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

I ever tell you about my first time on a shrimp boat?”

Olive shook her head.

“Well,” Norma said, “shrimping wasn’t exactly a ‘female’ business. It was ‘man’s work.’ That’s what they told me, when I got my first job: that some of the crew might not take too kindly to it, working alongside a woman. Especially a woman of color. My sea legs were good, and I had a nice handle on when to drop the nets, when to bring them in. But I wasn’t confident when people started talking about me, saying this and that. At first, I was so afraid of what they’d think of me—that they’d call me weird, or worse.”

“Some people call me a weirdo,” Olive admitted.

“Those are just people who haven’t found out what they love,” Norma said.

The two of them, they were having what humans call “a moment.” While I was privileged to be a part of it, I almost felt as if I was intruding. Most cats might not acknowledge this—the human need for privacy—but I wasn’t most cats. I gave them a bit of space, my leash extending into the grasses surrounding the picnic table. But as my nose followed several scent trails, I kept looking back at them: these people. This little family.

Olive made a funny noise with her throat, not quite clearing it. “Remember when I asked you about taking a trip? And you said we could go somewhere for a day?”

“Sure thing. Did you pick a place? How about Hilton Head?”

My chest clenched as Olive blurted it out, words blending into one. “How-about-Yellowstone?”

Norma quirked her head. “Yellowstone?”

“Yellowstone National Park.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“Well,” Olive said, “can we maybe . . . go at the end of the month?”

“Are you yanking my chain?” Norma asked, snorting out the words.

Olive winced. “I have some money saved up—in my piggy bank, under my bed at home. I could pay you back at Christmas. And I could do chores for you. Clean your motorcycle, or give Stanley a bath, or . . . or anything. Anything you wanted me to do. Every summer, and over the holidays, and—”

Norma flattened her palm to the air. “Hang on a second. Where’s this coming from?”

“I . . . just want to go to Yellowstone to see the . . . you know, the bison.”

“The bison? I’m not traveling halfway across the country for some bison.”

“But they’re . . . endangered?”

“What’s this really about?” Norma said, losing her patience a little.

“I just want to go,” Olive said. “That’s all.”

“Well. . .” Norma fidgeted, like her feelings were a bit hurt. Didn’t it seem as if Olive was rejecting their summer plans? “It’s out of the question. I have loads of work to do, the sea turtles are hatching soon, and we’ve got a good thing going on at the aquarium. You’re having a nice summer, like I promised your mom. We’re sticking to the schedule. Besides, even if we could go, where would we stay? I’m not even sure if my truck could make it that far. And my motorcycle’s out of the question, not for such a long trip.”

“I just think—”

“You’re not thinking,” Norma said, cutting her off. “Because you’re eleven, and you don’t understand.”

It was like the air froze and my fur was suddenly cold. But what could I do? Jump in and say something? Tell Norma that Olive was acting kindly on my behalf—that she understood more at eleven than I did at three hundred? No. No, that would expose me. But still, it was incredibly difficult to stomach the expression on Olive’s face, her dimples un-dimpling.

She pushed away the rest of her bowl. “I’m not really hungry anymore.”

“Then let’s pack it in,” Norma said.

So we went. And I wondered with an increasing sense of terror if—after this, after everything I was costing Olive—I’d get stuck on Earth after all.

The next day was uncomfortable, to say the least. Everything was quiet. Quiet breakfast, quiet ride in Norma’s truck. On the way to the aquarium, Olive was whispering to me, pointing out sights in Turtle Beach: a stand for saltwater taffy, the little bookstore and its window displays, the miniature golf course dotted with windmills.

Norma just drove.

In the parking lot, she retied the bandanna around her neck, straightening herself out. “Keep your wits about you,” she said as a reminder. “Today’s penguin day, so it might get a little wild.”

This was very much the case. Four groups of sunburned tourists were waltzing through the shark tunnel, and the gift shop was overflowing with customers. They clutched their sea lion mugs, their faux otter backpacks. Glistening bouncy balls thwacked against the cool tile floor. Norma, Olive, and I skirted through the crowd, deflecting comments from passersby: “Mommy, Mommy, a cat!” “Hey, look, it’s a kitty.” “What in the—?”

You’d think they’d never seen a feline before! We were right by the jellyfish tank, too; I wasn’t nearly the oddest creature in this place.

Finally, we saw Q, who shouted over the crowd, “How are you with penguins?” He was dressed in a wet suit, which is what humans call a constricting rubber tube with cylinders for arms and legs. I did not want one. It was the first time that I was relieved—well and truly relieved—to not wear an item of clothing.

He gestured to a door behind us. “There are some rubber boots in the back. I’m afraid I couldn’t find any in Leonard’s size, but yours should do. Suit up, partner! I’ll meet you back here in five. Leonard can watch us from the window with Norma, if he wants.”

“Watch us do what?” Olive asked, excitement creeping into her voice.

Q winked. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Penguins are not a species with which cats usually interact. Though there was an undeniable coolness to them—the way they ducked and dived and waddled. At the aquarium, they lived in a colony of twelve and spent a great deal of time swimming, lounging on the rocky