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

I still managed to crawl into my bedding, wrapping my tail comfortably around me. Outside, the wind was growing softer and softer. And I knew I was supposed to be drifting to sleep. That’s what humans do: they sleep for a third of their lives. This is an enormous waste. How can they have all this—their fingers and their toasters and their movie theaters with plush seats—and just sleep right through it?

“Norma’s my grandmother,” Olive said a few moments later, pulling the sheets up to her chin. “I don’t know if you could tell, but we’re not that close. My mom calls her ‘the captain’ because she used to run a shrimp boat—and she still calls everyone ‘sailor.’ Usually I only see her for Christmases and one week in the summer. But I’m . . . well, this year I’m here all summer.”

I listened. What she was telling me, in those moments in the dark, seemed important.

I just didn’t know why.

“The thing is,” Olive said, her voice getting softer, “my dad died when I was really little—too young to remember him. And now my mom’s got this new boyfriend, Frank. He’s a life coach from California. They’re traveling together until August, because he’s giving all these speeches across America. Mom says it’s better for me here, in Turtle Beach, so I can have a fun summer. But I can’t help thinking that . . . that Frank just didn’t want me around. He wants my mom to move with him to Sacramento, too. Permanently. Which means I’d have to start a new school and everything. We live in Maine now, which is a long way from California.”

My throat clenched. I wasn’t sure that I liked this “Frank,” and dislike was new for me. Before that, the closest I’d come was my aversion to our neighbors, the Lalarians, who are fond of singing in shrill voices for months on end. Very loud, very distracting.

“Did you know that alpine swifts can fly six months without stopping? Sometimes I wish I could do that. Just . . . fly back home when I want to. Fly away when I need to.” Her lip was quivering, but she bit it down. “Anyway, what should I call you? Maybe you already have a name, but it feels wrong to just call you ‘kitty.’ You deserve more than that.” She spun over slowly, my night vision sharpening. I could make out all of her facial features as she peered down at me. There was a slight gap between her two front teeth.

“How about Leonard?” she asked. “You look like a Leonard, and that was my great-grandpa’s name.”

Half of me was thrilled, I’ll admit—to be given a human name, a family name. It sounded distinguished, gentlemanly, like I should be wearing a top hat or, at the very least, something with feathers. But it also seemed scarily permanent. While I was Leonard the cat, I wasn’t a human. While I was Leonard the cat, I was stuck exactly where I was.

I lay awake that night, focused on the length of my forelegs, of my paws. I didn’t like the shape of myself, exactly. What was with these whiskers, sticking so dramatically from my cheeks? What was the purpose of this unsightly tail? It was also slightly uncomfortable to be squeezed into such a small frame. I’d expected more room for the energy of me to bob around; this was like a human wearing a shoe several sizes too tight. But overall, it really was an amazing thing, to have a body. This thing that moved on my command, that had fur, that encapsulated me. I’d always appreciated that human phrase: body and soul. I love you, body and soul, one person might say to another. Now I had both.

Still, I was incredibly restless.

Shouldn’t I use this time wisely? Discover more about these humans—and where I’d landed?

So, I found myself wobbling into the kitchen at around two in the morning. I was still getting used to my legs—and to the enormous moon beaming in the inky sky. I sat by the kitchen chairs, transfixed for a moment or two, thinking about the twelve moons orbiting my home planet—how none of them were quite as brilliant as this.

Then I saw what I was looking for.

On the table, in a strip of moonlight: a stack of mail.

There are many methods of human communication. The most common, of course, is speaking with their mouths. Gestures are essential, too: knowing when, how, and in what situation to show your teeth, wave your hands, stomp your foot. What comes next is slightly trickier: instant messaging, emails, letters slipped into boxes by your front door. I knew to read the mail. How would I learn about this human family otherwise?

Jumping onto the kitchen table (I was quite the accomplished jumper), I perused the envelopes with my paws, inspecting the typewritten words. Nothing stood out to me, really—so I had to open them all.

I cannot express this clearly enough: there is a reason why cats do not unseal envelopes. It is a thankless, near-impossible task, requiring all four paws and most of your back muscles. How do you unstick the paper cleanly, without destroying what’s inside? Well, you do not. Around me was a tattered mess. Only three letters remained, after I got the hang of rolling onto my back, wriggling, and slitting the sticky paper with paws in the air.

The first was an electricity bill, which sounded tremendously exciting. (I was fooled.)

The second was a packet of coupons for jumbo shrimp and other “sea delights.” (Based on my first experience with water, there is nothing delightful about the sea.)

The third was already opened. It was on crisp, yellow stationery, and said this:

Greetings from California, the Golden State!

Dear Olive,

I’m missing you a whole lot. I tried to find a postcard with a California bobcat on it (I know you like them), but no luck. Frank and I will keep looking! He’s working on