Nonfiction—From my Cat’s POV—“Genocide but call me Jenny around company”
The woman opens the balcony door and asks if I would like to go outside, but I don't like the noises, or how the sun scorches the carpet, or the smells which rise—smells like hot metal, flowers, petrol, mold, grass, rubber, sweat, and the wildcoats of animals. Into rich, odorous clothes I hide, or the crevice between the washer/dryer, or behind the box of Aquafinas in the pantry (I have long learned how to open the cabinet with a single claw). Why would they think I want to be a part of the world out there? Even my owners send me scurrying with their thunderous soles and blundering bodies and voices mean as dropped books (that is, when they're speaking to each other—they reserve sweet, strained noises for me). If I'm feeling brave (so rare, so rare) I might tiptoe across the balcony and look from the rail and tempt myself to go down. Sometimes I see cats slinking by blue wheels. They're not startled by the angry breaths of cars, but they hiss if a human comes close. The smells of these cats scare me most—smells of musk and might, of freedom and poetry.