Chopper is a funny cat, an alien really. He comes from else where with an extra long tail that fluffs wide when it's cold.
At night, he pokes his bony paws into our chests and licks our fingers and palms. Skin samples, we found. That's what he was licking off our fingers and palms. He sends them up through his tail that sticks straight up like an antenna, transmits to the mother ship. He watches us with dark eyes, not evil, not contriving at all, just sweet and kind, luring us in to pet him, to cradle him with love as he licks our fingers and palms.
Silly cat, I say.
My husband laughs and tells me he glimpsed the mother ship the other night, when he stood out on the rotting, wood deck, as he looked up at the stars. There it was above our home, half invisible but there nonetheless, hovering, collecting Chopper's samples. We don't feel angry by it or deceived. We find it funny, though we don't know what they do with all our saliva-stained samples.
Chopper went missing once, for two weeks.
We looked everywhere, wandered up and down the streets with "Missing Kitty" fliers under our arms. We cried, or at least I did, and called his name. And then one morning, after we had already accepted the fact that he was gone, I woke to a loud meow outside my window. At first, I thought it was just me dreaming a dream of Chopper talking to me like he used to, so I fell back asleep but was woken shortly by another meow.
I gathered my sleepy limbs and managed to the backdoor and who stood under the window but Chopper himself, all skinny and sad looking. I brought him into the house and cuddled with him in bed. His hair felt dirty and oily, not soft and smooth, and he wouldn't stop licking and meowing and rubbing against me so eager to get his love he had missed for two weeks.
We figured the mother ship took him for a while. I'm sure he stood up for us humans down here, and they didn't stand for his subordinate behavior and fired him.
His still an alien, jobless now, but that's okay. We like him all the same.
At night, he pokes his bony paws into our chests and licks our fingers and palms. Skin samples, we found. That's what he was licking off our fingers and palms. He sends them up through his tail that sticks straight up like an antenna, transmits to the mother ship. He watches us with dark eyes, not evil, not contriving at all, just sweet and kind, luring us in to pet him, to cradle him with love as he licks our fingers and palms.
Silly cat, I say.
My husband laughs and tells me he glimpsed the mother ship the other night, when he stood out on the rotting, wood deck, as he looked up at the stars. There it was above our home, half invisible but there nonetheless, hovering, collecting Chopper's samples. We don't feel angry by it or deceived. We find it funny, though we don't know what they do with all our saliva-stained samples.
Chopper went missing once, for two weeks.
We looked everywhere, wandered up and down the streets with "Missing Kitty" fliers under our arms. We cried, or at least I did, and called his name. And then one morning, after we had already accepted the fact that he was gone, I woke to a loud meow outside my window. At first, I thought it was just me dreaming a dream of Chopper talking to me like he used to, so I fell back asleep but was woken shortly by another meow.
I gathered my sleepy limbs and managed to the backdoor and who stood under the window but Chopper himself, all skinny and sad looking. I brought him into the house and cuddled with him in bed. His hair felt dirty and oily, not soft and smooth, and he wouldn't stop licking and meowing and rubbing against me so eager to get his love he had missed for two weeks.
We figured the mother ship took him for a while. I'm sure he stood up for us humans down here, and they didn't stand for his subordinate behavior and fired him.
His still an alien, jobless now, but that's okay. We like him all the same.
Cute, Catherine :-)
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