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

with tourists, eagerly preparing for the weeklong festival. In the mornings, we watched them stroll through town, poking their noses into shops. In the evenings, I could always find Olive by her computer, searching train timetables, looking for used cat carriers, mapping out our route. It scared me—how wobbly our plan was, how quickly time was passing. Actually, scared is an understatement. People do that on Earth: try to tell themselves that everything will be all right, even if the evidence is against them.

No, a closer word is panxious, which I’ve come up with just now: a mixture of panicked and anxious. You think I was petrified of noises before? That week, every little sound had me jumping. I accidentally scratched the hardwood in the kitchen after hearing a lawn mower; Norma’s motorcycle boots squeaked and I flew off the couch.

“It’s okay,” Olive reassured me, stroking my back.

But it wasn’t, not really.

Every once in a while, I’d catch snippets of conversations: Olive asking Norma to reconsider a trip to Yellowstone, Norma batting the suggestion away. Tension gripped the beach house, until it began to feel very small—and stuffy, like a backpack. Sometimes Olive would stay an extra hour at the aquarium, just mopping the same spots on the floor; and I wondered how her summer might’ve looked if I’d never shown up in that tree. Would she and Norma have flown kites in the cul-de-sac? Gone for bicycle rides? Picnicked by the shore?

Instead, Olive was giving human lessons to a cat. I’m sure you’ve been paying attention, but as a reminder, the list was as follows:

1. Go to a real movie theater

2. The creation and enjoyment of poetry

3. Bowling and recreational board games

4. Preparation and consumption of a cheese sandwich

5. Host a dinner party

Olive had been faithfully crossing off items, but occasionally she’d glance at the list, chewing heavily on her thumbnail. “Bowling. That’s stumping me. Do they even make those shiny little shoes for cats?”

I very much hoped so.

“We’re going to skip that for a moment and come back to it,” she finally said, closing the laptop, and I trusted her to keep her word, even as time slipped away.

And it was slipping, very fast. Between board games and the beach, poetry and long days at the aquarium, it felt like I’d blinked and three weeks had passed.

Finally, we decided to combine the last two items on the list. Olive and I would host a cheese-sandwich dinner party—a simple affair, arranged tastefully on the beach. Naturally, I wanted to look my best. As a human, the outfit choice was obvious: a slim-fitting suit with a bow tie that popped. Or something more casual: a linen vest with a pocket square. But as a cat, I could hardly ask for another outfit—I had my raincoat, my collar, and my stingray T-shirt, all of which were appropriate for most occasions. I also had my fur—and that, unfortunately, needed work.

You may not truly understand how it feels to be greasy, for patches of your belly to turn slick and matted. The urge did strike me quite frequently: to lick myself, to lick and lick and lick until everything was fluffy and clean. But I hated how animalistic this was. It is not a dignified posture, to stick your leg in the air and bury your face into the crease of your buttocks.

Even Olive began to notice. “You’re . . . um, missing some spots,” she said, the morning of our dinner party. “I wouldn’t say anything, but . . . you might be more comfortable if you cleaned them. I could also give you a bath? If you wanted?”

Well, that was completely out of the question. Sure, I might’ve enjoyed watching the water as it spritzed from the tap—miraculously flowing, drop by drop—but actually submerging myself in it? Never mind a rough towel or a too-hot blow-dryer with its sharp whirring noise. No. I would handle matters myself.

In the cool darkness underneath Olive’s bed, I spent two hours on my leg patches alone. I dug my nose into my belly, grooming my midsection with gusto. And yes, my fur did begin to fluff in a more presentable way. The top of my head was most difficult to reach, as my tongue didn’t extend quite that far. Eventually I learned to lick my paw first, then rub. (It didn’t take me too long to discover this; we are, after all, a brilliant species.) Then I paced back and forth on the ridge of the sofa, and carefully pressed my nose to the window glass, waiting for Olive to return from the store.

“I grabbed cheddar,” she said an hour later, setting the groceries on the countertop. “And Swiss. And Brie, Gouda, American, goat cheese, Muenster, and string cheese. I’m not sure what kind the string cheese is, but it’s . . . Well, it has string in the name, so you’ll like it. You think I got enough?”

Peering into the bags, I ogled the cheese with satisfaction. I couldn’t really smell it through the thick plastic wrapping—and it all looked roughly the same color to my eyes—but this was still an important moment. I’d heard so many things about the charm of cheese, about humans delighting in the taste. Good things were surely to come.

Olive unpacked two loaves of bread—one sourdough, one wheat—then helped me wash my paws with soap and water. I flinched, whiskers bobbing, but she told me this was crucial. I couldn’t contaminate the cheese with my litter paws.

Here is what I’ve learned about the art of sandwich making. It is about more than shoving slices of cheese onto bread. It’s about the sights and the sounds of the kitchen: the refrigerator humming, the curtains swishing with wind. It’s about who you make the sandwich with—and the thought of enjoying it together. By the end, we had twenty-five sandwiches, neatly stacked.

“You know it’s just going to be me, you, and Q,” Norma said, entering the kitchen.

“And Leonard,” Olive said.

She examined