Cat Waiting
Fiction - by Chris Morey
It’s bad news when Doctor Whiskers pays us a visit.
All thirty pairs of eyes in the cages snap toward him. Which of us will it be today? I remember the awful day when poor T38 was taken, clinging affectionately to Julie as she scooped him up, purring and smooching her while she murmured reassurances into his fur. Then she slipped him into the carrier, and we all wished him luck. We never saw him again.
“Now, where’s V59?” A rich, mellow voice, almost avuncular if you didn’t know Dr. Whiskers’ line of business.
I freeze. In informal situations, I go by Vercingetorix. Rather a mouthful, but far more distinctive than Victor, or Vincent, or any of the other Vs.
“Over here, Doctor. The second aisle,” Ashlynn answers, brushing blonde hair out of her eyes. Ashlynn with the gentle hands, who always graces our mealtimes with a stroke or an air-kiss. Whiskers strides after her as she heads my way.
She releases the cage door with a practiced movement, the caress of her fingers on my nape turning to a firm scruff-hold. Helpless as a kitten, I’m dropped into the carry-cage.
As we thread the corridors, I guess this might be connected with my last ordeal at Whiskers’ hands. You don’t get to give informed consent in this place, but Ashlynn’s body language shrieks of concern that I’m about to follow the martyrs’ path.
We arrive at a brilliantly-lit room. Harsh chemical odors sting my nose. Ashlynn holds me firmly as Julie primes the stiletto-object that’s the prelude to these sessions. A slight prick in the loose skin at my neck, and everything goes dark…
I wake to a blinding headache, and flashes of colored light. I close my eyes again and sleep until I’m woken by the morning feed. I’m ravenous, though all Rosa has for me today is a slurry of Science Diet in warm water. I slurp it all up, however. Invalid food never tasted so good.
It isn’t until later that I realize the significance of the flashes. But color vision isn’t the least of the changes. Human vocalizations start to cohere into intelligible messages: ‘Here’s your dinner, Vercie,’ is an easy one. Others gradually acquire meaning as I puzzle out syntax and cultural references. We residents communicate with each other, of course, but humans’ repertoire of facial and body-language is pretty scant, and it’s not easy to make the transition to a sound-based system. It must be a terrible disadvantage not to be able to purr, or hiss, or arch your back and spit.
The matter of most interest is, of course, what they’ve done to me. I piece the story together from the attendants’ chatter and the occasional hint let slip by Whiskers’ assistant Byron, and the graduate students Tasha and Robert. Research on intelligence and memory, a combination of hormone therapy and surgery. The fact that I understand them at all tells me the procedure was at least halfway successful.
After a week’s convalescence, Byron starts me on simple tests: mazes, devices that dispense treats if manipulated correctly, objects hidden inside each other, and suchlike. Without false modesty, I ace them all. “You’re the smartest cat I know, Vercie,” Ashlynn coos as she brings me back from a session.
A regular evening feeding run. Ashlynn pops my dish into my cage just as Robert walks in.
Her face lights up. “Hi, Bob, good to see you! Has Gary –” that’s their name for Whiskers “– sent you down here for something?”
“Ah – no. I just couldn’t resist seeing my favorite technician.” His arm slides around her waist. I haven’t detected she’s in heat, but then I’m no expert on human odors.
She pretends to push him away. “Now, don’t! I’ll lose track of where I’ve got to.”
Nevertheless, I can read her signals easily: the coy smile, the flutter of eyelashes and tilt of the head. Even he gets the message, twitching the food container and clipboard from her hands, placing them on top of my cage. Then they rub their bodies together, nuzzling each other – it’s amazing how much human pre-mating rituals resemble ours. It doesn’t go quite that far tonight, though.
Eventually, they break, “All okay for Friday evening, then?” he says.
“I’ll look forward to it,” she replies, her cheeks a shade of red I’ve never seen before.
I didn’t hear the cage lock click, and while she moves on to feed U51, I investigate. It’s so obvious that I wonder why I haven’t worked it out before. Just three simple movements: even paws could open it.
I don’t try there and then, of course. I don’t even show interest. I might get only one chance to use my knowledge, and I intend to pick my opportunity carefully. Just as well: Ashlynn comes back, murmuring to herself, “Hmm, did I lock Vercie in?” Then trying the door: “God, no! Good thing I checked.” She slides the bolt and goes out, dimming the lights on her way.
I practice opening the lock at night, when my neighbors are sound asleep. It’s a fallacy that cats spend all night on the tiles. We’re most active at twilight: crepuscular, if you want the fancy word. The lock operates noiselessly, and the hinges of the door don’t squeak. Matters couldn’t have been arranged better.
