1934

I have a cat. I feed the cat regularly, pet him when he wants to be petted, groom him when he cannot groom himself, play with him because it makes us happy, sleep with him because we keep each other warm, and nurse him when he is sick. We go on picnics together to parts of the countryside where no one else seems to go and eat cooked fish together and explore the area as though we were both hunters, out to kill to feed our bellies and those of our clan.

He goes where I go. He sits where I sit. He sleeps when I sleep.

When I stroke him I often look into his eyes and say comforting words of friendship. When I stroke him he purrs deeply and with a profound resonance. I sometimes hold my ear to him to hear the sound echoing through him, just to share in the feeling. He comes to me sometimes and mewls at me, whereupon I find that he has brought me something to play with or something for me to throw for him.

We are always together. The thought of separating from my cat is one that haunts me, and one that I wish will never happen. Sometimes I fantasise that we should die together so that one may not grieve for the other, for that loss would surely kill me.

When I stroke him and look into his eyes saying comforting words of friendship I wonder to myself what the cat really feels for me. To get into his head and know that we feel the same would make me happier than anything else. One night I wished for this very hard indeed and was surprised to find, on waking, that it had happened – I was temporarily in my cat’s mind, along with the cat whose feelings I shared.

I regard myself sleeping on the pillow upon which I am sitting. I can see in the darkness. I can smell things I have never smelled before. I have limbs I have never known. I can make sounds that I have never made before. My body is sensitized as I have never thought it possible. My feelings for the creature sleeping next to me are of utter indifference.