Apparently last night was a defining moment in the life of Hildebeest. I was sitting here. She was off to one of her seven other perches. Outta nowhere comes this huge catscream followed by much spitting and growls. I head to the bathroom, where she's in the window, behind the venetian blinds. All that shows is her long tortietail, which is blown up to three times its regular size. I pull back the blind and put a hand on her back and she screams twice and runs out to the hall, where she spazzes and slides into the bedroom in a paralytic freakout. I have no idea what happened. There was nothing out there when I looked, and no sign of anything having been there. She'd shed a nail but there wasn't even a pull in the screen. Who knows.
She hasn't been the same since.
She's a moping teenager. She slept almost all day, her head hanging dramatically upside down off the davenport, with the distinct aura of hopelessness. She ate her turkey with a certain resigned suffering. I tried playing the ball-on-a-string on-a-pole with her, her favorite toy, and she just looked deeply over her shoulder and looked away. I swear she did a head-sweep. None of my efforts to snap her out of it have worked. She'll tolerate something for a moment, then get up and slowly lope away, a sigh expressed in motion. It's the emo of a teenager. High cat drama.
It'd be nice to know, but I never will, what the hell happened in that window last night. Perhaps she faced a doppelganger, or her own mortality, or both. Maybe she realized this was all life is. Or that she'll never have that gray tabby she left in the Maine shelter. I dunno. Something existential went on.
Hamlet Under Almond Bough
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