(no subject)

[with_his_tail_high]

There is now a black cat sitting in your lap.

Yes, yours. Right now. Between you and whatever you were trying to accomplish.

What are you going to do about it?

Comments

[herr_bookman]

Well, this newly-turned kitten was about to venture out from underneath his claimed table to find some more food, thank you very much, but the smell of Stranger Cat is fairly arresting.

Hello, he says, swishing his tail slowly and tipping his ear forward.

[with_his_tail_high]

The black cat regards the little grey kitten with mild amusement. "You," he says with a voice like the voice in the back of your head, "should not be away from your mother, little one."

(He smells of cedar and honey, dark alleys and sun-dappled clearings.)

[herr_bookman]

That would be truer were I a real kitten with a feline mother, Autor sneezes, amused. The scents intrigue him, so he wriggles his nose as he inches forward, trying to sort them into categories he can understand.

[with_his_tail_high]

"And what makes you so certain of that?"

[herr_bookman]

Well, I'm not, actually, he says, batting at his ridiculous collar with his hind leg. It names him 'Annabelle'. But other people recognize me as the human I recall that I was, so I'm taking that as A posteriori knowledge. And I don't remember having feline mother.

He mews, peering at the stranger. Are you really a cat? I can't see you very well.

[with_his_tail_high]

"You misunderstand me," says the black cat. "What makes you so certain that my statement that you should be home with your mother would be any less true if you were still human?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor sits down on his haunches and cocks an ear to pick up a conversation halfway across the room. Are you saying the fact that you've made a statement is less true or are you speaking of the statement itself? he asks, wrinkling his nose. Because that statement--which is truly made--is comprised of opinion, which may or may not match truth.

[with_his_tail_high]

The cat is now looking less amused and more annoyed.

"Yes. It is an opinion. As is my observation that you talk too much."

[herr_bookman]

Autor sneezes, amused. Don't all kittens?

[with_his_tail_high]

"Kittens," the cat replies, "cry out because they are hungry, or cold, or missing their mother's touch. They do not argue."

[herr_bookman]

Fantastic! Autor mwrrs happily, hopping around, tail erect. Then I am not a kitten. Existential crisis solved.

[with_his_tail_high]

"No. You are merely irritating." The black cat yawns and stretches.

[herr_bookman]

It is good to know that this, at least, is an immutable part of me no matter what form I take, he mews, poking his head underneath the chair. I will always be able to recognize myself. So, who are you?

[with_his_tail_high]

"I am me," the cat replies. "Who else would I be?"

[herr_bookman]

Autor tilts his head this way and that, flickering his left ear. So you are, he says. I assume you lead an extremely fulfilled and interesting life.

[with_his_tail_high]

"You may assume whatever you like."

The black cat stretches again and starts grooming his left forepaw.

[herr_bookman]

Ah, good, he says, sneezing. Another true statement made truly.

He creeps out to the edge of the table, checking to see if he'll be stepped on should he venture out. So if kittens cry for their mothers, what do cats do?

[with_his_tail_high]

"Whatever they like."

Duh.

[herr_bookman]

The boy-turned-kitten chuffs at him, laughing. Should I let you get back to it, then?

[with_his_tail_high]

"You say that as though I ever stopped."

[herr_bookman]

Autor tips his chin up and raises his tail. Point well taken, he says, and his mew sounds like more of a chuckle. You know, I think I'm beginning to like cats.