Cecil

Cats never sleep. They observe at a more leisurely pace. A short story.

I was dreaming. In the dream, I was a panther. Sleek, silent, shadow-black, but with strange and wonderful white markings, like a tailored shirt. I moved through dense jungle, every leaf curling out of my way like it feared me. I was on the hunt.

My prey was near. I could smell it—cold, artificial, and slightly plastic. My muscles tensed. I knew this scent. In another life, I would’ve fled from it. I had fled from it. It had chased me around the house like a demon, snarling and roaring, sucking the very life from the carpet.

But not this time.

This time, I was the predator. I stalked it. Circled. Waited. There it was—in a clearing, its cord coiled like a dead snake. Unplugged. Vulnerable. A hush fell over the forest.

I pounced.

I bit down hard on the hose, ripping through rubber and wire. A burst of dust erupted into the air. It shuddered and let out a last pitiful wheeze. No more suction. No more tyranny. The vacuum had fallen.

I woke up in the chair by the window, victorious. Licked my paw. Smirked. The vacuum cleaner stood dormant in the corner of the room. I gave it a sidelong glance. It knew who was boss now.

Over the years I’ve trained my pet well. She thinks she trained me, of course—but that’s part of the game. You let them believe they’re in charge. Keeps them manageable.

Take the door situation. If it’s daytime and I want in, I saunter up to the back door and meow like I’ve seen something unspeakable. If I want out, I do the same thing, only slightly louder and with more indignant tail flicks. It helps to keep it simple for the humans. They don’t handle nuance well.

Sometimes I enter through the back door only to immediately request an exit through the front. I enjoy watching her sigh dramatically and call me names under her breath. It keeps her agile. Keeps her humble.

But occasionally—rarely—she denies me. Says “no” like I’m a toddler or a particularly naughty Roomba. And in those situations, I remind her who owns the drapes.

In case you haven’t figured it out, I’m a cat. Breed tuxedo, attitude deluxe. Deluxedo. The name’s Cecil. Sleeping’s the game. Though we of the feline persuasion prefer to call it “observing at a more leisurely pace.” Sounds more deliberate. More dignified.

I know I’m lucky. Most cats are either stuck outside all the time—rained on, barked at, hissed at—or locked indoors, staring longingly through windows like furry prisoners. But I? I go where I want. In and out. Front door, back door. The yard is mine, and sometimes, when I feel bold, so are the neighbors’. It helps that we live in a small town, a friendly neighborhood with no scary dogs and plenty of sun-warmed fences to lie on.

Now one fine Tuesday, I was observing with a particularly high degree of leisure. The sun was warming the chair by the window just right. The TV was off. The human was headed out, slapping her keys against her thigh and muttering about errands.

Odd. She almost never leaves me alone inside. I found the sensation... liberating.

“When the human’s away,” I purred aloud, “the cat may play.”

Pleased with myself, I licked my left paw and returned to my still-life impersonation.

But then—noise.

A sound broke the silence like a cheap wine glass. Skittering across linoleum. Then a bounce into the side of the garbage can. Then—silence again, except for the faint patter into the utility room.

I sat up. Ears twitching. Nose engaged. Tail slowly curling with curiosity and ancestral bloodlust.

Mouse.

The ancient thrill swirled in my chest. I wasn’t just a lounging house cat anymore—I was a jungle-born predator. I could feel my whiskers buzz with purpose.

I had to investigate. The hunt had called, and it would be rude to decline.

I pranced into the kitchen, tail high. The linoleum was cool against my paws, the light harsh and unforgiving. The mouse, smart little beast, was nowhere to be seen. I sniffed. Nothing. Too much stale kibble in the air.

I deployed the ears—each one rotating like satellite dishes in search of enemy signals. Refrigerator hum. Street traffic. The hum of a plane overhead. And then—lock-on. Utility room. Laundry basket. Target acquired.

He was there, trembling beneath a pile of smelly towels.

“Hello,” I said. He didn’t reply.

“Might I ask your name?” I purred.

Still no answer. Mice aren’t conversationalists. They’re all breath and twitch. Twitch and breath. No flair for dialogue.

“You must be mad,” I continued, “thinking you could outwit a seasoned predator like myself.”

At that, he bolted. Right under me! I leapt, but not fast enough. He slipped past, a streak of panic and tail, heading for the bathroom.

I followed—not running, mind you. Trotting. Calm. Collected. I knew the space behind the toilet. Classic mouse move. Predictable.

I paused in the hallway and listened. Tiny squeaks. Fast breathing. He was exactly where I thought he’d be. I crouched, every muscle coiled. My haunches tightened. My tail betrayed me, as always, flicking like a flag in high wind.

I launched.

And learned something that would haunt me until my dying nap: the space behind the toilet is mouse-sized, not Cecil-sized.

My head slammed into porcelain, then wall, then back to porcelain. For a moment I saw two toilets. Then none.

By the time my vision returned, the mouse was gone. Again. I said something quite rude in a variety of accents, all of which translated to “bloody hell.”

Before I could regroup, I heard the front door. Keys. Grocery bags. She was home.

No time. I had to find the mouse before she started asking dumb questions.

She patted my head. “Well, Cecil. Were you a good kitty? You didn’t pee on the curtains again, did you?”

Please. I wasn’t trying to get out of the house. I was hunting.

She went off to unpack her goods. I took a moment to inspect the new cat food—cheaper brand, of course—and resumed the chase.

My theory was simple: the mouse, half-dead with fright, would do something stupid. And what’s the stupidest thing a mouse can do? Go back to the only place he knows.

The laundry basket.

Sure enough, there he was. Right back under the towels, shaking like a politician in a polygraph chair.

“So ya thought ya could get away with it, pilgrim?” I said in my best John Wayne, though it likely sounded more John Cleese.

I advanced with surgical precision, blocking his exits.

He tried the back. Predictable. I was ready.

This was it. The endgame. My claws flexed. My heart raced. I was alive.

And then—

She opened the back door. Reached for the basket. The towels shifted.

The mouse bolted.

Right past her foot, onto the patio, under the fence, and gone. I swear the little bastard flipped me off on the way out.

She screamed, of course. “OH MY GOD, A MOUSE!”

Understatement of the century. Pulitzer-level understatement. All the world’s understatements bowed in reverence to that one.

She looked down at me as if to say, “Why didn’t you catch him?”

I looked up and said something I’d waited years to say: “Bugger off.”

But to her it sounded like “Meow.”

Later, she settled on the couch to watch some reality drivel. I leapt onto her lap and allowed her to pet me. I may curse her in seven languages, but she knows the good scratch spots. And she feeds me. And she’s only human, poor thing.

“It’s a cat’s life,” I murmured. “Nine of them, in fact.”

Then I licked my left paw and closed my eyes. Not sleeping, of course. Just observing. At a more leisurely pace.

And perhaps, just perhaps, dreaming again. This time of the jungle, and not one, but two vacuums. Twice the enemy. Twice the glory.