Sunrise

I don’t like taking the bus. For one thing, it’s dirty. And noisy. Oh, so noisy. Not a nice noise, like the peaceful chit chat of a sidewalk café in Paris or the beautiful rumble of a trombone in an old concert hall. On the contrary, it is a noise of the most dreadful, migraine-inducing kind. Another reason I dislike this mode of transportation is that it robs me of my mystery. While walking down the street, I can simply nod at fellow pedestrians and offer them a pleasant ‘how do you do’ like a proper gentleman, and it shocks them into disbelief or makes them question their sanity, depending on individual dispositions and mental health states. But on the bus, my fellow travelers have time to question me, a scenario that takes the mystery from my novelty.

The stares I receive might be considered bothersome by someone of lesser character than myself, but I bear them with pride. Most persons in the fine United States of America are not accustomed to hearing a bespectacled feline expound on the more nuanced aspects of life on earth, and as many are in a dubious state of mental health, it is not uncommon for me to see someone engage in behavior that suggests a dissolving of beliefs and a strong questioning of the world around them. Perhaps that is my purpose in life, after all, to shatter their perception of the world and bring these humans to a higher level of meaning and consciousness. Or perhaps I am simply a freak of nature. A simple tabby cat with bad eyesight and the mind and voice of a human. Ha. I jest. The idea is simply preposterous. I am destined for greatness.

However, with such impressive greatness comes a great sacrifice, a price to pay. I was rather oblivious to this possibility, or perhaps didn’t care for its implications, until it blindsided me one fine rainy day. As I was busy contemptuously judging the actions of clearly inferior human passersby and reflecting on the glory of my own intellect and immaculate fur, I glimpsed the loveliest creature my brilliant green eyes had ever seen. Her coal-black fur was soaked and slicked against a graceful and finely muscled figure, and long silky eyelashes shielded her soft yellow eyes from the sky’s waterfall. I swiftly leapt from my comfortable perch atop a cushioned chair and pushed open the door to my favorite coffee shop, flexing my voluminous muscles for her benefit.

“Come in out of the rain, my dear lady.” My gracious welcome was met only by a faint purr, the language I now understand to be common among other felines. I followed her through the shop, shocking a patron with a sharp ‘how dare you’ when he attempted to push her out with his large and ungainly foot. My gallant actions were ignored, though I protected her pathway and offered her a warm drink siphoned from a spigot in the kitchen.

It was with a sinking sensation that I realized she was not of a humanistic inclination. Her language was not of the world, but of her fellow cats. She did not understand me, and most unfortunately, I did not understand her. It was then that I bitterly cursed my lot in life, though this did no good. The lady feline found a heater at the base of the back wall, and curled in a dainty circle, her delicate paws tucked under her feathery tail. A hope sprung into my brain as I realized the universal language of touch knows no language or intellect bounds. I curled next to her, tentatively at first, then confidently as she laid her head on my back. Dusk fell and night crept around us, turning the comforting shop into a room of shadows. We were alone, together, in a chamber boasting a wealth of warm milk. After dining, we resumed our resting state, though I was far from sleep.

As her gentle breathing filled my chest with a strange yet welcome feeling, my mind raced with thoughts of learning her language, of communicating my feelings. I had heard of a stone, the fabled Rosetta Stone, a stone that would give you the language of another, a stone that could bring my newborn dream to fruition. If I could only find this stone…

“You are perfection,” I whispered, desperately wishing that she would hear, that she would understand. But it was not to be. As the sun rose, bathing us in the glory of yet another morning, the lady feline stirred, and rose to her feet. She touched her nose to mine, a simple gesture that made me forget how to breathe. When I returned to a semblance of my former state, she was slipping out the door on the heels of a harried businessman.

“Wait!” My desperate cry was unheeded except by a startled barista who promptly dropped the coffee mug she was holding. I darted after the lady feline, slicing my paws on the broken ceramic. Bloody pawprints trailed behind me into the street as I followed her retreating figure into the sunrise.

It was no use. Stopping, dejected, in the street, I watched her climb onto a bus, something like a sob catching in my throat. It was in that moment, as the bus drove into the sunrise, I vowed to find the Rosetta Stone. And when I do, I will find her. It is destined to be.