The Cats Have Notes

On the last night before human civilization became marginally more honest and significantly more annoying, Sam Peterson went to bed with absolutely no reason to suspect that the next morning he would be insulted by a Maine coon.

This was not unusual. Sam often went to bed unaware of future insults.

He was seventy-two years old, retired, and had reached the stage of life where the day’s major achievements included finding his reading glasses, losing them, finding them again on top of his head, and successfully getting out of his recliner on the first attempt. He considered that last one cardio.

His wife, Sally, who was fifty-eight and had not yet accepted his use of the word “elderly” to describe herself, sat up against the pillows scrolling through her phone.

The bedroom was dark except for the blue-white glow on her face and the little green light on the air purifier Sam had purchased after reading an article about indoor allergens and deciding, as he often did, that he had probably been dying of something for years without noticing.

At the foot of the bed, Morgana occupied the center like royalty annexing a province.

Morgana was a four-year-old Maine coon mix, large enough to be mistaken in low light for a decorative throw rug with opinions. She had long gray-brown fur, a magnificent tail, and the expression of a duchess who had just discovered the help had been using the good silver to open cans of peas.

On the dresser sat Melisandre.

She was three, black from nose to tail, and had arranged herself in a perfect loaf beneath the dim glow of the television standby light. The effect was theatrical, mournful, and very much on purpose. If cats could write poetry, Melisandre would have written only in lowercase and refused to explain it.

Grizabella, the youngest, was two. A compact tabby with bright eyes and the muscular confidence of a creature who believed every closed cabinet was a personal challenge. She was currently under the bed, murdering something that had once been a twist tie.

“Grizz,” Sally said without looking up from her phone, “stop chewing that.”

The chewing stopped. For three seconds. Then resumed more quietly.

Sam rolled onto his side with the careful choreography of a man negotiating with several joints and one judgmental cat.

“Morgana,” he said, “move your tail.”

Morgana did not move her tail. She opened one eye.

Sam gently nudged the tail.

Morgana made a sound deep in her throat. It was not quite a growl. It was more of an objection.

“Fine,” Sam said. “Keep the tail. I’ll sleep in the hallway.”

Sally smiled at her phone.

“You say that every night.”

“One of these nights I’ll mean it.”

“No, you won’t.”

“No, I won’t.”

At 10:43 p.m., according to the digital clock Sam did not trust because it had once gained seven minutes during a thunderstorm, the apartment gave a faint shiver.

Not a shake. Not enough to rattle the lamps or wake the neighbors. Just a soft ripple through the air, as if the world had briefly inhaled.

The cats noticed.

Morgana lifted her head. Melisandre’s ears tilted forward. Under the bed, Grizabella stopped assassinating the twist tie.

Sam noticed nothing. He had already begun the long descent into sleep, a process involving three sighs, two throat-clearings, one complaint about the pillow, and a final declaration that he was “just resting his eyes.”

Sally noticed the cats.

“What?” she whispered.

Morgana stared at the bedroom door. Melisandre stared at nothing, which was her specialty. Grizabella emerged halfway from under the bed, twist tie in her mouth, eyes wide and alert.

Then, as quickly as it had come, the strange feeling passed.

The air settled.

The cats continued staring for several more seconds.

Sally lowered her phone.

“What is it?”

Morgana blinked slowly. Melisandre looked at Sally with the solemn gravity of a funeral director. Grizabella dropped the twist tie.

Sally waited.

Still nothing.

“Fine,” she said. “Be mysterious.”

She set her phone on the nightstand, turned off the lamp, and lay down beside Sam.

In the darkness, the three cats remained awake.

This was not unusual either.

Cats are not nocturnal, exactly. They are creatures of opportunity. If a human wants them asleep, they are awake. If a human wants them awake, they are asleep. If a human has just cleaned the litter box, they are suddenly inspired.

The night passed.

Outside, the moon moved over the apartment complex. A sprinkler system clicked on at three in the morning with the confidence of something that had never paid a water bill. Somewhere in the building, a television muttered to itself.

At 4:17 a.m., Grizabella sprinted from the bedroom to the living room, from the living room to the hallway, from the hallway back to the bedroom, across Sam’s legs, over Sally’s hip, and under the bed again.

Sam grunted.

Sally mumbled, “Grizz.”

Grizabella remained under the bed, breathing hard, thrilled by her own existence.

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