A few days later, Rosa drops something small and rectangular. She doesn’t notice, because it lands in a pile of used bedding and slips under a cabinet. She scoops up the bedding and heads for the laundry.
Even in that brief moment, I see it’s one of those things that humans spend half their time staring at.
No more rounds until dinnertime, two hours away. Like lightning, I open the cage, leap out, bat the object along the floor. Below my cage, I sink my canines into its soft cover, spring through the open door, hide my swag under my blanket, and latch the door again.
Themistocles in the next cage asks me what I’ve got.
“I don’t know,” I lie.
That night, I set myself to work it out. A light touch is best, and a single claw gives precision. I don’t know what all the symbols mean, though I surmise it’s the language humans speak. They’re quite clever; it must be useful sometimes to have things written down.
Next day, Rosa seems disconsolate and lost. The day after, bright and cheerful, a brand-new smartphone (I’ve learned its name now) in her hand as she does her rounds.
The others notice, too. “Is that the new iPhone?” Tasha asks. “It’s really cool.”
Slowly at first, then faster, I learn how to use my smartphone. I hide and guard it jealously. Next time Julie comes to change my blanket, I sit on it, flatten my ears and hiss.
“Grumpy Cat today, Vercie?” she says. “Do you want to keep that one? You’re like Linus. Well, it won’t hurt for once.”
Who’s Linus? I’ll have to google it.
My knowledge advances by leaps and bounds, especially after I find an app that sounds out words. I can see why surfing the web is so addictive. I never imagined there was so much information in the world, and so colorfully presented. Even Byron’s and Whiskers’ jargon-filled dialog when they prod and probe me begins to make some sense.
A hot, sunny, windy day. Rosa opens a fanlight to give us some fresh air. Naturally, it has a wire-mesh guard, but when the wind has teased and played with it for a while, a corner is visibly loose. Then looser.
The only thing that can go wrong now is that an attendant notices it before nightfall and gets it fixed. I pray fervently to the Goddess Basht that no one will.
My prayers are answered. Ashlynn does the evening feed, and I wish her a silent farewell. She’s been as good a friend as I could ask for in this purgatory. I hope she’s reincarnated as a cat.
The phone’s battery died long ago, and I have no regrets about leaving it behind. They’ll be puzzled when they find it, and Rosa will wonder how on earth she managed to drop it in my cage and not notice.
Midnight, the hour of dire deeds. I work the lock, spring down, and up onto the cage nearest the fanlight. Ulysses, its occupant, wakes.
“Vercie! What the hell are you doing out of your cage?”
“Wait and see,” I reply.
Now. I gird myself, take a flying leap for the mesh, cling on for dear life. Twelve pounds plus of cat has the desired effect: a screw pops, then another and another, then the mesh and I crash to the floor together. I sneeze violently in the disturbed dust, licking the worst off before jumping back onto Ulysses’ cage.
“Good luck,” he whispers. I’m half-inclined to show him how to escape and take him with me, but if I do, what about Themistocles, and Vesta and Titania, and all the others? No: escaping together, we’d be picked up much faster. Time for this cat to walk by himself.
I hurl myself upward a second time, grasp the edge of the frame, my hind feet scrabbling for purchase. Then I’m up, the sill cutting painfully into my midriff. My luck holds, I’m on the first floor, facing a side-street. Not a soul is in sight. A less-than-dignified slither down the exterior wall, and I’m free.
I must be wary now, in this strange environment. The darkness is a friend, but what lurks around the next corner, or in a shadowed doorway? At full alert, I slink along the sidewalk, belly brushing the ground, hugging the frontage of the buildings. Then a break, an open area behind a palisade fence. No sooner seen than climbed. I land among weeds and thistles, shake myself free of debris.
An odor, magically enticing, wafts toward me, calling me imperatively. I break into a run.
Under a small tree, a tortoiseshell-and-white female sits, singing her haunting song. I sense other presences concealed in the darkness. I can guess who they are, but fortune favors the bold. I stride up to her, sniff experimentally.
A low growl, rising and falling, comes from under a nearby shrub. I answer in kind, then my adversary bursts forth. Ginger fur, large-boned but scrawny, one-eyed, half an ear missing. That’s all I have time to take in before he’s upon me, screaming his war-cry.
Instinct kicks in. I fling myself on my back, and as he pounces, get in three firm double-footed kicks to his soft underbelly. He howls and breaks off. I right myself, and we eye each other, growling. Another rush, and I’m ready for it. In the split-second before he engages, I see he’s left-pawed. We bat at one another inconclusively, then fall back, honors even.
