Cats on Tuesday: Mike's Retort

There was another wild scene in the living room last night.
I heard it this time. I got up and turned on the light and found Mike (formerly Homeless Mike) and Gretchen head to head.

Mike had crept from his darkened den onto the sofa, clearly Gretchen's domain.
He pulled the skeins of yarn from the knitting basket and strung them all around. Gretchen was not going to allow this kind of behavior from a stuffed cat, albeit a mysteriously catlike, stuffed cat. Mike had no defense except his piercing yellow eyes. Spits and spats flew back and forth between the two, Gretchen's voice being the only audible one, of course. Mike is telepathic and his feelings were not diminished one whit because he had no audible voice. He gave as good as he got.

The light bothered neither cat, so I sat down and watched them have their little tiff. It was bound to happen, you see, nearly a month had passed without so much as a peep from the fuzzy black creature.

Suddenly I was entertained by the sounds only the mind can hear, when one tends to tune out the world's definition of real, and uses the imaginary.

Mike stood his ground and turned his haunting eyes toward me, "I've been silent long enough," he screeched. "And you've ignored me long enough, too! I've sat here all this long time and watched all that you do, from morning 'till night. Not even once have I picked a fight with Gretchen. And you still let that old rag, White Kitten, sleep in one of Gretchen's beds. After you'd had me out last and wrote your cute little story, you tossed me back into my corner and left me there to collect cobwebs and dust. I'm hurt . . . I'm really hurt!"

Mike shifted his eyes and lowered his brow. Gretchen had taken possession of her quilt on the back of the sofa. No matter what, she was not sharing this spot, a favorite of five special spots. Gretchen had taken possession of the purple and green quilt the day it was brought home after Mike's owner died. Half out of her love for soft, beautiful blankets, and half out of spite, I'm sure, that it had belonged to the wad of black fur who had now encroached upon her sofa and was playing with her toys.
"You vowed you'd treat me like your own," Mike mewed again, his tone softer now. More pitiful than scorn. "You've not kept your promise. One day is all you gave me, one lousy day! You'd let me sit in your special room while you wrote your stories. But after that you've forgotten all about me." I opened my mouth to explain, but he cut me off. "You can't deny it. I know you're thoughts as well as my own."

Shamed into silence with the bare truth of it all, I sat and contemplated what I could do to make up for my thoughtlessness.

I spoke out loud to Gretchen. "Mike's been here for two months now and he's still very unhappy. Won't you please make a little place in your heart for this poor creature? Clearly you can see that he wants to play. He's been no trouble at all, he's good and kind . . . and patient." I added.

Gretchen's eyes glowed in the dim lamplight. A moment of understanding shadowed her eyes. She sprang from her quilt and pounced upon Mike, twirled him around, flipped him over with her hind legs, spilled the contents of her toy basket and proceeded to play.

This is where I left them. It was after all only three—in the morning. I could have been dreaming, or sleepwalking, for all I know. But I knew it wasn't a dream when I woke the next morning and found Mike asleep on the sofa, still wound in yarn, toys spread all about the room. This wasn't a dream, I told myself again, as I cleaned up the clutter.

At last I placed Mike back in his corner and asked him if he and Gretchen had had fun. "Oh, yeah," his eyes half open, his mew one of satisfaction. "Gretchen likes me now, just a little, I think. But she does like me."
"And so do," I whispered, wiping the dust from his golden eyes. "Go to sleep now Mike. You never know when Gretchen will strike next.