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.