Leonard (My Life as a Cat) Read online

  I’d worried about this, before my journey—how to follow human speech on Earth. Our species is so advanced, we have no use for words. We pass information telepathically; images float, are consumed, and that’s it. Forget about chitchat. Forget about How was your day? (How I wanted someone to ask—to care—about my day!) So I’d studied whenever I could, revisiting scenes from I Love Lucy and picking up languages from previous travelers to Earth.

  Now I was bombarded by sound, by feeling. It was both intensely wonderful and intensely distracting. I had to squint at the woman, trying to detect the subtle differences in her syllables. This was what I pieced together: a single word, over and over again.

  Olive, Olive, Olive.

  Either she was incredibly hungry, or this was raincoat girl’s name.

  Soon the boat thumped against the house’s stairs, and the white-haired woman fled down the steps, her ankles steeped in water. She threw the towel off her shoulders; it was soggy in an instant, lugged away by the tide.

  “Do you have any idea how dangerous that was?” she yelled, grabbing the boat’s stern and tying it quickly to the railing. That knot! It was ranger-worthy. “I’ve seen plenty of stupid antics in my day, but this one takes the cake.”

  I knew this wasn’t the time to notice the older woman’s wardrobe, but she was wearing a checkered shirt under a khaki vest—both with plenty of pockets. My whiskers twitched enviously. As a human, I would’ve liked to wear those clothes.

  “Listen here, sailor,” the woman continued, voice rumbly and slightly out of breath. “You could’ve bitten the dust out there. Am I making myself clear? Your mother didn’t send you down here to disobey a direct order. So when I tell you not to go outside in a tropical storm, you have to listen to me.”

  It happened then: I felt myself being scooped into Olive’s arms. She clutched me close to her chest, her raincoat quivering. I had no idea what to do. There were no drills for this, no training. In three hundred years, it had never occurred to me: One day, a human girl will hold you.

  Was now an appropriate time to moo? Was I supposed to kiss her on both cheeks, as some people do? I went for a fail-safe option: going completely limp.

  “I couldn’t leave him there,” Olive said, stepping awkwardly from the boat to the steps, her rubber boots squishing in water. “I’m sorry, Norma. I just couldn’t.”

  Norma towered above us, arms crossed, eyebrows knitted. I was slightly overwhelmed by the power of her presence—but also wanted to grab her face with my paws and shout, Do you know how lucky you are to have eyebrows? Do you?

  When Norma spoke again, her voice was raspier. “You’re not hurt anywhere, are ya?”

  Olive shook her head.

  “Well . . . good,” Norma said, massaging a spot on her chest, as if her heart hurt. “Now, let’s get inside, before this storm eats us up.”

  Then we were climbing the rickety steps. Norma unlatched the front door.

  I felt myself shaking—this time, not from the cold.

  I’d never heard of a mistake like this. No one in my entire species had ever ended up in the wrong body. It was supposed to go so smoothly: I would arrive on Earth as a human, interview for the park ranger position, accept the job immediately; my wilderness knowledge would astonish my colleagues. They’d throw a Welcome to Wyoming party in my honor, and I’d settle into a rented cabin, on the very edge of the woods, safe in the comfort of my plan.

  But now? I was venturing even further into unknown territory.

  “Don’t be afraid, kitty,” Olive said, slipping inside the house. She pushed off her raincoat hood, her hair wavy and dark, clamped down on both sides with daisy barrettes. A fellow flower enthusiast! We’d have so much to talk about, I thought, if I could talk. Did she know that flowers appeared 140 million years ago? Or that the largest flower on Earth is over nine feet tall?

  Olive caressed my muzzle with a gentle hand. Maybe it was too soon to trust her, but there it was. A kernel of faith, blooming in my chest.

  Carefully, she placed me on the ground, my paws touching floorboards for the first time. How many hours—how many years—had I spent imagining this moment? A human house! And me, inside it. Some things were exactly as I’d expected. There were books, magnificent books, stacked high against the living room walls. Wicker furniture dotted the space. And in the kitchen, I just knew there’d be a toaster. A toaster! Only humans could invent something so quaint. People cared deeply, about everything, even if it was just the crispness of their bread.

  Other things about the house surprised me. For one, it was very quiet. In I Love Lucy, there were always noises. People laughing, making chocolate, a chorus of humans rushing in and out. Here, there was nothing but the howling of wind, the squeak of Olive’s footsteps.

  Norma trudged down a hallway and stamped back a moment later, a large stack of towels in her arms. “I’ve been listening to the radio, and they say the storm’s getting worse. Some houses in Hilton Head are half underwater. Isle of Palms, too. Your mom’s been trying to call, but the line won’t stop dropping.” Letting out a rough breath, she peered down at me. I could see all the way up her nostrils. “Now, I keep food around for strays—and I thought I knew about every cat in this neighborhood. Where’d you come from, huh?”

  It was an excellent question. Unfortunately, I barely processed it. My brain was spinning out of control. Hilton Head. The Isle 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 clo
th 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 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 deligh
ts.” (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 a new seminar called “The Power of You: Harnessing the Good Stuff,” so we’ve been pretty busy.

  I hope that you and Norma are finding lots of exciting things to do, too. I really want you to have a fun summer, Olive. Your dad loved Turtle Beach when he was a kid, and I’m sure that you will as well. Have you gone with Norma to the aquarium yet? Are you taking lots of pictures?

  Speak soon. Calling you is always the best part of my day.

  Remember that I love you so much,

  Mom

  I refolded the letter and tried not to sulk there in the moonlight, debris by my paws. I would never have this—not even for a second. This humanness. This love.

  Here is what I adore about I Love Lucy. No matter how much trouble Lucy gets into, Ethel is always there; Ricky is always there; Fred is always there. So no one ever feels like I did that night: odd, broken, and alone.

  I missed my planet. I didn’t think I would, but there was a sensation swarming inside me, a deep yearning for the comforts of home: views of crystal mountains, dips in helium rivers, the peace of everything. I was used to being expansive and limitless; now I was confined to this tiny body, unable to move beyond Earth. More importantly, I couldn’t sense the hive all around me. At home, loneliness does not exist. And I never realized how comforting that community was, until I felt the terrible loss of it. Even the shrill songs of the Lalarians would’ve been welcome.

  Earth was lonely—and tiring.

  My eyelids were starting to twitch from exhaustion; my head began to fog. Taking the hint, I crawled to the floor, lay down, and told myself that I would only close my eyes for a second. Only a second, nothing more.