Returning from work one December evening just after dark, I kicked off my shoes as I entered my house, weary from the day. I proceeded to drop my coat and bag on the hallway floor and began discarding my clothes on my way to the bathroom, desiring nothing but a hot bath to soak in and wash away the day’s grime. Just as I was beginning to peel my underclothes off, a voice stopped me in my tracks.
“I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” it said.
A shiver erupted from my core and traveled up to my scalp, out to my fingertips, and all the way down to my toes, raising every ounce of hair on my body.
Instantly, my mind raced, cataloging every potential weapon-like item that existed in my home and mentally calculating the time it would take to retrieve said items. You see, I live alone. Hearing a voice could only mean one of two things: I had gone certifiably insane, or there was an intruder in my house.
Realizing I would have to try and talk my way out of danger, I slowly turned around, readying myself for who—or what—I would encounter. My stomach lurched. The hallway was empty. I listened very carefully for any sounds from either direction.
“Down here,” the voice said.
Immediately, I dropped my gaze, and there sat Karl, my five-year-old, long-haired gray tuxedo cat. The pounding of my heart eased ever so slightly, although if I were a cat, my ears would have been on alert—facing right and left, listening for sounds elsewhere in the house—even as I stared straight at Karl.
If there wasn’t an intruder, that could only mean one thing. I had gone insane. After the week I’d had at work, it wouldn’t even come as a surprise.
He sat there on his haunches, large green eyes unblinking, the only movement coming from the very tip of his long, fluffy tail as it rhythmically flicked back and forth, back and forth. As we remained there in the narrow hallway, amidst our staring contest of sorts, I decided to test my theory. Looking straight at Karl so there would be no question as to who I was addressing, I asked him very matter-of-factly, “Why not?”
Thirty seconds came and went without a sound; the silent flicking of his tail marking the passing of time. Suddenly I released the breath I wasn’t aware I had been holding and began to turn back toward the bathroom door, when I heard this:
“Archie got into your Christmas cookies and then got sick on the bathroom mat. As I said earlier, I wouldn’t go in there if I were you.”
I stood there with my mouth agape, watching as he began nonchalantly licking his paw, as if this kind of thing happened every day—as if it was perfectly normal for a cat to talk to a human!
Thoughts scrambled in my head, fighting to organize themselves into coherent words. How could I possibly respond to this? What do I say?
“Why didn’t you stop him?” I asked. Wait—did I really just talk to my cat? Hold on, I talk to my cats all the time. Just… they had never answered me back.
“Have you always been able to talk?” I asked him.
“Of course,” he replied.
“Then why haven’t you ever said anything before now? We’ve lived together for 5 years.”
At that, he looked away with disgust, then returned to cleaning his paws.
I must be going insane, I thought as I turned to walk into the bathroom. At this point, I had been standing in my underwear for several minutes, and I was freezing. I didn’t even bother turning on the light, but headed straight to the tub.
“Ugh! Gross!” I exclaimed just as I felt something slimy, cold, and wet under my foot. I did a sort of one-legged hop over to the switch and flipped it up. Looking down, sure enough, there was cat vomit on the mat.
“I tried to warn you,” a voice came from the hall.
Rolling my eyes I stepped into the tub and rinsed off my foot. After cleaning the mess as best I could, I deposited the mat into the washing machine and pressed the start button.
I turned around, and there was Archie in the window, watching me with imploring eyes.
“Can you talk too?” I asked him.
Crickets.
Shaking my head, I headed back to the bathroom, hoping to finally get into that bath I had longed for all day. Maybe afterward I could take a nap before dinner, and I would wake up and my head would be clear.
“I’m sorry for eating your plate of Christmas cookies.”
Once more, goosebumps rose across every inch of my skin. A warm nudge on my leg. Archie had jumped down and was apologetically rubbing up against me, his motor rumbling loudly.
“It’s okay, I said. I hope your belly is feeling better now.”
And with that, I patted his head, turned, and walked to the bathroom, shutting the door behind me. I closed my eyes and sank down into the hottest water I could stand.