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

Claws, fangs—these terrible things I had. These I would use.

I pawed at the kibble, stalling for time. Then I just hoped for the best, opening my mouth as far as it would go, lowering my head to the dish, and filling my entire mouth with crunchies. This was my first mistake. Mouths should not be entirely filled.

I couldn’t chew. I could barely breathe. Gagging, I spat out some of the kibble, sprinkling the rug with dull plops.

Olive patted me on the back. “You okay, Leonard?”

“Leonard?” Norma asked.

“Doesn’t he look like a Leonard?”

Norma cocked her head as she watched me. My cheeks were still packed full of kibble.

“I don’t see it.”

Eventually I clamped down with my teeth, willing my jaw to work. I learned how to maneuver my throat, how to produce the exact right amount of saliva without spilling it abundantly from my mouth. And all the while, Olive was there.

Perhaps I’m wrong, but I got the impression that she was cheering me on.

There is a debate in our galaxy over whether or not we have souls. I believe we do. I believe we always have. Perhaps we’ve just allowed ourselves to forget.

A famous human once wrote that “the soul travels,” that the universe is just a “road for traveling souls.” I couldn’t have explained it any better myself, except maybe to add this: Other travelers make the journey worthwhile. People like Olive, who petted my neck in a careful way. Who asked if I preferred wet food or dry, and would I like some extra cushions for my bed upstairs.

So, while I was in an incredibly difficult position, homesick and trapped and struggling with my kibble, a part of me did acknowledge that I was lucky to have landed here. Olive didn’t even yell at me when she noticed the shredded envelopes. She just sifted through the wreckage and declared, “We definitely need to get you a scratching post.”

Stanley added, very helpfully, It was the birds.

I was still in the kitchen when Norma spoke on the telephone, then abruptly ended the call. “Something’s happened at the aquarium,” she rasped to Olive, rolling up her plaid shirtsleeves. “Chop-chop, sailor. You’re coming with me. I’ve got to get the computers fired up, find some records for the Save the Sea Turtles event . . .”

My mind caught on “computer.” I knew that word. Computers are all-powerful sources of information, relied upon by humans for a variety of messages and data. You can hardly exist on Earth without one. Maybe it would provide some guidance on how to get to Yellowstone, when all I had were paws.

“My truck’s in the shop,” Norma said to Olive. “Let’s see if the bus is running after the storm. Go ahead and grab your backpack, too. It could be a while. Take something to keep you busy.”

This was when I had an idea. Or maybe it was Stanley who tipped me off, his tail thwacking the edge of Olive’s backpack. The bag was quite large for her size; it had wide pockets and was shaped like a turtle’s shell. The middle was half unzipped—open and waiting.

Now, I must say that I am not a small cat by any means. While my forelegs are slim, my stomach neatly tucked, there’s a good stretch to me. I could drape over someone’s shoulders and dangle like a scarf. So, stuffing myself into that backpack was a challenge. Stanley watched—without helping, I might add—as I waddled and wiggled, contorting my way into the darkness of the bag. Inside, everything was muffled and hot and cramped.

Stanley sniffed around me. You smell worried.

I am, I admitted, giving him a doglike whimper.

You should howl. You will feel better if you a-woo.

My whiskers softened. Do cats howl?

I will teach you, he said.

Seconds later, footsteps.

I felt the backpack lifting, heard Norma saying, “What’ve you got in here, anchors?”

And Olive replied, as they headed out the door, “Just some books about animals.”

The trick was to stay incredibly still, storing all the air in my chest. How long could cats hold their breath? I swayed in that bag, my paws tightly tucked, my body folding in ways I didn’t expect. Tail over head. Legs on back. Each of Norma’s footsteps jolted through my core. But I think it would’ve been all right, if not for the bus.

You see, public buses have a very specific scent, a highly penetrating odor that seeps into your pores; you can’t wash it off, even with extra-bubbly soap. As a stowaway, I was extremely nervous to begin with, but my anxiety spiked when—through a hole in the fabric—I saw that the bus was full of all kinds of humans. People with mustaches. People with blue hair. People licking frozen sticks, and sharing music in small pods, and bobbing their heads as they spoke with each other. Frustration and excitement battled in my belly; it was the most I’d ever interacted with humanity—and I was stuck in a backpack.

A hot backpack. A backpack growing hotter. I could hardly stand it.

Olive said, “Do you have any stingrays at the aquarium?”

Norma said, “We’ve got three.”

And I said, Mrrrrrrrr-meow-rrraaar, clawing my way out of the bag, springing into the stale air. I floated there for a startling second—and wondered, very briefly, if cats could fly. But no. The floor was tacky where I landed, coated with bits and pieces of discarded gum. Summer sun pelted my spine as I crouched low, humans glaring down at me. Some even screamed. Of course they did, with such a wild entrance.

I do wonder if I was conforming to some ridiculous stereotype of aliens: that we burst from fog or rise viciously from the sea. That we descend from clouds on otherwise perfect days, wreaking havoc on the landscape. Alien films, I’ve learned, depend heavily on this arrival—a moment of extraordinary surprise, when a creature from another universe appears with both shock and horror.

This was not how I’d imagined my first contact