Semi-Domestic
cats
The white door stands ajar. It is a gap no wider than a whisker, yet it represents the boundary between the known world and the vast, terrifying void beyond.
Inside the bathroom, the air is humid and smells faintly of lavender and wet fur. This has been their universe for three days. It is safe. It has a water bowl. It has a litter box. But the call of the wild, or at least the hallway, is impossible to ignore.
Moglet is the first to approach the breach. He is a wiry brown tabby with eyes the color of peeled grapes and a tail that refuses to sit still. He presses his nose to the crack, inhaling sharply.
“It smells like dust,” Moglet whispers, his voice a low chitter. “And stale air. And... vastness.”
“It smells like danger,” Hugo counters. Hugo is an orange cat of considerable circumference. He is currently wedged behind the toilet, his preferred bunker. He does not like the new world. The streets were hard and cold, but at least he knew where the garbage cans were. Here, the food appears magically on ceramic saucers, which is suspicious. “We should stay. The Giants bring the crunchies here. Why leave this paradise?”
Euripides sits atop the closed toilet lid, washing a paw with philosophical detachment. As a calico, she possesses an air of authority the others lack. She stops licking and fixes Hugo with a stare.
“We are apex predators, Hugo,” she says. “We are not designed for tiles. We are designed to conquer. Besides, the door is open. It is a sign.”
Moglet doesn’t wait for a consensus. He pushes his head through the crack. The door swings open with a silent, heavy grace. The hallway stretches out before them, a long tunnel of beige carpet that looks suspiciously like dead moss.
Moglet steps out. His paws sink into the fibers. “The ground is soft,” he reports. “It grabs your claws.”
Euripides follows, stepping lightly, her ears swiveling like radar dishes. Hugo sighs, a heavy, rattling sound in his chest, and waddles after them. He does not want to be left alone with the toilet.
They move in a phalanx, low to the ground, bellies brushing the carpet. The hallway opens up into a cavernous space that the Giants likely call a living room. To the cats, it is an amphitheater of bizarre structures. Moonlight filters through the blinds, casting striped shadows across the floor.
“Behold,” Euripides whispers, stopping before the sofa.
It is a massive grey beast, dormant and blocky, with four wooden legs.
“Is it alive?” Hugo asks, hiding behind Euripides.
Moglet creeps forward. He extends a paw and taps the side of the sofa. He waits for retaliation. Nothing happens. He strikes it harder, unsheathing his claws. The fabric gives way with a satisfying ripppp sound.
“It is a sacrificial altar,” Euripides declares, nodding sage-like. “See how it accepts the claw? It is designed for us to sharpen our weapons. The Giants keep it here to appease us.”
“I think it’s for sleeping,” Hugo says. He sniffs the corner. “It smells like the male Giant’s trousers.”
They bypass the altar and venture deeper into the room. In the corner stands a tall, thin lamp with a wide shade. To Moglet, it looks like a tree that has been stripped of all its branches and leaves, leaving only a strange, glowing mushroom on top.
“Do not touch the glowing tree,” Moglet warns. “It buzzes. I can hear its blood flowing.”
“Electricity,” Euripides corrects, though she has no idea what the word means, only that she heard the Giants say it. “It is the spirit of the house.”
They continue their patrol, moving from the carpet to the slick, treacherous linoleum of the kitchen. This is a land of cold surfaces and towering cliffs. In the center of the room stands the monolith: the Refrigerator.
Hugo freezes. His nose twitches violently. “I smell it,” he gasps. “The motherlode.”
“The crunchies?” Moglet asks.
“Better,” Hugo whispers. “Wet food. Chicken. Fish. Cheese. It is all trapped inside the Cold Box.”
He approaches the refrigerator and paws pitifully at the magnetic seal. It does not budge. He presses his face against the white enamel, letting out a soft, mournful mew.
“It is a vault,” Euripides observes, circling the appliance. “The Giants hoard the best kills inside. They have no claws to hunt, so they trap the cold winter inside this box to keep the meat fresh. It is dark magic.”
“Can we break it open?” Moglet asks, looking for a weak point.
“No,” Hugo says, sliding down to the floor in defeat. “We must wait for the offering. We must be patient.”
Leaving the kitchen, they find themselves facing a set of stairs. In the dim light, the staircase looks like a mountain range, peak after peak ascending into the darkness of the second floor.
“The summit,” Moglet says, his eyes widening. “The High Place.”
“We have to go up,” Euripides states. “The higher ground is tactical advantage. It is known.”
The ascent is grueling. Hugo has to take a break on the fourth step, panting, claiming he is merely inspecting a piece of lint. But eventually, they reach the landing. A door at the end of the hall is wide open.
Inside, the room is dominated by a vast, flat plateau raised high off the ground. The Bed.
The air here is thick with the scent of the Giants. It is a warm, comforting smell, like sun-baked earth and laundry detergent. On the plateau, two large mounds rise and fall rhythmically. The sound of heavy breathing fills the room.
“They are dormant,” Moglet whispers.
“They are vulnerable,” Euripides adds.
“They are warm,” Hugo says.
The three cats stand at the base of the bed. It is a significant jump. The sheets hang down like curtains, offering a way to climb, but that is for kittens. They are explorers. They must conquer the height.
Moglet goes first. He coils his muscles and springs, landing silently on the duvet. He freezes, waiting for the Giants to wake. The mounds shift but do not rise.
Euripides follows, landing with grace near the pillows. She sniffs the hair of the female Giant, categorizing the scent.
Hugo looks up. The height is daunting. He looks back at the hallway, then up at his friends. He gathers his courage, wiggles his rear end, and launches himself. He scrambles for a moment, claws digging into the quilt, before hauling his bulk over the edge.
They gather in the valley between the two sleeping Giants. The body heat radiating from the humans is intoxicating. The fear of the new house, the confusion of the Cold Box, and the memory of the streets all fade away.
Moglet kneels, tucking his paws beneath his chest. Euripides curls into a tight circle, her nose touching her tail. Hugo flops onto his side, pressing his back against the male Giant’s leg.
A sound begins. It starts in Hugo’s chest, a deep, rumbling motor. Then Moglet joins in, a higher-pitched trill. Finally, Euripides adds her soft vibration. The three distinct sounds merge into a single, rhythmic chorus of ownership.
They are no longer wild. They are no longer guests. They are home.
