is it a cat?
tonight’s bowl of soup is miso soup with a side of painful wrists.
hi, hello.
it is once again, 11 in the evening. do things feel real for you this late at night, or has reality started to blur? in my case, i’m not so sure.
i hurt my wrist recently. it hurts a lot, despite the pain meds. anyways, that doesn’t really matter. it’s sunday night and reality’s starting to fall apart so come sit by me. i have a story to share.
oh, if you’re new here, come join me at the table. tonight, i have miso soup and some cookies.
I once read a Japanese book that started with “I am a cat. As yet, I have no name.” and another that started with “I am a cat. As yet, I have no name. There’s a famous cat in our country who once made this very statement.” And so I wonder, what is it with Japan and cats? More importantly, what would it be like if people introduced themselves in a similar manner?
Would it fly if I introduce myself to others with “I am a person. As yet, I do have a name,” or would I fail miserably and end up as a laughingstock? A part of me wants to try it out. Alas, I live in fear of becoming the butt of everyone’s joke for the rest of eternity, so the introduction stays in the deepest part of my mind, never to see the light of day.
On the topic of books and cats, lately I’ve noticed that the number of books that had animals—not limited to cats—as the protagonist are many in number.
Another common protagonist in this genre is the dog. However, I have yet to read a book that started with “I am a dog. As yet, I have no name.” It would be rather interesting, I think, to have a canine protagonist that was as mysterious as the feline.
“What are you thinking of that you’re staring into space so seriously?” My mother was one who liked to sneak up on me, often saying that she wasn’t. You’re just too lost in your thoughts to hear me, kid! While half of that may be true, a part of me does think she’s out to get me. One of these days, she might give me a heart attack and I’ll pass on before she does.
“I was wondering,” I start, straightening my back and turning to face her. “If our dog could speak, how would he introduce himself?”
As enthralled I am with cats, we still do not own one. My mother, you see, dislikes them with a great passion. She says they stink and that they’re too “creepy with those weird eyes of theirs.” So, at my house, we only have a dog. If I wanted to play with cats, I’d have to go to the nearby park or to a friend’s house.
It worked, though, since I still am more of a dog person than a cat. Cats are cute and all, especially with the way they just slink when you pick them up, but nothing will beat the adorable charm of a dog greeting you excitedly when you get home. My dog is especially cute, with his little stub of a tail and ridiculously big eyes. He is, however, nothing close to mysterious and I doubt he would introduce himself as “I am a dog. As yet, I do have a name.”
I think he’s more of a tail wagging and a large amount of yelling type.
“You’re thinking of something really stupid again.” She sighs, her eyebrows knitting together as she clicks her tongue. “If you have that much time for silly thoughts, go clean your room or something!”
“We have all the time in the world to think of silly thoughts like these, mommy,” I reply, shaking my head. “We’re stuck at home twenty-four-seven, thanks to the virus.”
I hold back on saying that if my father were home, he’d go along with my train of thought. It seems to be that, at home, only my mother took things seriously; or, to be more exact, she was the only one who actually had enough brains to think properly. Outside of anything serious, my father and I tend to be rather brain dead. My mother may call it stupidity, but we’d quite like to call it saving brain power.
As my father often says, “if I think too much outside of work, I may end up using the brain cells required to come up with my weekly work quota of one Bright Idea!”
“The virus is exactly why you need to clean!” my mother says, shoving a clean dust cloth into my hand. “Your room is a mess. What if you brought it home with you?”
“Oh mommy,” I reply, shaking my head and crossing my arms. “You know I’m not the type to bring home boys without consulting you.”
She doesn’t laugh at my joke. She only looks at me with a great deal of disbelief and disappointment before leaving me to my own devices; something she has done often since the quarantine began. I find it amusing how she takes everything too seriously.
“I swear to God, I lose more brain cells every time you open that mouth of yours.” She says this from the kitchen. I could only imagine her rigorously scrubbing the marble counters with a rag soaked in too strong cleaning agents as she says this.
I ignore her and simply go back to my room. It’s not as big of a mess as my mother makes it out to be. It’s the same as every teenager’s room, except maybe the amount of books stacked all over the floor.
My room, being as small as it is, no longer has space for any more shelves or crates to house my books, so they’ve taken to the floor. It’s a rather nice look if I may say, but my mother thinks otherwise. Perhaps she just doesn’t understand the beauty of book stacks.
I look at the clock hanging on my wall. It reads three-forty, and I think three-forty is the perfect time for a nap. It’s not too early in the afternoon, but not too late either. If I sleep well enough, I’d wake up at five, which would be the perfect time to prepare dinner or take a shower. If my sleep is only so-so, I’d wake up a little after four, which would be the perfect time for a late afternoon snack.
Either way, it’s a win-win situation. So I close my eyes and count sheep until I fall asleep.
𓆝
In my dream, I sit on the floor of an empty room. It’s too dark to tell, but I know it’s a room. After all, it is my dream. I sit alone in silence for what seems like forever before the light flickers across the room.
The lone lightbulb above me flickers once and then twice.
I look down and all of a sudden, I am no longer alone. In front of me is a white Persian cat and a greying Scottish Terrier. You know, the breed Jock from Lady and the Tramp was.
“I am a cat. As yet, I have no name,” the cat says, its tail sweeping across the floor gracefully.
“I am a dog. As yet, I have no name,” the dog says, sitting as tall as it can be.
