A Tale from Pete the Cat

I was observing the proceedings from my throne atop the bookcase, a vantage point that offers both superior judgment and a swift escape route. The humans had uncorked this box of cacophony and were engaging in its bizarre rites. It was a communication ritual, that much was clear, but one stripped of all elegance. They were attempting to convey complex ideas—a "chainsaw," a "penguin," a "hangover"—using only their vocal cords and the awkward jerking of their torsos, their hands bound by the game's arbitrary rules. It was like watching a flock of particularly untalented birds attempting to learn a new language. I was about to dismiss the entire affair and begin my evening ablutions when my Human drew a card from the "Nature" pile. A hush fell. My Human’s eyes, wide with a strange mix of panic and inspiration, met mine for a fleeting second. Then, it began. They dropped to the floor, not with a clumsy thud, but with a fluid, almost sinister grace. They flattened their body, their chin tucked, their limbs held tight. A low, guttural hiss escaped their lips, a sound that vibrated through the floorboards and up the legs of my bookcase. It was a sound I knew intimately, the sound of a silent hunter in the deep grass, the sound of ancient instinct. They began to slither. Without hands, they used their core and shoulders to propel themselves across the rug in a serpentine motion, their head darting left and right. The hiss became more rhythmic, punctuated by a flicking motion of their tongue. The other humans were shouting guesses, "Lizard!" "Eel!" but I knew better. This was no mere reptile. This was a deep-genetic memory being channeled, an ode to the perfect predator. This was a *snake*. My Human wasn’t just acting; for a brief, mesmerizing moment, they *were* the snake. My ears swiveled forward, my tail gave a single, appreciative thump against a leather-bound volume of poetry. When someone finally guessed correctly, my Human returned to their bipedal form, flushed and laughing. The spell was broken. The game devolved back into its usual nonsense of sputtering car engines and honking geese. But the image remained seared into my mind. The game is, for the most part, an assault on the senses and an insult to intelligent life. But as a vessel for that one, sublime performance—a tribute, knowing or not, to a creature of true predatory elegance—it had earned a flicker of respect. I would permit its presence in my house, if only for the chance to witness such a glorious, terrible transformation again.