw, his energy radiating like heat. "Prrrt!"
Maisie kept her eyes closed, breathing deliberately slow.
Lighter, measured footsteps approached, stopping at the sunbeam's edge.
"Mrr," came Bagheera's soft vocalization, her milk-sweet scent drifting toward Maisie.
Moxie pounced onto Maisie's back, kneading enthusiastically between her shoulder blades. "Mrow!"
Bagheera's whiskers tickled Maisie's ear as she leaned closer. "Prrt?"
*No peace today.* Maisie opened her eyes, turning toward Moxie's vibrations. The kitten blurred against the bright room.
Maisie stretched, extending her front legs until claws peeked out. She touched her nose briefly to each kitten's, acknowledging their presence.
Moxie returned with the mouse toy, dropping it at Maisie's paws. She nudged it aside and navigated toward the toy basket, whiskers brushing the coffee table edge.
Bagheera moved ahead, her tail brushing Maisie's side, guiding her around books on the floor. She pawed through the basket until the feather wand tumbled out.
"Mrrrp," Bagheera offered, nudging it toward Maisie.
Maisie grasped the wooden handle between her teeth, dragging it to the open space. The feathers skimmed the floor, capturing Moxie's attention.
The young tabby flattened himself against the hardwood, hindquarters wiggling. Maisie batted the wand, sending feathers skittering like a wounded bird.
Moxie pounced, overshooting and sliding into the coffee table leg.
Bagheera approached silently from the side, pausing to assess the toy's movement. Maisie flicked the wand again, changing direction.
Bagheera launched in a perfect arc, catching the feathers mid-flight.
"Mrrrp!" Maisie approved. She positioned herself behind a fallen cushion, tail moving in short, concentrated bursts—a signal both kittens recognized.
Moxie circled wide. Bagheera froze, then sank into shadow.
Maisie tracked their movements with her ears. She waited until both were positioned, then sent the feathers flying upward.
The kittens converged midair, tumbling back down with Moxie clutching the feathers triumphantly while Bagheera rolled gracefully to her feet.
After several rounds, Moxie collapsed dramatically, feathers still in his mouth, sides heaving with exertion.
"Mrow?" Bagheera chirped, batting a toy ball into Maisie's path.
Maisie froze, whiskers extended. The ball stopped against her paw. She batted it experimentally, tracking by sound rather than sight. It rolled unevenly from countless play sessions.
She batted again, angling to compensate. The ball traveled in a perfect arc around the cushion back to her paws.
Maisie's whiskers pulled forward in surprise. She'd never attempted such a precise shot before her vision dimmed.
Bagheera chirped again, tail swishing with excitement. The black kitten had been leaving toys in Maisie's path for weeks—not randomly, Maisie realized, but deliberately positioned to help her practice sensing through sound.
Maisie settled beside Moxie, extracting the feather toy and washing his face with long strokes. His fur was rumpled in all directions, collecting dust from their play.
"Mrrr," Bagheera approached, ducking her head.
Maisie reached out, drawing Bagheera closer. She found cobwebs clinging to the black kitten's ears and set to work grooming them away.
The kittens nestled against her side, radiating warmth. Moxie's paws twitched in sleep, chasing dream-prey. Bagheera's purr synchronized with Maisie's deeper rumble.
Maisie purred with a fullness she hadn't felt in months. Before, she'd kept to herself, content in solitary routines. The kittens had arrived just when her world was shrinking, forcing her to expand in ways she couldn't have anticipated.
A familiar engine sound cut through her doze. Three pairs of ears perked simultaneously.
Car door. Footsteps. Keys jingling.
The cats raced toward the entryway, tails raised in exclamation points of anticipation.
The door opened. Outside scents—car interiors, other people, takeout—wafted in with their humans.
"Well, look who's awake!" The taller human knelt down, grocery bags rustling.
Maisie led the welcoming procession, purring as familiar fingers found the spot beneath her chin. Moxie wound figure-eights between ankles while Bagheera offered polite head-bumps against an extended hand.
"Acting like they haven't been sleeping all day," the second human laughed.
Humans understood so little of what happened in their absence. But that was fine—some mysteries were meant for cats only.
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.