Purrfectionism

Bobby had been dreaming of The Sphinx. Its completion with a human head was seen as heretical by the cat community and had remained a sore spot for millennia, though he could scarcely blame the clumsy, oafish humans, who were obviously jealous of the feline form, and sought perfection through imitation. Bobby loved his human servants and considered himself a benevolent master, but felt it was important to remain cognizant of their foibles and inadequacies. Case in point: he was hungry and they were all still asleep.

Bobby padded into the empty kitchen and regarded his empty bowl. Inhaling deeply, he began to sing, his mournful serenade echoing off the walls as if the pre-dawn house were a monastery. It was what the humans called Sun Day and the family was inclined to sleep in, so Bobby performed with extra vigor, bellowing deep tones until The Mom arrived in slipper-feet and opened a can of cat food on the counter. Bobby wound through her legs as she did so, marking her with his scent so other cats would know to whom she belonged.

The family filtered into the kitchen as Bobby ate. Afterwards, he waited by the refrigerator for one of The Girls to get his cheese, observing them with the usual pity. He cared for them, but they were so slow, dim-witted, and hopeless. “No wonder they worship us,” he thought, “they will never know the joy of catching a bird on the wing, poor things.”