Part 2 of the 64-part series called "moon photos"
He lives in another dimension intersecting with ours, but not completely. That's why sometimes cats see things that aren't there, or why they don't see things that are, sometimes. His body contorts itself, like a picture of a cat falling to land on its feet in a textbook, but he's lying on the bed, asleep, as far as I can tell. If I move the stick with the tiny bell and the feather, he doesn't react, but looks like he's trying not to. He's hard to read, my cat, and harder to predict. I watch him all the time, trying to figure out his motivations, but the intersectional dimensionality of our differing world- views keeps any real progress in that area from being made. A small comfort can be taken in the fact that, for every weird, ineffable act of his that I can't comprehend, there is one of mine that is just as strange, just as incomprehensible, to he who bats glasses off counters, who shits in a box, who leaves hairballs on the sofa. We misunderstand each other too well.