Leonard (My Life as a Cat), Carlie Sorosiak [7 ebook reader .txt] 📗

a new seminar called “The Power of You: Harnessing the Good Stuff,” so we’ve been pretty busy.

I hope that you and Norma are finding lots of exciting things to do, too. I really want you to have a fun summer, Olive. Your dad loved Turtle Beach when he was a kid, and I’m sure that you will as well. Have you gone with Norma to the aquarium yet? Are you taking lots of pictures?

Speak soon. Calling you is always the best part of my day.

Remember that I love you so much,

Mom

I refolded the letter and tried not to sulk there in the moonlight, debris by my paws. I would never have this—not even for a second. This humanness. This love.

Here is what I adore about I Love Lucy. No matter how much trouble Lucy gets into, Ethel is always there; Ricky is always there; Fred is always there. So no one ever feels like I did that night: odd, broken, and alone.

I missed my planet. I didn’t think I would, but there was a sensation swarming inside me, a deep yearning for the comforts of home: views of crystal mountains, dips in helium rivers, the peace of everything. I was used to being expansive and limitless; now I was confined to this tiny body, unable to move beyond Earth. More importantly, I couldn’t sense the hive all around me. At home, loneliness does not exist. And I never realized how comforting that community was, until I felt the terrible loss of it. Even the shrill songs of the Lalarians would’ve been welcome.

Earth was lonely—and tiring.

My eyelids were starting to twitch from exhaustion; my head began to fog. Taking the hint, I crawled to the floor, lay down, and told myself that I would only close my eyes for a second. Only a second, nothing more.

I dreamed. I didn’t know it was possible for cats to dream, but there I was. A Yellowstone park ranger. Magnificent fingers. Ranger badge. Strolling through the wildflowers beneath a summer sky. When I woke up, my paws were flitting on the cold tile, and the radio was whispering in the background. Thankfully, it said, South Carolina has missed the worst of the storm.

South Carolina. So I was in South Carolina. I kept my eyes tightly shut, thinking. Reaching my pickup point was essential: the hive couldn’t find me on Earth otherwise. But how could I travel from here to Yellowstone without money or hands or the ability to drive a car? Maybe I could—

Sniff!

Something sniffed. And then I began to notice a hot, moist smell, inches from my nose. Flinging my eyes open, I lurched sideways into the air—a natural reaction, I assure you, because splayed out on the tile was a beast, camouflaged as a gigantic lump of fur.

No, not a beast? A dog. I could tell by the wetness of his black snout, and the way the tip of his tongue poked between his teeth. On Earth, dogs—not cats—are called “man’s best friend.” In those moments, I couldn’t possibly see why. He was easily twenty times my size and had so much fur—white, fluffy—that I feared I’d get lost inside it if I ventured too close.

But closer I slunk, stepping toward him, my ears pinned back.

He’d yet to open his eyes.

When he did, he lifted one eyelid, then the other. Slowly. Purposefully. You are here, he told me with his pupils, which were watery and deep, like miniature universes. My heart stuttered, my spine beginning to arch—but I picked up his language instantly. The cadence of his breath. The mellow wag of his tail. How his eyes softened as he looked at me. Dogs, I’ve learned, are like my species: they say so much without saying anything at all.

Trying to swallow my fear, I took a final step and sniffed him in return. He had a very strong smell.

You are here, he repeated, moving nothing but his pupils. There you are.

As a human, I would’ve known exactly how to respond. I’d imagined the motion of saying hello to dogs—a quick scratch of the neck, a calm pat of the head. But somehow, patting his head as a cat seemed wrong. He was clearly waiting for a response, though, and I couldn’t give myself away as an impostor, as the alien that I was.

So I let out a kind meow, almost a mrrrrr—something of my own creation. He appeared pleased with this, because suddenly he lumbered up, dragging his tongue over the crest of my face. Correct me if I’m wrong, but none of you’ve had firsthand experience with this particular dog’s tongue. What you must understand is: he has a very significant tongue, full of saliva. My fur spiked. My nose scrunched, causing me to sneeze repeatedly.

At least I wouldn’t need a bath on Earth.

He inched back, admiring his work, sunlight dancing around his paws. Then he told me, in a series of friendly snorts, that he would keep my secret. I followed his eyes up to the table, where a dozen envelopes lay in plumes of confetti. So he’d seen me destroy the letters. And perhaps he knew—that I was not of this Earth.

We’ll blame the letters on the birds, he said, woofing once. He motioned with this nose to the bright windows. The birds.

I hadn’t the faintest clue what he was talking about. But he had such confidence in this idea that I went with it.

I decided to test the waters even further, offering a friendly joke.

Knock-knock, I said, imitating his harmonic woof, scrounging in my belly for the sound. A “woof” wasn’t out of reach for me like human language was, but what I produced wasn’t exactly right. I attempted it again, experimenting with a bit more vibration, then throwing in a few tail wags for good measure.

His ears perked. The door? Is someone at the door?

No, I said, more pleased with my dog noise this time. It was a joke.

I did not hear the