The small grey cat lay sprawled out across the top of his dingy beige cat tree. It was morning in late October. His mind was busy with day dreams of summer sun and catching flies when a man and woman walked through the door. Their heads nearly brushed the worn carpet.
He was six feet. His brown hair cut close to his head. From behind glasses, his dark eyes surveyed the room with unease. He stepped carefully to avoid coming too close to any one thing. His eyes kept a close watch on the woman. There was a tender quality to the man that Beanty noticed right away, like the soft belly of a freshly dead mouse. He watched the man prepare his thoughts before speaking to the woman.
She had swarmed into the room crouching, then kneeling, rubbing and petting all the cats around her. Having spent sufficient time marveling over the three legged cat she stood, took a deep breath and slowly surveyed the room. She locked in on the small grey cat and a smile spread slowly across her face.
Beanty sized her up from a distance.
She walked toward the carpeted tower. He moved closer to the edge and fought his anxiety in order to appear as kitten like as possible. He bent his head to her hand and tilted it slightly to maximize the effect of curiosity. He had seen these things done by those who escaped.
There were others who left. Sometimes they were surly, old or sick. They tended to disappear when the lights went out. Beanty sensed a sad darkness to their leaving that made his skin crawl. It was better to leave this way, when the lights were on.
The man stepped forward during Beanty’s performance, “Remember, we’re only here to see. We haven’t decided anything yet.”
She crinkled her nose at him.
“What’s her name?” she asked the woman at the door.
“His name is Coco. She’s a he.”
Beanty was stung by the insult.
“Hello Coco. So handsome.” She patted his head and moved into the next room.
He would entertain his audience on several occasions, each performance occurring at roughly the same time every Saturday. And each performance was met with the same question, “What are you still doing here?”
The little cat tried desperately to hide his growing panic at being left behind, fearful of never leaving or worse being snatched away in the middle of the night. He clawed his perch. With a courage born of fear, he made his move.
The brown eyed man stood with his back to the little cat. Beanty crouched and waited. As she turned to face the dark haired man, Beanty seized his chance and rapped him several times across the head.
Their heads jerked in unison.
Realizing his own genius, Beanty rolled onto his side and batted the man’s head again. He purred softly.
She walked forward, her mouth slightly ajar.
Beanty sat up and nudged his head toward her. “I think he likes us,” she said.
“I think he does too,” he smiled.
Exhausted from the effort, Beanty realized training these two lackeys would become a life’s work.
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We think we choose our pets but are you sure your pet didn’t choose you? People picking is a complicated business. What’s your story?
Meow