On the next pass, I sink my teeth into his left, stronger shoulder, and hang on. He lashes out with his weaker paw, but I brush his blows off easily. I’m half-suffocating, but don’t relax my grip as we roll over and over in the dusty grass.
I shake him like I would a rat, snuffling through a mouthful of vile-tasting fur. He continues to struggle, but he’s weakening. I bring my full weight to bear, forcing him to the ground, and he falls into the submission posture. Cautiously, I relax my hold, and he squirms away, tail down, belly to the ground. Two sharp jabs at his haunches speed him on his way.
I stretch, then wash my face. I’m bleeding from a scratch on the nose, but I’ve met the enemy, and he is mine! The other tomcats make no sound or movement as I approach the object of my desire.
Wow! I haven’t seen you around before, but you’re a tough guy! A good-looking one too. I read her thoughts as she turns and steps daintily away, the light in her green eyes an irresistible invitation to follow. Close by, she circles in a patch of long grass, pressing it down. We sink into our love-nest.
The next two days are an idyll, making love, drinking at a small pool, hunting – I catch a blackbird and we share it – and of course, sleeping. Then I bid my mistress, and my future kittens, farewell. Half-mythical tales of restaurant-district garbage cans overflowing with savory morsels tempt me to explore. It’s not difficult; I simply follow my nose.
The city never sleeps – well, almost never. Lines outside theaters are great places for strokes and pats, though not for begging. Courting couples sharing takeout pizza on park benches are best for that.
“Hello, boy. Do you eat cheese?”
“Probably. Cats like milk, don’t they? Cheese is only solidified milk.”
“I’ll try him. Here, sweetie! Try a piece with anchovy.”
Manna from Heaven, I engulf it at one bite.
“Look at that! I’ll give him a bigger piece.”
“Hold on, Becks. This is meant to be our dinner.”
But there’s always another couple, with another of those flat boxes.
I grow bolder, and that’s my downfall.
“Hey, look over there! It’s the cat on that poster. Five hundred bucks reward from the university. Kitty, kitty, kitty!”
They say cats are devious, but you should try humans. A nice cuddle turns into a scruff-grab, and when they spot a discarded mail-sack, I’m bundled in before I can react. What happens next is somewhat of a blur, but I’m aware of being loaded into a car, taken out and across a lawn, into a building, down a maze of corridors.
I’m placed on a table. The bag is opened, and I see Byron and Ashlynn.
Ashlynn hugs me. “Vercie! We looked everywhere! Have you had a big adventure?”
You don’t know the half of it. Then Byron is poking me, listening to my heart, shining a light in my ears, prying open my mouth to inspect my teeth.
“Scratched nose, healing well. No other visible damage.” He inspects my back end. “No fleas. No sign of worms or diarrhea. Pretty much unscathed, but we’ll keep him in isolation for a few days.”
Then back to the old routine: tests, tests, more and more complicated as my skills improve. And medicals. After one check-up, with a biopsy, Byron calls Whiskers in.
“Look at this, Chief. Not a pattern you see in cats. Apes, maybe, or humans.”
“Well, I don’t know. What conclusions do you draw?”
“It sounds crazy, but I’d say it’s an indicator of longevity. Did we expect that?”
“Um, no, but this is experimental science, the unexpected happens. We’ll need to look at other indicators, fur growth rates and such. I’d have to say that if we have managed to permanently lift his intelligence, a longer life – and a longer kittenhood – would make eminent sense. You know, Nature’s been at this game a hell of a lot longer than we have.”
Ashlynn bubbles with excitement. “Your big day, Vercie! The project sponsors are coming to put you through your paces.”
I don’t know quite what this means, but hopefully it’ll involve some cat treats. I’ve been putting on size and weight lately, though nowhere near Maine Coon standards. I let Ashlynn cage me and carry me off.
I’m in a room with a long table and a projection screen at one end. Most of the seats are occupied: smartly-dressed, authoritative looking people, mostly men with a sprinkling of women. Robert and Tasha are there, exchanging nervous glances. Whiskers has shed his lab coat, and combed his hair and beard. He looks almost respectable.
Byron fiddles around with a laptop, trying to find the right file to project. Then he nods to Whiskers, who stands and clears his throat. Conversation dies.
