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same

Short Stories
- A Cat's Tale
- The Druid's Muse (prologue)

A Cat's Tale (8 ratings)
         by Same
Page 1 of 15

Have you ever looked at your cat, really looked at your cat, and wondered, just what lies behind those languid green eyes? As you look into those eyes, you may wonder, just what does a cat do? Do you ever wonder what he does when you’re not home? What if I told you, your cat might not be a cat at all, but a person, same as you, inside a cat’s body? No, you say, not possible. A cat is well, just a cat. Well, I am a cat, and I am here to tell you, don’t believe everything you see. How am I writing this, you ask? Well, let that be my little secret. Cats have lots of little secrets, and I am about to let you in on some of them. But not all. After all, cats are mysterious, and we wouldn’t want to change that, would we?

My name is Lucy. I am an orange tabby. I used to have red hair as a human, so I guess it stuck with me in my cat life. How did I become a cat, you ask? Well, I didn’t wish it, although there may be times when you humans do, looking at your cat laying with his paws in the air, on his back, sleeping, just when you have to go to work. How many times have you said to yourself, I wish I were a cat, what a life? Well, be careful what you wish for, you might just get it. I did, and it has been a hard life, if interesting. I am getting old now, and settled into my fluffy bed, I begin to think of how it all started. I wasn’t always this pampered. A human has adopted me, after many years of roaming. He treats me well, I admit, but what I wouldn’t give to be human again. Cats don’t have it so great, you know. We have to dodge cars, run from dogs, scratch fleas, chase stupid birds; well, you get the idea. We sleep a lot, I know, but it’s because we are always thinking, always on the watch. A hard life, indeed. Pi sh, you say, you have to be kidding. Well, until you walk a mile on my paws, you’ll just have to believe me.

It all began 15 years ago, when my mother took ill. She lived alone in a big musty house, and she needed me to take care of her. I was younger then, a woman of 20, but bored with my life. Wishing for some excitement. Boy, if I had only known what I was wishing for…but anyway….

She wrote me a letter that she was dying, and that she needed me to come live in her house until she died, and then to take care of her affairs. So, I quit my job, and went to take care of her. My mother and I had always had what you humans call a "strained relationship". She was always trying to tell me how to live my life when I lived at home, and so I moved out. We never really got along with each other, but there is always a bond between mother and daughter, no matter how strained the relationship. I suppose a mother tries to keep her daughter from making the same mistakes she did, to no avail. My mother did the same, to a point, and then finally gave up.

The funny thing about my mother’s letter is that her handwriting looked funny. She was always sure in her words, and in her strokes, but it looked agitated. I chalked it up to her illness.

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