Now, most of the time I enjoy being human. We have more control over our lives, our needs and urges. We are more in control of taking care of and keeping our loved ones safe and close. Last night I had a thought: what if I was a cat?
If I was a cat, would I be a long haired or short? Would I be a purebred or a mongrel-tabby? We--ll, I don't know about being a tabby, but I'd, probably, be tubby! Perhaps, I'd be a silky, long-haired fat Persian. I never saw a fat feral or street cat, which means that I'd, probably, have a home. I would laze all day in one place or another in the house, moseying to the food dish every time the fancy strikes me, my long fur and the fat rolling with every bouncy step. Or, maybe, I'd be one of those rag-dolls, plushy and pliant, adoring my humans and being a putty in their arms?
Would I miss the wild, the smells of the damp, secret places, the taste of my prey's blood in my mouth? While looking out to the backyard, would I long to go where I please, chew the grass and stick my claws into the soft flesh of a mouse or a bird?
My cat, Sylvie, just jumped and ran from her place by the back window after seeing something there. She hopped on the back of the couch and crouched there, her fur standing on end, the tail twitching in agitation. She's been a house-cat for nine years, yet she still can't help her beasty instincts, when she sees something small move furtively outside.
My habits take root in me for a good old time. If I was a cat, I would treasure the comforts of the home, but long for the freedom of being me. Or, more likely, I would keep my thoughts to myself and live in a moment, like a cat should!