I spy on my slave through the slit of the ajar doorway. He’s
sitting in his usual spot, in front of his computer, staring out at the window
beyond. Occasionally he’ll tap words onto the screen.
A brief nudge with my head and I can get my whiskers
through. Moments later, I’m on his lap, purring. I’ve got him where I want him.
As he types, his hands become my paws, his pupils become
slit-like. And for a moment, I’m him. I see what he sees: the computer and
beyond; the open window, the ledge of the roof where the birds perch. I tap
with my paws, write their homophone: PAUSE. And then everything stops.
Safe now, I clamber up from his motionless lap, pad gingerly
around the keyboard, careful not to touch anything. I’ve done that before. And
when the spell breaks, it can cause chaos: cups of coffee flying, piles of CDs
toppling over. His desk is particularly cluttered today, so I raise my tail, take
my time.
Then I’m nudging at the window, tapping the old lead latch.
It took a while to learn how to do this. I nudge it a bit with my muzzle and it
flicks up with a click - after which, the window frame moves outwards with
ease. Needless to say, the birds are as entranced as my slave back there. Easy
prey.
I prowl out, the hair on my back raised, feeling the warm
roof tiles underneath my paws. And then the mulch of the gutter – after all
isn’t it expected that I leave mucky footprints over the house? A few more
paces and then I can take my pick. Which of the three blackbirds looks
tastiest?
Look, I know what you are thinking: it’s cheating. But I’m
eleven now. Too old for running around after birds. I get pains in my hips.
This is much easier. And before you ask, yes, there is a lot you don’t know
about us. Like the hours we spend chasing spirits around the house, so they
don’t interfere with our slaves’ lives. But that’s another story.
I select the choiciest morsel, my teeth sinking into its
neck. Feeble underneath all those feathers, it gives easily to my mouth with a
soft crunch. I carry my bird moustache across the slope of the roof, clamber
inside through the open window.
Back in the room, I look up at my slave. The magic hasn’t
caught him with the best expression – he almost looks sad. I hope my present
will cheer him up.
Come on – you didn’t honestly think that was for me did you?
I prefer my meals processed, swimming in gelatine. The real thing is too weird.
And all that fur, those feathers, which catch in my throat. Like having the
worst furball. And believe me, I’ve had a few.
I place the broken bird next to my slave’s right hand. And
then once more become him.
My paws describe what’ll happen next: I’ll jump off my
slave’s lap and onto the floor, bound down the stairs. Half way there, I’ll
hear him calling my name, as I knew he would. I know how much he likes my
gifts. Really, they are the least I can do.
Purring, I’ll then jump into the hammock I had my slave hang
next to the radiator. Warmth will spread through me, rising up from its white
corrugated face. I’ll feel a sudden wave of exhaustion, and my nictitating
membrane will begin to slide across my eyes. Satisfied, I’ll sleep.
But today, finishing this is my second gift to him. I prepare
myself to move quickly, feeling the spring in my back legs. Then, I look down
at the computer, and type: POST.
END
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