I spent some time the other day observing my own feline companion, Magick, and he never ceases to amaze me. Black as night, with a long tail that’s kinked at the end, he moves with such stealth that I don’t even know he’s there until he wants me to. Then he sits there, staring up at me with his glittering yellow eyes, and he says a single word — “Meow.”
Like all cats, he expects me to know the meaning of this single sound immediately, for he turns and walks about, never glancing back. At this point, I am supposed to immediately comply with his demand. The problem is, I don’t know what that demand is.
Magick likes to be mysterious, and I’m sure he’s laughing on the inside as I try to decipher his meaning. I go through the motions, and if he could speak, the conversation would have gone something like this:
Me: “Food?”
Magick: “No, I ate already.”
Me: “Outside?”
Magick: “Are you kidding? It’s 40 below!?”
Me: “A scratch?”
Magick: “Don’t touch me.”
After several minutes I look him in the eye and declare, “I just don’t know what you want, buddy.”
Taking pity on poor, confused me, he walks to the fridge. I open it an he paws at the container of leftover spaghetti. How silly of me. Not cat food. Spaghetti. All cat loves spaghetti. Don’t they?
A piece of advice: When choosing a kitten, never go for the innocent-looking ones with kinked tails. They torment you later in life.
Magick definitely has me trained.
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