4 minute read
If Our Pets Could Talk by Carol Van Den Hende
If Our Pets Could Talk by Carol Van Den Hende
I’ve heard that ginger cats like us share one brain cell and spend our days waiting to use it.
Underneath our human “Two-Legs” coffee table, my brother Stinky accelerates round and round, attempting to nip the elusive tail that swishes just ahead of his sharp teeth.
Guess it’s not his turn with the brain cell.
Bummer. I have a question and no one to ask. What’s our purpose?
It’s been one paw’s worth of full moons since Calico Mom and Midnight Dad said it was time to set off on our adventure to a new home. We’ve been swallowed by the big metal cat only twice since then, “to go to the vet,” Two-Legs Mama said.
She’s sweet but keeps asking me questions in response to my curiosity. “Who’s the good boy?” “Do you want a treat?” Really, does she need to ask?
Outside of the open window, songbirds tweet, puffing my chest with an urge to hunt.
I pounce onto my silly brother, halting his spinning that seems to be stuck on ‘repeat.’ His orange cyclone turns into a flurry of furry legs and half-sheathed claws wrapping around my midsection. We tumble, his round belly against my ribcage, my nose perilously close to his pungent arse.
“Aww how cute!” coos Two-Legs Mama, who has her hand extension pointed at us. It’s her most common pose. Really, I need to teach her some cat fight moves.
Stinky takes advantage of my momentary distraction and springs free. Darn. But I’m fast on his hindquarters. We’re off, darting faster than birds in flight, me almost catching him under the armchair, him speeding past the sleek white box they call a ‘fireplace.’
Wait, I need to ask you the meaning of life!
His crazed path hurls us right towards the wall whose white brightness hurts my eyes. Stinky skitters all four paws onto the flat surface, executing an impressive midair turn. I follow with a half-parkour and bound after my twin, my pulse pounding to the tip of my tail.
What are we doing here? I ask.
Huh? We’re playing, he calls over his shoulder.
I fling my weight onto his furry haunches, finally bringing him down. We’re both panting. His whiskers twitch with happiness. Our tummies are full after morning meal.
Not the playing, silly. What’s our job here? This has been on my mind because everyone else seems to know their role. Two-Legs Dad rides the beast that trims the grass outside our windows. Two-Legs Mama flips through tree-pages and taps on her metal box with the glowing screen.
Stinky slips out from my now relaxed grasp. My breathing regulates. I’ll show you, he says, and heads towards Two-Legs Mama. She’s seated on the sofa, her legs folded beneath her. The space between her eyes is pulled together with the sad expression like the time her stove smelled like smoke. “Shoot, I was writing and forgot!” she told Two-Legs Dad and scraped blackened vegetables from a pan into the compost pail.
Now, her hand extension shows an image of her younger Two-Legs. She says with a whoosh of air “I miss my college boys.”
My head nods towards the fuzzy indoor-grass. Two-Legs Mama pushes back her dark mane, black like Midnight Dad’s fur. Her furless face reminds me of soft rubs and coos of praise. Soon, sleep will overtake me.
Stinky climbs onto the sofa, stretches, and turns around on the soft jeans nest of Mama’s lap. “Aww sweetie, who’s the good boy?” She abandons her hand extension and wraps both arms around his furry body. He purrs as she strokes the magic spot on his forehead. Her sad expression evaporates. “I love you,” she says to my brainless brother. She lifts her gaze towards me “Love you too, sweetie.”
My vision blurs. That’s the answer. My pulse, slowing as sleep approaches, feels full and warm. Two-Legs Mama and Dad, Calico Mom and Midnight Dad, even brainless Stinky, we are love. My furry chin slips onto my furry paws. There’s no need for a job, we just need to be. Maybe Stinky did get a turn with the brain cell after all. Love you, Mama. Love you all.
