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

old suitcase with paperback books. “It feels really weird, packing up all my stuff,” she said, then she winced. “How bad are they arguing?”

I did my best impression of a human shrug, lifting my shoulder blades up and down—which is actually quite difficult if you are a cat. And I peered around her room for almost the last time. Leaving the beach house was giving me a strange sort of melancholy feeling. This human home: I remembered so clearly, when I first arrived, dripping wet with floodwater—how blown away I was by every little thing. The toaster. Small toothbrushes in plastic holders. The flickering of the TV. Now I would miss even the turtle night-light, with its eerie green glow.

How much would I remember, really? Because memories are nothing, I realized, without a feeling attached. And that would be stripped away, as I traveled back. Logic, my species said. Logic above everything else. Feelings cloud the way.

“Do you want to pack anything?” Olive asked. “I’ll bring your new litter box, your bowls, enough food for the trip, and of course your raincoat. But I still have some room in my backpack.”

What else was there? I had no suitcase of my own, no socks to bring.

She opened the laptop, just in case.

So I typed, I am ready.

It occurred to me that I should leave something—something for Olive to remember me by. A keepsake. Nothing too big. What could fit snugly in the palm of her hand?

Norma and Q were still arguing in the kitchen, so I slunk past them with ease, stopping by the plant holders. With my nose, I sifted through the pebbles—through the black, gray, blue. Once, at the aquarium, Olive stopped by the penguin enclosure and told me a fact: that male Gentoo penguins would tirelessly search through piles and piles of stones, until they found the smoothest, most outstanding one. Then they’d present the rock to their intended companion: as an offering, as an expression of their soul. To me, you are as flawless as this stone.

Soon, I found it—the perfect blue pebble—and carried it back to Olive’s room in my mouth. I heard her outside, rolling her suitcase down the driveway, so I set it carefully on her pillow. Hopefully she’d understand, whenever she arrived back here—no matter how far in the future.

Hopefully she’d remember.

Q knocked softly then on the bedroom door. “Guess it’s time.”

So it was. I said goodbye—to Olive’s room, to the house, my green beach towel still hanging there on the porch railing, fluttering in the breeze.

“That is . . .” Olive said.

And Q said, “I know.”

In the driveway was the most magnificent human vehicle I’d ever seen: boxy like a bus but with an undeniable air of sophistication, a green stripe splashed across the side. We were gazing at the whole thing with reverence and awe.

“Nineteen sixty-nine Winnebago motor home,” Q said, tapping the white paneling. “RV of dreams. Bought her off Big Rick—you know, of Big Rick’s Crab Shack? Couldn’t stand to see a beauty like this just taking up space in a garage. Needs to be on the open highway, wind in her face.”

“It looks like a fire hazard,” Norma said, popping up behind us. She was carrying an army-green rucksack, Stanley swishing his tail by her side. She stopped in front of Olive. “Two things. First, I don’t know why this means so much to you, but Q’s convinced me this is a good idea. Getting to spend more time with you . . . well, it doesn’t sound half bad. Second, we’re going to owe your mom one heck of an explanation. I’ve just left a voice mail on her phone, saying we’re driving you to California instead of waiting for them to pick you up, but start thinking of good apology presents now.”

“So you are coming,” Q said.

And Norma mumbled, “Yeah, yeah,” as she flung open the Winnebago’s side door, disappearing noisily inside.

There was something about a road trip, something uniquely alive. I couldn’t quite put my paw on it—why I felt so free, deep down—but suddenly we were cruising along a flat track of highway, and everything was humming: the air-conditioning, the tires, Norma. Before we’d even left Turtle Beach, Q had put Johnny Cash on the radio, and now Norma was mumbling along.

“Careful!” Q said, a smile growing on his face. “Might just have to break out my ukulele.”

Norma guffawed. “You know, I’ve never hurled myself out of a moving vehicle, but heck, I’d give it a go. No ukuleles. No group sing-alongs. This isn’t that kind of road trip.”

“Oh, I beg to differ,” Q said, tapping the steering wheel. “How about we let Leonard decide? Leonard! Sing-alongs, yay or nay?” He tracked my reflection in the rearview mirror as I nodded, discreetly dipping my chin. Stanley also gave his seal of approval with a tender a-woo, his breath hot and smelling of salmon.

Olive stroked his head. On her lap was an atlas of the United States, and she was hunched over it, eyes tracing our route. “I’m not seeing much,” she said above the music. Norma had suggested that she find some roadside attractions, short stops to break up our journey, and the idea thrilled me—that I might encounter a greater slice of humanity; the best that Earth had to offer.

“The world’s largest rocking chair?” Olive said. “No, that’s too far out of the way. Hmm . . . there’s just a lot of Walmarts and—wait. There is a zoo. But Leonard and Stanley probably wouldn’t be allowed in. And it’s ten miles off the highway.”

“Ten miles is nothing,” Norma said, swiveling in the passenger’s seat. “What’s the rush, sailor? We can spare a couple of hours.”

To this, Olive said nothing. I understood why. From Turtle Beach to Yellowstone was 2,329 miles, give or take a few, which didn’t leave us with much wiggle room. If we traveled all day for three solid days, we’d make it just