Homeless Mike

With dark metallic, golden eyes, and a brooding face, Mike stares out at me from across the room. Hidden in the deep well of hopelessness (the unorganized pile of books and things hidden beside the sofa in a somewhat concealed corner of the living room), Mike seems to wait in vain for the love and attention that had once been lavished upon him not so long ago. In the dimness of his appointed domain, he sends deep thoughts to my brain as I sit in my easy chair, rippling away; engrossed in the late night movie I'm watching.

I suddenly took notice of the poor little black wad of shrunken fur, wondering, was he the cause of the cat fit Gretchen threw in the living room just the other night? Why, he couldn't be, I consoled myself, for it still worried me a great deal about what had sent my little Gretchen into a furry of yowls and screeches at three in the morning when she's the only cat in the house.

Mike concentrated harder. His thoughts entered my mind as a pitiful mourn. "Thank you for giving me a home," he stated first, but then his glowing eyes once again darkened, his sigh arcane. "I was happy once," he said. "I had a place of prominence in a home much like this one. I had loving arms wrapped around me that squeezed me tight. Lavish kisses bestowed upon my small little nose. I miss all that," his sigh deepened.

Our mind links were broken by a distraction from the other end of the house. A familiar stirring, a tiny plea, a noisy crunching, all recognizable after a moment of listening. Gretchen had slipped from her bed, from a nap, and decided to have a snack at her feeding station in the computer room (she has two feeding stations—one for snacks).

Mike seemed to reposition himself, his thought reaching me again. "Yes, it was her that I startled in the night. She doesn't treat me so right. After all, I am a stranger in this place. I lost my home when my master died. I'm grateful you found me and washed me and warmed me. I am grateful for all that."

I rose from my chair and crossed the room. I picked the strange little black cat up and held him for a moment. I remembered he was all alone in the darkness he'd last called home. It was cold, and smoky, and lonely for him there, afterwards. I had not even recognized he'd even lived there. Nine days plus seven he'd hidden, until I had found him in an old cardboard box in the dark recesses of the closet. White Kitten was there with him, but she didn't care. She is soft and pretty and has washed up quite well. Mike is made of odd stuff. His deep black coat, a mixture of fluff and wiry hair, kinda melted in the dryer. "Poor little fellow," I cooed, "I'm sorry I neglected you so. I'm sorry Gretchen has not given you notice, I'll tell her you're here to stay and she might as well welcome you. By way of conciliation, Gretchen has ignored White Kitten, also. She treats her as just another bit of fluff that adorns one of her beds (she has two).

I want you to accept this as your home from now on, Mike. It will take time for Gretchen to come round. She's not used to having someone like you nearby. I think because of your thoughtful eyes, you may be a bit too real for her." And for me, I added secretly.

Mike is adopted you see. He's not like the cats you and I know, of course. He has strange golden eyes that burn into your thoughts and gives you start, a brooding forehead, tiny scrumpled ears and a few thready whiskers. He's more than a deaf and dumb stuffed cat. He has a soul. He's real inside and I've vowed to treat him as so.

Even though he likes his place in the corner behind the sofa, on top of hidden clutter, he comes out now and again, giving Gretchen a shudder, and today I let him sit atop my computer and tell me all his woes.

I re-introduced Gretchen to Mike, today. Still she just hasn't accepted him as real. But I have.