• Frederick didn't like cats. This
    wouldn't have been a problem if cats also didn't like Frederick, but
    they did and so when he would find one they would immediately rub up
    against his leg as if he was the only person on the planet to ever
    pay attention to them. It didn't matter if he tried to ignore them,
    they would rub anyway and cover his dark clothing with a layer of cat
    hair that seemed to never go away.

    It was taken all into stride until the
    day in January when the temperature got really cold and Frederick
    slipped upon the ice. He felt himself going and was able to gently
    lay his packages down before hitting the ice coated concrete. Despite
    his best efforts he still went down hard, but initially felt that he
    was unscathed. It was a cat that let him know otherwise.

    “That was pretty funny.” He said.
    He was a large cat and his fir was a gray tiger stripe. Frederick was
    surprised that he was able to tell—no smell– that this was a male
    cat with his testicles removed. “I didn't know humans can fall.”

    “What?” Asked Frederick, still
    confused.

    “Humans seem to be so sure-footed.
    Their balance is awesome.” The cat flicked it's tail. “Like some
    kind of gymnast.”

    Frederick thought about it for a
    moment—it challenged him because he had always thought humans were
    clumsy. “But you guys make these incredible jumps onto narrow
    surfaces. They're incredible.”

    “I once was taken into a metal box
    which then appeared to accelerate. I would then put my nose next to
    the edge and there was scent of many places at once, so rapid that it
    seemed as if I was traveling through time itself. And I was because
    when I left the box I was in a place much greater the before.”

    “Greater?” Frederick asked. “You
    mean it seemed like you passed over a great distance.”

    “And water.” The cat flicked it's
    tail again. “But I remembered that I was supposed to be there, but
    had always wondered how I would spend the time getting there. I know
    how I get home but don't understand how I started so far away.”

    “What's your name?” Asked Frederick
    who felt that he needed a different kind of reference.

    “I could tell you Tom Tiger,” The
    cat replied, “But it really wouldn't make any difference. For just
    like my appearance here the labels attached are only a passing
    description. Whatever name I give you will only help you identify me
    in easy conversation. It's only your understanding that can apply
    meaning.”

    So Frederick scratched behind the cat's
    ears and thought ahead as to what he would do when he met another
    cat. He would think of each situation in which he would meet a new
    cat and hear it's story—but knowing that if he conditioned himself
    he would understand that each unique moment would, in itself,
    represent a cliche. And in taking that simple social affront would be
    actually converted into knowledge and he would totally understand why
    some cats would, for example, defecate on the bed of their affiliated
    humans because of a rapid change in the price of fossil fuels.

    After a few months it got worse—cats
    began to tell him such mundane aspects of the future like weather
    reports or the occasional newspaper horoscope. Soon the cats would
    tell him everything. It began to be too much when his girlfriend's
    cats detailed her bathroom behavior when he wasn't around in exchange
    for cleaning a litter-box.

    His girlfriend had two cats but he only
    would speak to Jake the dominant one. Early in Frederic’s
    enlightenment Jake explained how he had once hitchhiked across the
    country once in an effort to find some place in which no one else had
    ever seen before.

    It wasn't Jake that made a difference,
    though. Frederick learned that he could understand the story of every
    cat he met. He could patiently listen to an orange tabby explain how
    they fought in the war in the desert and then have a tuxedo cat
    explain how he used to tour with the Dead.

    And so Frederick was able to take a
    step back from the onslaught of truth spewed by random cats. He was
    able to filter and with the flowing clarity he saw their message
    reaching a crescendo that sounded important but was just more babble
    in the soundtrack of life.  

  • Across the street from my home is a
    house made of red brick. Behind that is a large oak tree which
    spreads it's great limbs across several yards, including the home
    just behind the red brick home. In that house lived a cat.

    He came to me one fall afternoon during
    the weekend before it really got cold and people started getting glum
    for the upcoming holidays. He was going from house to house, an
    orange tabby affair who looked like he had spent a little too much
    time with his nose in the wet food.

    He finally made it to my front door.
    “Please, sir,” he said in a fake English accent, “I'm selling
    these cookies to pay for my airfare when I join the foreign legion.”

    “You're not going to get into the
    foreign legion.” I scoffed. “No one would trust you. At the first
    available opportunity you're going to go to sleep. Terrorists at the
    embassy? Snooze time.”

    “You're quite mistaken, sir. Once
    they see how hard I worked to get there they'll let me in.” He
    looked up at me with those big cat eyes—the ones you see all over
    the place that come with pathetic little stories about how Mondays
    suck or how your check engine light is on. “Please, sir, buy my
    cookies?”

    I looked at what he had brought.
    Typical cat fare—a couple of bottle-caps, a slow moving brown bug
    of indeterminable origin and something that looked like a choice
    morsel of leftover mouse. “I don't think so.”

    “Please sir—I don't need much
    more.” He began to rub against my legs.

    “If I give you a quarter will you
    promise to never come here again?” I asked.

    “Yes, sir, I prrromise.” I dug into
    my pocket and pulled out a coin that was fully silver and had my
    birthdate. I handed it over to him.

    “Thank you, sir. You're very kind. I
    shan't be any more trouble.” In that same annoying fake English
    accent. He left his pouch of 'cookies' and dashed into the
    underbrush.

    I might have been seeing things but I
    think he was actually wearing a saber in a scabbard. I learned later
    that his name was Birdie from the missing cat sign that was posted on
    the light pole.