To Be a Cat
Cats. 950 words, 4 minute read. With Gemini.
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.