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

word is a good thing. Perhaps it is a signal, a beacon thrown up to the sky, that you are looking for others as interesting as you.

Remember that you are a remarkable human. A kind human. I used to think that being mortal meant being afraid. Although I was never alone, I used to think that there was no one like me. But the universe is vast. And in it, I found you.

Thank you. Thank you for introducing me to your family, your life on Earth. I have promised you a goodbye, so please accept this as my farewell. I am going to protect you now, as you have always done for me. This is the only way. I must make the rest of this difficult journey alone. Please think of me sometimes, when you hold a crayon, when you eat a cheese sandwich, when you are staring at a night covered in stars.

With gratitude,

Leonard

Three hours before the hive arrives, I leave through the RV’s back window, wedging it open with my body. The hinges creak, and for a second, the tip of my tail hooks as I hesitate on the edge. Stay or jump. Stay or jump.

Jump.

My front paws hit the ground with an invigorating jolt. Sunlight is already mottling the ground, yellow patches here and there, and at first I follow the pebbly path that hugs the loop road. I’ve checked the map, my claws tracing the zigzagged route: I’m seven miles from Old Faithful. For my body, as a cat, it will feel like a hundred. But it’s better this way. Really, it is. Olive is safer without me.

Whenever fear climbs into my belly, I swallow it down. If I travel as fast as I possibly can, I’ll reach the geyser just in time—and it will take all the strength I have.

The morning is moist, the forest quiet except for the suck of my paws against the sodden ground. Every step, I think of Olive. Is she awake yet? Is Q knocking on her hospital room door? Above me, songbirds begin to dart between juniper trees. I take a sharp right, curving deeper into the forest, reminding myself that I’m not a wild cat, not a puma or a lion. But there is something about the park, about mossy smells and the thickness of pines. I understand what brought me here, what attracted me to the idea of Yellowstone.

Before me are slow-moving streams, and I wade, tender-footed, through the shallowest parts. Cold water nips at my forelegs. I shake off the droplets as I leap over fallen trees, weave through tall grasses and brush. Two miles in, heart pounding, I crest a hill to see a field of wildflowers. A whole meadow of them, like the pictures said: yarrow and spring beauty, cow parsnip and woodland star. Gathering speed is difficult when you want to stop and sniff each petal, each leaf. I’m fulfilling something—a dream of mine—but all I can think is: I hope that Olive will see this. That she’ll step foot in this field and know I was here, too.

This land is untouched. This is how Earth was before the humans. I can’t stop marveling at the immensity of it all: infinite forest, infinite sky. But time is clearly of the essence—so I try to control my breath, limit my distractions, and will myself on, on, on. After three miles, though, it’s nearly impossible to keep up the momentum. My paws stumble over rocks, skid in the mud. On my route is a small lake, with two humans fly-fishing, their green waders shining in the early morning light. One glances in my direction as she casts her line: a metallic arc against the pure blue sky.

“Did you see that?” she says to her partner.

“See what?”

“Oh. Guess I haven’t had enough coffee.” She shakes her head. “Thought I saw a . . . baby bear or something.”

This gives me so much confidence, I can’t even tell you. To be mistaken for a creature of the park! I depart from the bushes, wheatgrass thwacking my face, pushing my whiskers back. I sprint and sprint as hard as I can.

By mile six, my every muscle is aching. Even the vistas do little to soothe me. The trees and the meadows and the—

Bison!

Bursting through a pocket of shrubbery, I run almost directly into a bison. Brown, even-toed, with fur climbing all over its body. It’s enormous: enormous horns, enormous tufts of fur on its head. Half of me wants to curl immediately into a ball. I can tell that my pupils are dilating, my fur standing at attention. On either side of the path are bushes too thick to cross.

So I must speak—with courage.

Puffing each tuft of fur on my bib, I say, Excuse me, imitating its language to the best of my ability. Should I add in a few extra grunts? Why not. I scrounge for the noise, crouching with my elbows bent. In response, the bison snorts and huffs, pounding the earth with his hooves. Which is, of course, entirely rude.

I’ve been awake for over twenty-seven hours. I’ve been running for over two and a half. And I’m only a mile from the geyser—too close to stop now.

My tail frizzes as I charge, stamping out every fear left inside me. The bison flares its nostrils, bobs its bushy head. But it moves. It moves.

I skirt quickly around it, unwilling to press my luck. Once I’m safely down the path, though, I say over my shoulder, Never underestimate a cat again.

To my intense surprise, the hive’s voice answers in return.

We found you. We have been looking.

It’s startling, a shock to the brain. To be out of contact with my species for so long. To miss the presence of them so much—then hear them unexpectedly, after all this time.

You are scared.

Noise shudders through my ears. No, not scared. You just surprised me. I didn’t think I could hear you from a mile away.

We