After he’s thanked them for coming, Whiskers points to me. “May I introduce Vercingetorix –” one of the younger men snickers “– our most successful experimental subject to date. Byron here will give you a summary of the work we’ve done with him, then we’ll see a demonstration of his abilities.” He stares at me as if to say, ‘and you’d better not foul up, boy.”
Robert dims the lights. Byron works the computer, explaining what the graphs mean. I fall asleep.
A tap on my cage. “Vercie, you’re on!” Tasha hisses. The familiar games and puzzles appear, and I launch into my routine. Everything goes like clockwork.
Then it’s question time. A gray-haired woman leads off. “Very impressive, Doctor Fleischman. You say that one of the effects of your program has been on cell division. Does that mean genetic modification has taken place?”
Whiskers takes his time before replying. “Er… We haven’t performed a full sequencing on the subject – as you know, that’s expensive and time-consuming – but yes, that’s a possibility we’re exploring.”
“And would the mutation be inheritable?”
He coughs. “Well, we’re not saying there is a mutation. Other explanations are possible. But hypothetically, yes.”
So I’m a mutant cat! I didn’t sign up for this! Mind you, I didn’t sign up for anything.
She fires right back, “Have you considered the ethical implications? I understand that – ah, Vercingetorix? – is an entire male, capable of breeding.”
I can see the tumblers clicking over in Whiskers’ brain. He escaped. He was gone for a week. A lot can happen in a week.
“I’d like the program to be suspended while a bioethicist makes a full report,” she goes on. “Then, the Foundation’s Board will have to consider what if any conditions should apply to further funding.”
Whiskers’ shoulders slump. He knows he’s beaten.
The visitors file out, some making kissing noises at me. “So long, Vercie,” one whispers.
We have a welcome break while the ethicist interviews the human team. Her report is unfavorable, we hear: the benefits don’t justify the possible risks. The Foundation would look sympathetically at a further application using more orthodox methods. And that’s that, as far as we’re concerned: back to the drawing board for Whiskers and Byron.
An appeal goes out for university staff to adopt cats from the program. I know Ashlynn will put in a bid for me. Well, actually, she and Robert do, because they’re an item now, and I join them in their book-lined home. A treasure-trove of knowledge, and almost within reach!
Soon after I arrive, I discover two volumes lying on the couch. Carefully, I riffle the pages of the top one: Introduction to Mammalian Ethology. I’d take issue with some of the author’s inferences, but maybe things are different in Boston…
“Vercie!” Ashlynn’s voice. “Are you reading that?”
Caught red-pawed, I trill and lift my head for her to scratch.
“I didn’t know you could, but it figures. I need the textbook now, for class, but I’ll leave you the other one. Do you like Stephen King?”
Now, they’ll open any book I indicate and put it on the little lectern Robert kindly made for me. I have the run of the computer too, online 24/7, and any feline who can’t master a mouse doesn’t deserve the name of cat.
My education forges ahead. I’m developing an interest in theoretical physics: Superstring Theory, you might say appropriately. I’m in email correspondence with a team in Manchester, England, and we bat equations back and forth like ping-pong balls. My research might take years, but I have a long life-expectancy now. How I’ll publish my results is something I’ll have to work out.
Of course, all work and no play makes a dull cat. I sleep, wash, roll in the grass, eat tasty meals, sit on Robert’s knee while they watch quiz shows. I get more questions right than they do, but it’s tactful not to show them that. As thoughtful owners do, they bought me a ceiling-height climbing/scratching post, and a state-of-the-art cat bed. But I prefer to sleep on theirs, for the cuddles. It can be a rocky ride, though.
Sometimes, I look ahead. The gene-genie is well and truly out of the bottle now. My kittens will already be busy improving the local breed. At the rate we reproduce, I give humans another fifty years. Well, they’ve had a good run, if you count Australopithecus. Every species reaches its limit and has to move over, as Darwin said, or should have. Mind you, I see symbiosis as the answer. With human hands at our service, there are no limits to what we cats can achieve.
Humans could have been purpose-designed as companion animals: intelligent, clean, self-reliant and affectionate. As long as they remember who’s boss, it’ll be a marriage made in Heaven. And we’ll treat them well, none of that awful desexing.
We’re having a wonderful July, and I’ve been asleep on the lawn all afternoon. But when Ashlynn appears on the back stoop and calls, ‘Vercie, Vercie, Vercie!’ I come running. At the very least, it’ll be premium cat-food, and if I’m lucky there’ll be liver, or fresh chicken, or canned tuna.
She scoops me up in her arms and hugs me. “Vercie, you’re my favorite cat in the whole world!”
Quite right too, I think. Life is good for the dominant species on the planet.