Member-only story
Four April, Twenty Twenty-One
Ask the cat. Or try.
What’s my name?
I don’t have a name but the guy who comes in the front door every day calls me something. It’s different all the time. I like the guy. He sets out food for me in the morning and lets me butt my head against his leg without needing to reach down and do all that annoying petting nonsense (hey, stop that. I told you I’d do this dumbass interview but no petting).
He leaves the door to the street open when the weather’s nice and sometimes I’ll wander outside to stretch out in the sun, but mostly I stay in here. Too many idiots needing to talk baby-talk or try and touch me. Please. What part of consent is so complicated to you big-brain types anyway?
How do I know where I was born? Where were you born?
I guess I was born here. It’s the only place I remember. I have a dim memory of being loaded into a small crate-like thing and taken somewhere. My backside hurt when I woke up and the guy, the morning guy, fussed over me. Gave me really good-tasting food. The afternoon lady ignored me like always. The night guy checked on me but didn’t give me any more of that good food. I felt like myself again soon enough and went back to sleeping in patches of sun by the laundry soap.
