February 2004 Issue - Essay # 4
The
Cat Knows
By
Julie Shapiro
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Walking past the barbecue where my neighbor’s cat is perched, I feel like the cat is reading my mind. I stop and look straight into the cat’s eyes and we have one those staring contests that go on and on, my eyes start watering, but I want to read the cat’s mind. You can read animals' thoughts if you stare long enough. I one time stared at a dove resting it’s head on another dove, and I swear one of them told me to get lost, they needed privacy, and that’s just what I did. The
cat turns its head and walks away, leaving me wondering what a
condescending feline thinks. Was it my smell from first the bike ride,
then the beach run, prompted by a hangover from margaritas and French
cheese for desert when my husband’s friends came down for a visit with
their adorable four-year-old and mother-in-law who couldn’t speak a word of
English? The cat knows what
I’m thinking more than the mother-in-law. The cat knows I’m looking at
my own life, seeing how different it is from our friends who have a four-year-old, a house, investments and forty-year-old out of shape bodies. The
cat knows I’m looking down at their bodies and am proud of my
husband’s and my taunt muscles, our independence, and creative spirit.
And yes the cat knows I wonder what the adorable four-year-old is really
like to have at home. The cat thinks I’m nuts; Jenny knows--she’s a
cat. Cats
don’t have such thoughts. She’s wondering why I’m ignoring her, not
scratching under her chin, or rubbing her back, or tickling her belly. And,
damnit, she knows it’s the same reason why, over margaritas, I watched
this really hot looking twenty-something guy sweet-talk his date, felt the
excitement of him rubbing his hand over the girl’s thigh, her blushing,
her engaging laughter, the way their heads cocked to side to the Latin
blues, how he beat his hands on the table in sync with the drummer.
Did I want the guy? No more than petting the cat under the chin. It’s the zest for life that I admire in the guy and his date. The
cat walks up to me and meows. I scratch her chin and get down on all
fours. The cat turns her head, smirks and says, “The nerve of you.
Don’t just scratch the chin, what about my belly? “ I
pick up the cat and rub her belly. She squirms out of my arms and hops
back up on the barbecue. I rub her back and say, “You’re never
satisfied are you?” And she just looks at me, real stoically, and says,
“I’m a cat.” And I look into her eyes, and I see my own reflection. |
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Author's Biography I make a living as a freelance writer in San Diego. Published articles have appeared in health, computer, education, and commercial and residential real estate publications. Featured short stories have appeared in Mega Era Magazine, Millenniumshift, Orgease Journal, PacificNWPotpourri, Alternate Species, Story South, Science Fiction and Fantasy World, Word Riot, and Universal Personality. Visit my website to see more writing samples at http://www.gotdot.com
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