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

of Palms. I’d studied human maps, the gentle slope of lines across paper, and those places weren’t near Yellowstone. No. Not at all.

The evidence was all around me: wicker furniture and baskets of seashells, beach towels and chunky sandals by the door. A plastic starfish was eyeing me from the wall. And the house—yes, the whole house—was on stilts. I can still remember the feeling of surprise and terror when I realized, I am near the sea. By any estimate, that put me at least two thousand miles away from my destination. At least two thousand miles from my pickup point, without any other way of returning home.

Theoretically, getting to this planet is the easy part. The real difficulty is traveling back. Atmospheric forces are much stronger on the way home—my energy alone isn’t enough—so my entire species must pick me up. According to the schedule, the hive would arrive at precisely 9:01 a.m. on the twenty-first of July. My pickup point was incredibly specific: coordinates 44.4605 degrees north, 110.8281 degrees west— Yellowstone National Park.

If I wasn’t there by the end of the month, if I missed the takeoff, I’d be stuck on Earth forever.

I gave myself a few moments to let that sink in.

Then I did what anyone would do in a fit of utter devastation. I began to destroy the curtains.

Maybe this is a good time to remind you: I had no idea how to be a cat. I was an actor without a script. If you were in my metaphorical shoes, could you avoid detection? Could you enter an alien world and fit in seamlessly? I was bound to fail in some respects, so please try not to judge me too harshly.

Even if you’re acquainted with Earth, cats are easy to miss. They slink. They dash. They burrow in bushes, under couch cushions, in the bowels of handbags on closet shelves. I’ll be honest and say that even the handsomest ones are comical to look at: ridiculously pointy ears, stringlike whiskers, and a constantly replenishing source of fur, which sticks to your tongue when you lick it. (Why would you want to lick it, you might ask? See my later discussion on keeping clean.)

Cats are considered a standoffish species, also known as “aloof.” Many prefer their own company, despise loud noises, and often stuff their bodies inside boxes for no apparent reason. Tuna fish is a yes. Garlic is a no. A group of them is called a clowder, not to be confused with chowder; there is no soup involved.

I wish I’d know any of this before I was required to play the part of a cat. I was forced to act purely on instinct.

And my instinct told me to destroy the curtains.

They were tan colored; I recall that very clearly. Soon my claws were buried inside the fabric, tugging at the cloth with swift pulls. I really did feel better as the thread unspooled beneath my paws. I liked the resistance, the feeling of battling something and winning. I liked controlling a small part of my fractured universe.

The woman called Norma shook the curtains, startling me. “Hey, hey, easy there, partner. I’m not a fan of these drapes, but I don’t like ribbons, either. You’re tearing them to shreds.”

Olive reached down and scratched a spot behind my ears, which slowed my heart rate a little; it felt nice. All of a sudden, I also wanted her to rub my belly. Only for a second, only in the exact middle. But the feeling was definitely there.

“Do you think he’s lost?” Olive asked. “Maybe someone’s missing him.”

Norma considered this, then tsked. “He isn’t the best-looking cat. That’s not an excuse, absolutely not, but someone could’ve dumped him.”

“How can people do that to animals?” Olive asked as wind battered the windows, shuddering the whole house. “Well, I think he’s beautiful.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Norma murmured.

Olive gazed into my eyes. “Either way, he has us. You hear that, kitty cat? We’re here.”

I was still having trouble breathing. Oxygen didn’t agree with me nearly as well as helium, and my stress level was astronomical. Even so, Olive’s words—the us, the we—wrapped around me, and I glimpsed something in that moment.

What it must feel like to have a friend.

If you watch any local news channel on Earth, you will discover the human-cat connection: humans have quite a history of rescuing cats from trees. Normally this is performed by a large person in a firefighter’s suit, and the cat must be coaxed down with praise and the promise of crunchy treats. There is a big hoopla. I didn’t realize, that first night, how much of a cliché I was—cold, hungry, yet pampered after my rescue.

Olive set up a space for me in her room, underneath a turtle night-light with an eerie green glow. I watched it suspiciously as she fluffed two blankets into a perfectly round cocoon. “That should do for now,” she said, rising from her knees, and then dashing around the room. She was quick on her human feet and spoke the way a rubber ball bounces—with energy. “I know a whole lot about jaguars and snow leopards and Chinese mountain cats, but not as much about house cats. I think I’ve done enough? You have water; you have food; I’ve set up a cardboard box and some newspaper in the bathroom. Am I missing anything?”

I had no idea. Absolutely none. At the same time, I did wonder: Is it common for humans to speak with cats? Nothing in my research strictly forbid it, but Olive’s language and my language were not the same. How did she know I was following along? I couldn’t tell her that I was; my vocal cords just weren’t up to snuff. Despite my intelligence, speaking the language of people was pitifully beyond my reach.

She flicked off the lamp, the light from the green turtle washing over us. It gave me an uneasy feeling, but