The House That I Dreamt

I want to be a cat. Cats are noble. Cunning. Cleopatra had a cat. Winston Churchill probably had a cat. Our future leaders may have cats. There’s something particular about the feline persuasion that sets them apart from dogs, and mice, and geese, and rabbits. They have balance. Always watching, curious, calm. They entertain you, but there’s something strange about being a cat owner that makes you want to stop calling yourself a cat owner. You may feed them, cuddle them, and call them cute as they scowl at you, but that little ball of fluff has more freedom in their little paw then you do in your whole body.

The cat does what it wants, always, and unending. They roam. The night swallows up the cat. Nothing can be sure but the silhouette of the cat, slowly, surely, moving, and living, amongst the shine of the moon. They never harm, unless they scratch you. Even then, how would you feel if somebody, unprompted, started scratching your stomach.

Those furry little creatures are endless. Without space and time. An enigma in the minds of mortal men, but that’s okay, their omniscience is no substitute for power. Realise the poor Lion sits still, caged. We watch. They watch back. We take pictures. They watch back. Love them. Watch them. They watch back. Surrounded by fakery, hoping to catch a taste of the Zookeepers arm as it reaches around yet again to feed the hungry, tired, bored, cat.

Cats are just like us in some ways. They eat, they sleep, they explore, just like people. Cats are just more consistent. They feel constant. They love like we do, they search for it, and yearn for it, as we do, but they do so tirelessly. If we are the river that billows down the mountain, cats are the stream that slip through shallow ravines.

Communing in the streets when humankind sleeps. Cats howl in harmony on suburban rooftops. Two cats meet in the dark in the park, perched on a goal post. “Meow” she says.

I want to be a cat. They don’t have anything to worry about. They just eat cat food. I don’t even know what’s in cat food. I wouldn’t know. I don’t eat it, I’m not a cat. I know what fish tastes like though. I quite like salmon. I’m not sure if all cats even like fish. I do know that the cat does what it needs to do. And what it wants to do. All the time.

I want to do what I want to do all the time. What would it cost? It doesn’t cost the cat anything. The cat is never the breadwinner of the house. It doesn’t do 9 to 5. The cat has no concept of time. Only day and night. Cats only know the cycle of the sun. They role like tides throughout time.

A cat strolls onto a beach somewhere. The sun is on the precipice of the horizon, patiently waiting for the people to start their days again. The cat hates the sand in his feet, but the smell of the salty oceanic breeze was too enticing for the curious cat, especially when a dead fish gently washed on the shore.

Imagine being a cat. Stalking our neighbours’ gardens. Hissing at strangers. A simple life. Maybe not an interesting one. But simple, and soulful. Imagine having a soul. Not that we don’t have souls. It’s just our souls seem to be darker. Less forgiving. We’re less assured of ourselves.

If I was a cat I would sleep in all day. I would leave through my owners’ cat flap and head out into the suburban eco-system just before the sun sets. I would find a cosy rooftop and watch it dip behind the earth, and the sun would bounce off the houses that I am staring over. An orange-pink turning to black and yellow, turning to darkness. The light from the streets hangs in the air. In summer I would grace other cats with my presence, and we would roam the streets.

A conclave of tabbies amongst the over-grown remains of an abandoned back garden. A group of cats idle around in the dry concrete of a dilapidated swimming pool. A cat sits in a tree. Two others on a bench. A couple of cats remain perched on top of the fence, happy just to watch for now. Cats don’t speak English, so a chorus of noise begins. Meowing and hissing. Squaring up, pawing at each other until we grow bored and leave.

On track back to our dens. One of the cat’s lives with a family of nine in a nice little cottage on the very edge of the suburban threshold. Two of the cats swaddle back to their owners, an old rock star and her dentist husband. Three of the cats live together in a box behind a fast food restaurant. I always remember to bring them a dead mouse.

I go back home too. I live with Katie. I used to live with her boyfriend too, but something happened that I don’t quite understand and now he doesn’t live with us anymore. I think it was the language barrier. The day he left I didn’t really leave the house much. That’s okay though. I got to have a lot of ice cream. I got to just lay down on Katie’s bed, and eat ice cream. It was mint choc chip.

I do want to be a cat. I think. I do. There’s nothing wrong with cats is there? They’re wanderers. Seeking themselves in their own time. Wandering. Taking life as it comes. Comfortable in their independence. Wandering. You could say that the cat lives in the zoo. The cat lives in a box. The cat lives in a house. But the zoo, the box, the house, the park, the bottom of an old swimming pool. That’s the world to them. The cat can’t speak to a travel agent. The cat’s boundaries are their world. Their comfortable, cosy, world.

Do I want to be a cat? The cat doesn’t know the world. The cat doesn’t have to pay rent. The cat that lives in a bar in Mexico, doesn’t know about the cat that lives in a hotel in Sweden. But I know about the Grand Canyon. I know about Disneyland. I know I’ve always wanted to retire in a small Spanish village, and I’d paint the house white, I’d walk to the beach, and I’d buy a cat, and I would listen to my shit indie music on a balcony with my beautiful Italian lover. Then on the balcony we would watch the sun sink into the ocean. The light cascading off the water, and the world would shine, and my cat would sit on my lap, in my chair, on my balcony. Watching the sunset, with my cat.