Leonard (My Life as a Cat) by Carlie Sorosiak (best memoirs of all time .txt) 📗

had no earthly home? What if they thought I might be “better off” in a shelter, trapped in a wire cage, with no method of escape? But Olive—Olive had human hands and a mouth that could speak words like may we borrow this car to drive cross-country? Or one airplane ticket, please, to travel with my cat.

Rolling on the bed, I let the idea wash over me.

Was telling Olive my only chance of returning home?

That Tuesday, Norma’s truck still wasn’t working, so Q picked us up on his way to the aquarium, rolling down the windows as he approached. “Leonard, my man!”

I stared at him, sticking my head between the porch rails, and thought, Is there a good way to tell a human: I am not like you? Would revealing my secret put the hive at risk, if I only told one trustworthy person?

“Got you something,” Q said, climbing the stairs with a bundle in his hands. “Now, it isn’t much, and I’m not expecting a thank-you card, but . . .”

On the porch, he bent to my level and showed me what he’d brought: a collar. My own collar. And a harness and a leash.

“I get it,” he said. “You’re not a dog, so you’re probably thinking, ‘What the heck is this for?’ But if you’re going to hang around with us, we’ve got to take some precautions. This way, you can be out and about.”

The collar was sleek and black, with a silver tag that said LEONARD. He slipped the loop over my head, and there it rested—snug but comfortably—on my neck.

“You hate it?” Q asked.

Quite the opposite. It hadn’t occurred to me that cats could wear collars, that I’d be allowed this bit of clothing. It wasn’t a ranger’s uniform. It wasn’t a Hawaiian shirt. But it was shiny, reflective, and could help keep me safe.

Just like that, I was purring.

At first it alarmed me, the way my body was vibrating. I briefly wondered if this was the beginning of another panic attack, if a second trip to the vet was in store. But the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Actually, it was great—like I was untouchable and warm and pleased from the inside out.

“Good cat,” Q said, chuckling. “Very good.”

A minute later, Norma appeared on the porch, examining me. “Shouldn’t we have him stay here, let him get some rest?”

I countered that with a series of wails, practically flinging myself downstairs.

“Leonard has spoken,” Q said, loading me into the car as the sky turned purple. It was one of those dusky summer afternoons, when the temperature hovered high, and it almost rained—but then the clouds pulled back, and there it was: a brilliantly clear evening.

“Once a week, we come in at night to clean up,” Q explained. “It’s so packed now during the day. Can’t even elbow your way through the crowd, much less clean.”

Chilled air whooshed past us as Norma, Olive, Q, and I slipped into the aquarium. Humans, especially those who live by the beach, turn up the air-conditioning until their skin prickles, throwing on sweatshirts to regulate their body temperatures. Since it was past closing time, with the halls empty except for staff, Norma grabbed Olive a sweatshirt from the gift shop, slapping a stack of money by the register. Olive said thank you, pulling the hoodie over her overalls.

“Well,” Q said, clapping his hands. “Time to get to it.”

We passed signs for creatures of the deep, with names much more alien than mine: BIGNOSE UNICORNFISH, BIG-BELLIED SEAHORSE, AFRICAN PANCAKE TORTOISE, CLOWNFISH, FOXFACE RABBITFISH, GIANT PACIFIC OCTOPUS. Norma pointed out a few exhibits to Olive, who nodded in concentration. Listening to them speak, I made connections: that Olive’s dad was Norma’s son; that Q had worked here the longest; that—after the shrimping industry dried up in South Carolina—Norma switched from captain of a boat to captain of the aquarium. She provided daily care, rehabilitation, and record keeping for all the marine animals.

Mostly I just watched, relaxing a little. I watched them clean the exhibits. I watched them scrape the scum from rocks and skim the water with nets. They threw slivers of sardines into the sparkling tanks and traced their fingers along the glass, smiling as the sea lions followed. They switched on music called “The Beach Boys” and mopped the floors to a swishing beat. A small part of me despised the dampness under my paws, but other than that, everything felt . . . close to calm.

“I am the poet of the Body,” a famous human once said. “I am the poet of the Soul.” And I wondered if that’s what I was seeing in them, in these people. Body and soul.

“Okay,” Q said after a while. “This calls for ice cream. I don’t know what ‘this’ is, but ice cream is almost always called for.”

Norma said, “You two go on. I’ve got a date with a scrubber brush.”

In the cafeteria, I seated myself on one of the chairs, my paws perched safely on the table—I’m not sure why this was funny, but apparently it was—and Q grabbed two small cups of vanilla ice cream.

“So,” he said, handing Olive a plastic spoon. “Your grandma says that you might be moving to California soon, starting a new school.”

Olive winced and dug into the ice cream. “Yeah. I don’t know. That’s Frank’s idea.”

“You don’t want to go? I understand that. But they’ve got some awesome animals in California: golden trout, coyotes, California crocodile . . .”

“I love crocodiles,” Olive said. “And alligators. Did you know that they can weigh over one thousand pounds? And you wouldn’t think it, but their muscles aren’t really that strong when they open their mouths. Like, if you wanted to, you could hold their jaws shut, with nothing but your hands. And their eggs are . . .” Olive paused, setting down her spoon. “Sorry.”

Q frowned. “Sorry for what?”

“I’m being weird, with all the animal facts. That’s what some people say.”

“Some people who?”

Olive shrugged.

“Let me