Photo by Juanita Swart on Unsplash
Don't even ask me that. I don't talk with dead people. That's a totally different thing.
But animals, well, animals tell me stuff. Dogs, cats, cows. Don't matter. It's my job to listen to them. Well, I feel it's my job. It's hard not to turn away, especially when the one doin' the talkin' has soft, floppy ears and sweet brown eyes.
Don't insult me askin' if I speak "bark," "meow," or "moo." Whatever. It don't work that way. Not for me. They telegraph pictures to me. I see them in my mind. The more interestin' question is not how they talk to me, but why do they? Wish I knew.
Quit it about dead people. You think I’m a push over? Just because I’ve got boobs? No, it's all about animals doin' the talkin'. Animals are livin', breathin' bein's with four paws, or no paws and slitherin'. Yeah, reptiles, birds, they talk to me, too.
The first time I say, "I never talk with dead folk," it'll turn on me. Never's a boomerang word. You say to someone, like your friend, or your mom, you say, "I'd never do that," and then the next day, you end up doin' it.
Like, one time, I said, "Never would I eat pineapple on my pizza." I mean, sounded like crap. Then one day, there's this girl. She had pineapple on her pizza, and she offered me a piece. I didn't want it, but I wanted her to keep goin' out with me. It wasn't crap like I thought, but you get the idea? I do my damnedest to stay away from usin' "never." I don't want to talk with dead people. Creepy.
The dead guy, so he wasn't my focus at all. It was all about the tuxedo cat who entered into my mind. Black and white cat, lookin' like he's wearin' a tux. You've seen one, haven't ya? He was sweet but kind of slow. No, I don't mean speed. Like, he was a bit stupid. He told me he had an enlarged heart. Wasn't gettin' enough oxygen to his brain. So he couldn't help bein' slow like he was.
I never met the cat on the sidewalk or anythin'. But I figured he lived somewhere in the neighborhood. There's lots of cats runnin' around. Hardly anyone keeps them indoors. Sometimes they become a meal for the coyotes. Sometimes for raccoons. Yeah, they don't like to share territory. That's what they told me, anyway. Raccoons eat most anythin'.
Okay, okay, I didn't know you were in such a hurry. Will you keep the part in about not talkin' with the dead people?
Anyway, tuxedo cat started sharin' stuff a few months back. Once an animal figures out you can hear them and talk with them, they share random shit when they feel like it. Especially if they're lonely.
He'd share stuff like what dogs were mean or friendly, the best places to find mice, which houses had squirrels in their attics. Stuff cats would know. I'd respond with, "Hey, cat, that's cool, buddy." I mean, what do I care about squirrels in someone's house? One time, though, a friend needed help with squirrels in his attic. I told them my friend was gonna kill 'em if they didn't get out, so they moved out quick. Yeah, the squirrels. They live across the street in that park now.
So, a couple of days ago, tuxedo cat showed me he was stuck inside his house. His food bowl was empty. His water bowl too. I told him to drink from the toilet unless it was bluecolored, but he said he couldn't get the lid up. Yeah, they can see some color. You're not a smart reporter.
I thought he was just complainin' like animals do sometimes. They want what they want now. They live in the present time, mostly. I told him be patient, he'd get fed soon enough.
But it was the same thing the next day. He said he should eat somethin'. Said his person was on the floor, not breathin'. He wanted to know if he could take a bite of hand or somethin' like for a snack. That's when I asked his name and where he lived.
Of course, I told him not to eat his person. What do you make me for? He said his person called him "Jimnits." A cat don't ask why you give him any kind of name. He just knows what he's called to come to dinner, or a pet or whatever.
So I had to find where he lived. When I asked him for pictures of his neighborhood, I didn't recognize it. But when he showed me he knew where I lived, it all came together. Mostly, a house cat's roamin' area is a couple of miles. So I was hopeful he lived in that range. I asked him to show me how he'd travel from my place to his. You'd think it'd be straightforward, but he's a cat, and I had to truck through some brambles and hop a creek. I live on the other side of that park. It's about a mile and a half from here to there. I asked if he could divert around some of the brambles, but he wasn't thinking too clearly by then. I've got scratches on my arms from the thicket on this side of the creek.
He tried to take me through his backyard, but once I saw which house was his, I went 'round to the front. You could see through those glass panels on the side of the front door. Don’t know how long it’d been like that or why. His person on the floor dead. Jimnits dead, too. Wish he’d called on me sooner. Sweet cat. So sad. Lonely. I told him he was okay. To go toward the light and shit like that. That's the thing about animals. They don't always know they're dead.
A playwright turned prose writer, JD Eames lives in Santa Fe, New Mexico, with her wife and the best dog in the world. Her work has appeared in the Welter Journal Online, Pasatiempo, and Poetry Jumps Off the Shelf.