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

were flipping through channels, I meowed sharply, asking Olive to pause on a movie about the destruction of a city. There were tentacles in the background.

“Are you sure you want to watch this?” she asked, her eyebrows frowning in that human way. And I was. Incidentally, the film was part of a marathon: alien movie after alien movie. Explosion after explosion. Little green creatures tearing apart the world. So this is what they really think of us, I mused, eyes glued to the television. Eventually, Olive flicked off the screen, saying that we should relax on the porch swing instead.

“That’s not how I see you,” she said, rocking us back and forth. “I hope you know that. People are just afraid of what they don’t understand.” Her fingers fell across my fur, and I leaned into her palm, into her familiar scent: cinnamon toast and raspberry shampoo.

We spent most evenings this way, just the two of us. Some mornings, there were human lessons and the occasional errand. I visited my first “Walmart,” a palace of human objects, where Norma bought peanut butter in bulk and Olive selected a new litter box: a fancy one, with an electric scooper. Only slightly less impressive were the gigantic plastic balls by the register; I’d seen planets smaller than those balls. What was their purpose? Why did humans enjoy them?

The longer I spent on Earth, the more questions I had. For example, why was stubbing a toe so painful for humans? (It’s a superficial appendage. There are nine others!) Was it truly necessary to floss? (If so, why didn’t cats do it?) And why did everyone claim there was a man on the moon? (Didn’t he get lonely, out there by himself? Might I suggest a cat for company?)

In between shifts at the aquarium, Olive let me practice my knock-knock jokes.

Knock-knock, I typed.

“Who’s there?” she asked.

Leonard.

“Leonard, who?”

Just Leonard. It is me.

Olive laughed, then taught me Monopoly. In two weeks, I learned much about recreational board games: Battleship, chess, Hungry Hungry Hippos. I’m ashamed to say that I became mildly obsessed with those hippos, violently stamping the lever with my paws, little white marbles flying everywhere—and I chased them, underneath the sofa, across the living room.

We read poetry books, too: Walt Whitman and Emily Dickinson, Robert Frost and Langston Hughes; we studied them by the shore, early in the morning, until I learned the simplicity of the haiku, the openness of free verse. Finally, I wrote a poem of my own.

“Can I see it?” Olive asked—and I shyly stepped aside from the computer keyboard, letting her read the stanzas aloud.

I have hidden

your crayons

in the litter box;

maybe you were

keeping them

for later.

I’m sorry;

they were so colorful

and so bold.

“You’re a quick learner,” Olive said, stifling a giggle. “Is this modeled after that William Carlos Williams poem? Or did you really hide the crayons in the litter box? Because I don’t want to fish those out.” I assured her that the crayons were safe in her desk—and then promptly dug them out of the litter, where I had in fact tucked them away.

Let’s see. What else?

Q taught me how to high-five and called me several times over the loudspeaker at the aquarium: “Leonard to the front office! Leonard, office, please.” Olive discovered the joy of snorkeling, slipping below the surface of the water in a stream of bubbles. And I became something of a mascot for the aquarium: people began to greet me by name. You may be familiar with a certain breed of human—the “cat lady”—but quite a few of them started showing up at the aquarium, posing with me, asking Olive to take our picture. Because I was easily able to speak the language of most creatures on Earth, I helped with aquatic care as well, telling Olive: This one is sick; this one needs more food; this one is happy.

Norma kept asking, “Sailor, are you psychic or something?”

And Olive would shrug, smiling.

“I’m going to help Q give an aquarium tour soon,” Olive said one evening, right after dinner. “I actually get to talk about animals. That’s what I’m supposed to do . . . I’m just not going to tell Frank about it.” She closed the bedroom door. “I know it’s selfish, but sometimes I really wish you were coming to Maine with me. Or California. Or just . . . anywhere. With people, there are all these rules, and they’re not written down anywhere. With animals, it’s easier. I mean, I guess you’re not technically an animal, but you’re still very friendly.”

You are friendly, too, I typed.

“Thanks,” she said. “But friendly doesn’t always count in middle school. It’s like being dropped on an alien planet.”

Obviously, I knew what that was like—how it felt to wear ill-fitting fur, to look at humans from the outside, searching for a way in. Some nights, I’d watch Olive for hours: she would practice human phrases in the mirror, plucking at the ends of her hair.

“I’m Olive,” she’d say. “Do you go to school here? Uh, of course you do. Let me start again.” Then she’d start again. “It’s Olive. Hi. Just Olive. I’m new.”

The thought resurged in those moments, crowding out everything else: Would it be the worst thing, to stay on Earth? Yes, I was desperate to see the sunrise on my home planet; yes, I missed the all-encompassing safety of the hive. But would it be the worst thing, to be there for Olive when she came home from school? To actually use my electric litter box through its lifetime warrantee? To see Maine, to keep in touch with Stanley, to—

“What are you thinking about?” she asked, turning to me.

And I told her, Say, Hello, I am Olive. Humans like hello.

The next week was difficult for all of us. Norma was running around, trying to firm up details for the Save the Sea Turtles event, when two hundred guests would flock to the aquarium. Turtle Beach was already flooded