I'm not sure what to call this. It's written like a story, but reads like a poem. In any event, it's a "Reflection" about something that occurred shortly after moving into my present residence.
My house has a cat.
I do not have a cat. Most certainly, I do not have a cat!
But my house has one . . . or it has the house. Whatever this strange and dark relationship, it has nothing to do with me, nor I with it. And yet, I am now involved.
As I stepped out of my shower the other day, I glanced out the bathroom window, which usually reveals nothing but an overweathered balcony and the bottoms of discarded carpet pieces left by the as-yet-unfinished renovators. Yesterday, however, there was a new sight. A new eyesore, to be quite frank. The house’s cat was holding court.
All by itself, happy as a . . . cat, I suppose . . . lounging atop the comfy (for a cat) carpet mountain on the balcony of the house in which I am legally squatting, the felinous beast laid and blinked, until it noticed something.
A movement. Inside the house.
Me.
His face snapped to align perfectly with mine, and neither of us moved. For rather a long time. It was like a silent conversation of the eyes.
The cat’s said: “What are you doing inside my house?”
Mine said: “What are you doing outside mine?”
The cat’s replied: “This is my house whenever I wish, and it always has been.”
Mine answered: “Tell that to the owners, who gave me a key.”
“Well, I’m certainly not leaving.”
“Well, neither am I.”
“I suppose we’ll just have to get used to each other then, won’t we?”
“I suppose we will.”
And that’s how it went.
I don’t know if I’ll see the cat again. I certainly won’t look for it. I won’t wonder about it, worry about it, leave water or milk or kibble for it, and I will burn in everlasting fire before I name it.
I’m sure he or she feels the same about me. And I’m fine with that. My house, my rules. Keep your raggedy old carpeting. Just wait and see if it bothers me.
Stupid cat.
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