A pussycat’s job is to instruct the human in pussycat care, by which I mean that Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, occasionally kicks a superball to the middle of the living room floor and stares at me. I stare back at those luminous green eyes. One of my uncles told me the warden glared at him and said, “Green-eyed people are the most devious. I’ll be keeping my eye on you.” The cat, every muscle taut, makes a noise that indicates I am slow to catch on. I march over and kick the ball to him. He kicks it back. I kick it to him. He kicks it back. By now he is already bored. I am not the world’s best cat playmate, apparently. If he could have actual playmates I could unlock the front door without stage fright and feelings of failure.
This morning, the cat, every muscle in his tiny cat-person rippling, attempted to teach me another game. I think the object of this game was to get me to stay home with him. It’s hard to tell though because I put on my coat and left. Someone has to go out and earn the tuna.