This introduction seems to be today’s theme. Perhaps I’m dreaming of this because I’ve given it too much thought today. I begin to wonder if my mother was right. Maybe I have been thinking too many stupid thoughts lately.
“Then, shall I give you a name?” But since cats and dogs never talk in real life, I wish to get the most out of this dream. I’ve never had a dream like this either. Most of the time, if the two animals did invade my dreams, they would only mewl and bark. Never have they talked, even in my strangest and wildest of dreams.
“I would like that.” The cat lies down, curling neatly into a ball.
“As would I.” The dog, on the other hand, leaps into my lap, happily making itself home.
“Then, tell me what you like,” I say, caressing its smooth black fur.
The cat goes on about the things she likes. The list included fish, as expected. Despite liking fish, however, she dislikes the ocean. She says it’s too loud and scary for someone her size. I tell her she is rather small. She ignores me and goes on with her list, which includes bells, wind chimes, crunchy food (on occasion—she put a lot of emphasis on this), and an occasional grooming.
She says she likes spring, but not winter or summer. She says autumn is only so-so. She likes the colour of the leaves, but dislikes the mess it makes. The only takeaway I have from this mostly one sided conversation was that she was rather fussy for a cat. I’ve yet to meet a cat as fussy as she was. Most of them, be it house cat or street cat, we’re fine with whatever.
So I name her Margaret. I originally intended for her to be Margarethe, after Denmark’s first queen, but she said the spelling was too much of a pain to remember. So Margaret she became.
“And what about you?” I ask the dog, who seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep.
As expected of a dog, he says he likes going on walks. He dislikes fish since they smell “so very horrible” and would opt for chicken instead. Quite surprisingly, he doesn’t like bones—says they’re too much of a hassle to play with since he couldn’t eat them anyways. He likes the ocean, but dislikes the pool. He doesn’t mind the crunchy food he sometimes receives, but he hates being groomed.
He says he’s not too fond of summer and spring, since they bring about all kinds of allergies and bugs. In turn, he thoroughly enjoys winter and autumn because the ground makes plenty of interesting noise when he goes out on walks.
Since he rather enjoys all kinds of sounds, I name him Ravel. Maurice would have been a nice name, but it didn’t quite suit him. Something about his face just not being a Maurice.
“I am a cat. As yet, I now have a name,” Margaret says, quite proudly. Her tail still sweeps the floor quite gracefully. “My name is Margaret.”
“I am a dog. As yet, I now have a name,” Ravel says, getting off my lap and sitting down in front of me. He holds his head up high. “My name is Ravel.”
“What is yours?” They ask this in such a commanding tone, I sit in silence for a moment.
This, I think, is the perfect time to follow the pattern of introduction; just as I have always wanted. But before I could open my mouth to tell them my name, the curtain closes on my dream and I wake up with quite a violent start.
I sit up slowly, eyes darting across my room to find the clock. Once I see it, I realise that it’s already a little past five. I head to the dining room to get a glass of water.
𓆝
“I had a weird dream.” My father, now home from the grocery, sits beside me on one of the barstools in our kitchen.
“What was it?” He takes a sip of his coffee and lets out a satisfied sigh.
I frown, trying to remember what exactly it was I dreamt of, but for some reason—other than it being weird, I don’t remember a thing.
“I don’t remember,” I say, the frown on my face only deepening. “All I know was that it was weird.”
“Too bad,” he replies, sliding over a plate of cookies.
The cookies, this time around, were store bought since the grocery ran out of baking powder. I could only wonder why people would want to hoard it in this pandemic. Perhaps they were stress baking. Or, perhaps they had ridiculously smelly closets so they used baking powder to ward off the stench. Wait, was that baking powder or baking soda? I can’t remember
“Oh yeah, if our dog could talk, what do you think he’d say?” Since my mother refused to answer my question, I decided to squeeze one out from my dad instead.
“I think he’d tell you to buy him better food,” he replies, pointing at the empty food bowl by the refrigerator. “He’s probably wondering why he never gets any of the food we cook and instead, gets a mixture of pork and potatoes with no seasoning at all.”
As if agreeing with him, my dog let out a rather loud bark. I looked at him once and then once more, before deciding that if he could speak, he would perhaps begin with “I am a dog. As yet, I have a name. But more importantly, I have no food.”
He is quite gluttonous, that dog of mine.
hugs.
if you’ve read this before, no you have not ❤️ jokes aside, i wrote this in the earlier part of quarantine. i haven’t put it up anywhere so i thought i’d share it today. and, in case you were wondering, the books in question are (1) i am a cat by natsume soeseki and (2) the travelling cat chronicles by hiro arikawa. i’ve yet to read the former, but the latter is a very nice read.
earlier, i mentioned that i hurt my wrist. i’m supposed to rest it, but it’s difficult, considering it’s my dominant hand and i keep using it. it’s also harder to cook and bake since it hurts whenever i try to slice things, but luckily my parents are nice enough to help me out. thanks to them, i was able to make croque monsieurs for lunch (my own béchamel and all) and miso soup for dinner.
if you read my about page, you’d know i’m working on writing a novel. i’m not posting any sneak peeks yet, but i will tell you that i’ve been doing a lot of research on coffee and different ways of making coffee, so that’s cool.
anyways, like last time, here’s a song to help you start slowing down your evening. this one has lyrics unlike the last one, but it’s still pretty calming.
thank you again for being here and spending some time with me. i’ll see you soon!
with love,
misha