I used to talk to my cat.
As a boy.
Telling it all my troubles.
I identified with the cat, I suppose because it was different from people.
People were always the problem.
The cat like me, I felt, Stood out.
Stood apart.
Usually found on his perch half way up the stairs.
Optimum heat, as it rises.
Optimum vantage point for spotting danger.
Optimum inconvenience for it's humans, ascending and descending.
If the fire was out.
If the range wasn't on.
If it wasn't sunny out.
If the food bowl was empty.
Usually found on his perch half way up the stairs.
I would go up or go down to find him there.
And I would pour out my heart.
Pour it on thick.
"We are not like them"
"We are not like them"
"We are not like them"
But never being satisfied until I had pushed it too far.
And then the fateful. "You understand me"
"You love me unconditionally"
Projecting onto this animal, perhaps precisely because he couldn't speak to debunk the myth.
His voice an insufficient instrument or weapon, he would let his body talk.
It was usually at this point, he would wriggle and squirm his way out of my arms,
And then he would walk.
If only my parents had been Dog people.
Reflecting now, I feel. I was never really easy with those words.
It made me nervous to say them.
I feared deep down he didn't like me.
I think that came over.
I think he sensed it.
It spooked him.
I think perhaps he was more like them than I would have ever dared to think.
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