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

in my mind—and continued to mix, as we played cards. As we listened to music. At the edge of Wyoming, clusters of trees trailed into forests. And I tried to hang on to each of these moments, these last moments, while I could.

Which brings us here.

That’s it now. I’ve told you everything. Perhaps I’ve left out some details, bits and pieces here and there; if so, please forgive me. I only have nine more hours on this planet.

“Very good,” Olive tells me, as I lick the crunchies bowl clean, my tongue scraping the smooth bottom. And I look up at her, always at her—the center of our story. I will miss the way Olive clacks her tongue when she’s thinking. And Norma’s terrible cooking, which I never quite learned how to chew. How is it possible that I will remember how Q whistles when he cleans the aquarium tanks, but I won’t remember how it made me feel?

Outside are ghostly shapes, moonlit mountains. Earthly things. In my gut, I know—despite my adoration for this family, for these people—that I don’t belong here. I’m an immortal being in a mortal body. I am not cut out for this.

A sign flashes by: YELLOWSTONE NATIONAL PARK, 1 MILE. My heart somersaults. We’ve almost made it after all.

Olive reaches down to smooth the top of my head, where the fur is spotted with black, white, and brown. For a second, she playfully lifts my paw up and down—hoping to distract me, maybe. Then she just holds it. Holds my hand.

I do not take it for granted, as humans so often do.

I close my eyes, letting myself feel.

She’s taught me so many things on this planet: the names of marsh plants, like duckweed and cinnamon fern, black gum and arrowwood. She’s taught me that there is something lovely about curling up on the porch, in a warm patch of sun, the marsh grass gently fluttering. All it takes, she’s taught me, is one good friend.

In the front of the Winnebago, Q is cruising through the park’s southern gate, fingers tapping the wheel.

Norma is cleaning mud off her boots, Stanley at her feet.

And soon, Olive is asking me a question. “I don’t really get how it works,” she whispers. “I mean, how do you like—whoosh? Get back into space? Travel up there?”

Away from Norma’s view, Olive reopens the laptop, screen glowing in the dim light. The RV is swerving slightly; it’s difficult to type, but I manage the words: I must go into the geyser.

“I’m sorry,” Olive says. “What?”

You must help fling me into the geyser, I clarify. It is a hot spring named Old Faithful, which boils and erupts in a tall shoot of water. This will catapult me into the air. My species will collect me from there, counteracting the Earth’s gravitational pull. Olive is still staring at me, eyes wild, so I add: I thought I had mentioned this.

“Oh my god,” she says. “No, you didn’t. How are we going to—?”

That’s when the tire bursts, fifteen miles from Upper Geyser Basin. It’s an oddly melodic noise: the dugga-dugga-dugga of metal on tarmac, sparks flying in fiery arcs, scattering across the road. The motor home veers violently to the left.

“Everything’s fine!” Q says, trying to control the situation. His hands tightly grip the steering wheel. “Just a flat! We’ll pull over and have it fixed in no time.”

He sounds genuinely hopeful, and this eases my fear. Fifteen miles to Old Faithful is easy; we could walk there if we need to. What else could go wrong?

The Winnebago slows, edging to the side of the road, which is muddy from last night’s rain.

“Why don’t you take Leonard for a short walk, let him stretch his legs?” Q asks Olive, as Norma grabs a tire iron from the back. “I promise, this really isn’t a biggie. I know it’s after midnight and we’re all exhausted, but I’ve changed many a tire in my life.”

I can help, I try to tell him, pawing at my raincoat. Inside Yellowstone, I should be able to perform some of my duties as a ranger—assisting this family in distress; yet I’d like to help without damaging my raincoat, if possible. It’s been pristine for my whole time on Earth, no mud or rips or tears.

“Are you too warm?” Olive says, noticing my pawing. She peels the raincoat off my back and holds it in her arms, leaving me with just a harness and a collar. Stanley’s on a leash as well, sniffing the grass beside Norma, his wet nose twitching against a tapestry of scent.

When his gaze tilts up again, he tells me, The birds.

Yes, I know, I reply, because he’s been saying this for ages. Since I first met him.

The birds! he repeats, emphasizing his words with a yelp.

I don’t truly understand the depth of Stanley’s obsession with birds. Sometimes his paws twitch in sleep, and I wonder if he’s chasing them. He’s a reserved sort of dog, with a calm character. But whenever he glimpses a bird, everything about him perks up: his tail, the fur on his spine, the soft fold of his ears.

Which is exactly what is happening now.

“What is it, boy?” Norma says, handing Q the tire iron.

Stanley tugs at his leash, following a scent into the nearest bush. All I can see is the fluff of his back legs, the swish of his tail. His muffled bark rings through the branches. No, not there, he finally says, extracting himself from the bush. There! Bird!

Based on his reaction, I expect to hear the thunderous flapping of wings. My ears swivel, whiskers flattening. I hear nothing. But something in me still ticks awake: some evolutionary response, buried within my earthly body.

I crane my neck to the sky.

Above me—etched in moonlight—is an enormous owl.

Olive had told me about the owls of Wyoming, which feed on small animals and perhaps the occasional house pet. I’m instantly mesmerized by the sharpness of its beak, the length of its claws,