‘I would like to, though’ I barked at the Maker of Lists. She does not seem to understand me, and keeps on typing. Scratching her left elbow with five fingers, she feverishly uses the other five to start the next list on her mother’s computer. I could hear her mumbling to herself. ‘Seventeen ways to kill a mouse. Number one: be a bartender.’
Many conscious beings away, a cat, sitting on a barstool, slowly swishes her red tail.
‘Number two, be a puppet to the cats, pussies and the Felidae.’ Trying again I growl in a low voice ‘I would like to own a cat.’ My wish vibrates, slowly, from its vocal tract and makes its way, bobbing, to an ear that does not appear to listen.
Several conscious beings away, a cat, jumping down, makes its way towards the door.
The description of the third point is partially drowned by my need to own a cat. What remains gives an impression of great importance. ‘…drink a pint of Heineken.’ The decision that this is, once again, futile, blossoms in my head and I move towards the door.
Numerous conscious beings away, the cat, moves through a door for cats.
The door stands ajar and as I jump outside I shout in reaction to the Maker’s last muttered sentence. ‘Number three, let a cat do the jo…’ ‘I KNOW, I KNOW!’ Outside it smells of ammonia, decay and retractable claws. What is happening to this place?
Some conscious beings away, the cat, retraces footsteps and pees a pee that is as yellow as the Shell logo.
As I run through wafts of old ochre, my shadow is cast by a darkened sun. ‘I’ll find one myself, a cat to call my own’ I mumble softly, a syllable between each deep breath. From a distance it would probably sound like the subtle grating of canine teeth. I hasten my stride.
Two conscious beings away, the cat, jumps, lands, and sits on a small iron fence and gives himself one slow, deliberate lick.
As I turn the corner my gaze falls upon a small bar. In front of it, a trembling person. Next to it, an iron fence. Upon that fence, a Turkish Van. ‘My cat!’ I think, ecstatic.
One conscious being away, the cat speaks, says in a lilting expansion of air ‘Stop it right there, fleabag, we don’t allow your kind to come in here.’
I come to a skidding halt, perplexed. Did that cat just speak? But it’s my cat. My cat doesn’t speak. If anything my cat should meow, not insult. As I open my mouth to give some kind of a response, the person that is still shaking turns around.
It will grab, the cat, will laugh, will hug it, so tight that I will hear bones being crunched.
It has grabbed, the cat, laughed, hugged it, so tight I have heard bones crunching.
It grabs, the cat, laughs, hugs it, so tight I can hear bones crunch.
Pauw Vos
paratextmag.com 
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