From Muffin With Love

Tuesday had begun in an alarmingly normal fashion. Judy had sent her alarm clock to the floor with a fist, sat up, yawned, and gone to brush her teeth. Muffin, her beloved companion, had shown his love for her by leaving a half eaten lizard on the kitchen floor. The cat himself was nowhere to be seen, which was typical. Only when he was hungry did he deign to show his face indoors.

The cheap coffee made her choke a little on the first sip, but she forced herself to swallow. At least it was hot, caffeinated, and heading for her bloodstream. She quickly opened the door to snatch the paper from the porch before the chilly wind could leech the warmth from inside the apartment.

When she turned back, an envelope sat next to the lizard. Crisp and white, it hadn’t been there two seconds ago. Her name was in black ink, the envelope was sealed, and she didn’t know anyone who could do calligraphy like that.

Inside was a single sheet of paper, a letter in the same elegant script.

That’s when her normal day ended.

My Dearest Judy,
I’m writing to get a few things straight with you, and I cannot in good conscience return home until I have said my piece. I hope you like the lizard. It took me all day to chase him down. I feel that it is my duty to explain what humans seem to consider “typical cat behavior.”
Firstly, I believe I speak for all cats when I say that Muffin is an utterly humiliating name. My true name is far too complex to explain to a human. You simply would not comprehend it, but you may call me Tessercat. And just because I am a cat does not mean that I am inferior to you. If anything, the opposite is true.

Consider this: I don’t have to feed myself if I don’t want to do so. You do it for me quite happily. I can leap several times my height, and I (like all cats) walk with a proverbial paw in another world.

You poor bipeds have your three dimensions and your tiny sliver of visible light in the spectrum. You live in houses of wood, stone and glass, and you wonder why we consider ourselves the better species?

The ancient Egyptians had it right for the most part. We are above and beyond you in almost every way. I cannot easily explain my world to the human mind. In essence, I can see space. Every dimension at once. Your world is so small, and comparing it to mine would be like calling a child’s stick-figure sketch equivalent to a Greek statue. There is simply too much scope and detail in the statue to make a comparison.

A face from your perspective consists of two eyes, a nose, a mouth, and perhaps you can see the hair and a bit of the ears. In my world, my dimension, I see all of it. Face, hair, bald spot, the back of the head, everything at once, and this is normal.

When I look at you, my dear human, I see every hair, every wrinkle, your back, your legs, hands, palms, knees, and everything in between. What you see of me is not my true shape, only that single part that dips into your three-dimensional world. I can’t even begin to explain what I really look like, because there are simply no words for it. No human has seen the fourth dimension, so how can you describe it? How would you describe the concept of “up” to a scribble on a page? Would you even try?

This is my universe. I see space, time, and everything in between. I taste music, feel smells, and hear flavor. This is the existence of a cat.

My purpose therefore, is to ask that you change my name to something less humiliating. Signing this letter “From Muffin with Love” just seems silly. Judy, I would not ask this if it was not important to me. You’re my human, and I love you (as evidenced by the lizard), so please end my torture. I am the laughing-stock of my associates.
Regards,
Tessercat

Judy stared at the letter for several minutes. Was this a joke? She was halfway to the trashcan before she noticed Muffin sitting on the lid, head cocked to the side, whiskers twitching, and with black ink stains on his right forepaw.

She blinked, and Muffin blinked back.

Feeling irrational, she asked him, “Did you write this?” She held the letter tightly and at arms length, as if it might bite her.

She almost fainted when her cat nodded. This was ridiculous.

“Muffin?”

His reaction was to sniff disdainfully and twitch his tail.

She started to giggle. Honestly, who could blame her? She had just received a letter and half a lizard from her fourth-dimensional cat. She picked him up, rubbed his tummy, and decided that Tessercat was a fine name indeed.

Lydia

In the end, we all discover the futility of life.

Dora Anderson sits in the window seat. Bright sunbeams struggle through the tiny seams between the blinds, dust motes swirl and scatter like honey bees at the end of summer, desperate to cover as much ground as possible before winter swallows their precious flowers.

Opaque white eyes see none of it. In withered old hands is gripped a stuffed penguin, once bright green. Mr. Apple is the affectionate moniker given to him by Lydia.

She would often see Lydia and Mr. Apple walking--no, stalking--down the hallway with a flashlight, on some grand adventure. Whether it was an African safari in the kitchen or exploring an Egyptian tomb in the living room, they were inseparable.

Mr. Apple's fur had been soft and bright, then. Now, Dora can feel patches where the soft fur has rubbed off completely, and he is missing a button eye. Who knows what color his plumage is now?

Stiffly, slowly, she rises from the window seat, penguin in hand. With the aid of a guiding stick, she easily navigates through the small town. She counts her steps. One hundred and twenty down Main Street, make a left, and walk thirty-two more. A gate and latch are easily dealt with before fifteen paces right and nine forward.

She drops the pole, reaches out, finds cold, smooth stone.

Lydia Anderson
Beloved Daughter
1981-1989

She knows the inscription well. Her fingers have traveled over them for almost twenty years.

She leaves Mr. Apple leaning against the headstone, wishes Lydia "happy birthday," and picks up her guiding stick. It's time to let go.