Theories about the black cat
“I think he’s just stupid.”
We watch him spread himself across the kitchen tiles, stretching his sleek black body across as wide an area as he could physically cover. The real boss of this house. Or at least, the king of this kitchen floor.
“You think so?”
He has gotten to be a bit of a pest lately. He would come bolting down the stairs whenever he hears me get up early in the morning, he would try to steal through my legs into the bedroom (where he knows very well he’s not allowed), or tangle himself around my ankles, biting my feet if I try to get past him.
Then he would try to sneak into the bathroom.
“Or he could just be very smart.”
He certainly knows the bathrooms and the bedrooms are out of bounds. As are the plants over the TV. We are pretty sure he knows. Whether he agrees with us is something else entirely ...
“I don’t get it. The other cat doesn’t do any of these things.”
We look at the other cat. She has black and white patches, but I call her the “flower cat”, because Uncle had given her the Chinese name which has a double meaning of “patches” (or “patterns”) and “flower”. She is sitting in the window, perched on the sill, peacefully staring at passerbys outside.
I spread some jam over the peanut butter on my toast, though it seems more a watery concoction that tastes vaguely fruit-like as opposed to what jam ought to be.
“I wonder ...” I begin.
“Hmm?”
“Could he be deaf?”
We look at the black cat.
He has made himself at home at the breakfast table. Leaning over and sniffing, but pretending as if he really isn’t interested in the food.
Right at that moment, a car somewhere in the neighbourhood makes a terrific screech. Both cats simultaneously cock their ears and look suspiciously at the direction of the front door.
“No, not deaf.” I sigh.
“He could just be bored.”
“Or crazy.”
“Maybe just bored.”
20 October 2004, Wednesday, 12:00 AM
Alter ego of dandruff
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