No one knows this, but my cat can speak English. I’ve never told a soul, because he refuses to talk to anyone but me.
Sometimes, when the house is quiet and the light is low, I’ll hear his voice—soft, deliberate, slightly amused.
“Humans make everything so complicated,” he’ll sigh. “You rush, you worry, you forget to nap.”
We have vivid conversations about the nature of humans, about how birds stir the ancient hunting instinct that still flickers inside him.
“They’re not innocent, you know,” he once said, twitching his tail. “They tease us from the branches. But I admire their freedom.”
He’s seen me cry, rage, and fall silent at injustices that seem petty to him.
When I once told him the world felt cruel, he simply answered,
“Then make your corner of it kind.”
When I once told him the world felt cruel, he simply answered,
“Then make your corner of it kind.”
Cats, of course, have their own philosophy: sleep as much as possible, keep an eye out for ghosts, wail for food, wash after meals, play wildly with a favorite coil toy, and at day’s end, curl up beside the one you love.
At night, he cuddles beside me and murmurs, “You did your best today. That’s enough.”
He speaks only when he chooses, and never when I ask. But in his silence, he still answers me.
My cat can speak English—
but we keep that between us.
but we keep that between us.
Georgia
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