The young man paced back and forth across the room, running his fingers through his hair. He had done this so many times that his hair was standing on end, nearly completely vertical. His frustration showed in his body; his shoulders up, his neck tense, his hands flexing open and shut. A grey tabby cat watched him from the table. The cat wasn’t ruffled; he would often have these pacing spells. Abruptly, the man stopped in mid-stride and stood, staring transfixed at something on the wall. The cat studied him, and after a moment realized that he wasn’t really staring at the wall at all, but somewhere beyond the wall, at something the cat couldn’t see. Suddenly the man’s face lit up and he rushed to the table where the cat lounged on a stack of papers. He began to write feverishly.

​The cat watched the man write, focused on the pen moving to and fro over the paper. The cat was used to these sorts of machinations in his human. Some days the man was quiet and peaceful, reading books and taking notes in the morning, writing methodically in the afternoon. Other days there seemed to be a bit of intensity about the man, and he wrote hurriedly, excitedly, from morning to night. Other days the man slept and slept and slept. Days like today, the man was agitated, pacing and muttering, as if something was irritating him, nagging at his mind. The cat was used to all of these moods, and could generally tell when the man woke up what kind of day it was going to be.

​The cat yawned a large, comfortable, cat-yawn. Soon it would be time for the man to make himself some food, and often he shared it with the cat. Bits of bacon or fish, cheese and milk. The cat enjoyed mealtimes. Aside from tasty food, the man was attentive and communicative to the cat. He would speak to the cat about what was on his mind, and ask questions that the cat did his best to answer. But he didn’t think he ever got through to the man.

​The cat loved best when the man was in the mood to read. He would pick up a book from the shelf, or a stack of papers from his desk, and settle himself in his favorite armchair. The cat would hop up and settle into his lap, turning a complete circle before lying down. Then the man would read aloud to the cat, often pausing to stop and think, and occasionally making a comment or two to the cat, before continuing. During these times, the cat would purr softly, and enjoy listening to the sound of the man’s voice. He would read with feeling, never skipping a beat, and modulated his voice to what was happening in the story. After he was finished reading, the man would stroke the cat, sitting quietly, his mind a thousand miles away in a world of his own. The cat gloried in the quiet and peace, nestled cozily in the man’s lap.

​The man finished writing. He sat quietly chewing his lip for a few moments before throwing down his pen in frustration. He stood, and resumed his pacing. The cat’s stomach rumbled a bit, and the cat noticed that the light was beginning to fade. Soon it would be night, and the man would ready himself for bed, the cat following close behind. As soon as the man was in bed and relaxed, the cat would jump up to the bed and find his favorite spot in the bend of the man’s knees. When the man slept, he always slept hard and soundly, and the cat slept easily to the man’s soft, gentle breathing.

​The cat never slept long at night, however. Night time was prowling time. The cat had a small door all his own, fitted snugly at the bottom of the man’s door. While the man slept, the cat would slip out through his little door, and creep around the garden. He would chase mice and insects, sit in the light of the moon and listen to all of the nightly sounds, and add his own yowls to the night. He patrolled his little area around the man’s house and garden, and often held a couple of trysts with neighboring cats. These meetings were often courteous; the cat was never much of a fighter. When it came to other cats, live and let live was his motto.

​The man stopped pacing and his shoulders slumped. He shook his head with a resigned air. He looked around at the cat, actually seeing him, and nodded. He headed for the kitchen. The cat stood up and stretched, curving his back elegantly. He hopped lightly down off the table and followed the man into the kitchen.

​“Whiskers, old chap, how about a spot of supper?” the man asked the cat.

​“Yes please!” the cat meowed in reply.