Of course I indulge in the “catnip”. Image Source

My cat told me something weird the other night and I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. It’s stressing me. But first, I need to get this off my chest. She. Talked! To. Me! My cat. Selene! For the last three years, she only meowed at me when she was hungry, nothing more. Yesterday, she started talking to me in full sentences and decent grammar. Let me make this official. Mind blown.

While sitting up, licking herself clean starting with her stomach, she told me between licks, “I sure hope you die before I do. I don’t think I am patient enough to wait for you in “purgatory”.” She lifted her paws to air quote. It was clumsy yet effective. She concluded with a dry cough.

In retrospect, I wish I hadn’t wasted so much time gushing over how incredulous this all was. I was all like, “What? Get the fuck out of here. No way.” I looked all over the place for speakers, wires, gimmicks. I was getting paranoid. Who wants to fuck with me? Who?

Selene ignored me. She kept talking and bathing while I ranted in disbelief. Unbeknownst to me, she balled up and fell asleep. I did not know what to do. Do I wake her? Did this even happen? Was this all a figment of my imagination? I needed a drink.

Six hours later. I woke up after Selene pounced on me. She assumed her meow-in-my-face position, instead, she spoke, “I am so hungry. Feed me! I am so hungry. Feed me.”

I waddled into the kitchen and poured dry food into her bowl. She asked, “Just so you know, this stuff sucks. It’s just texture without flavor. Is this supposed to be chicken liver or what? It tastes more like shit lite. Why don’t you give me the better wet food all the time?”

I did not have a good answer so I remained silent. Finally, I had to know. “So what did you mean by “purgatory” last night?” In respect of the air quote, I too, air quoted.

She lifted her head from the bowl and gave me that look, the one that says, can’t you see I’m eating, asshole? Instead, she said, “Oh that? I was just talking shit.” She returned to her “food” and the crunching sounded like an old-school erratic typewriter.

Imagination