The Cats’ Game by Ross Hetherington

Do you remember the night you went out, and all the cats were there? I can remember everything you told me, and you know that’s not how I usually am. You came in and sat right where you are now, and I was up on the chair. You waited till the programme finished, then you asked if you could turn it off. There was still a bit of cold in the air from you coming in.

You’d only walked just along to the back. You looked in the car-park, and there they were. If you hadn’t looked, you might have walked past oblivious, as they were stock-still, stood all over on the bricks. Neither like a person, nor like how you’d ever seen any cat ever.

Then there was a noise. A soft flat noise. Like a rounders ball, bouncing on a turf. Or a knot of hair, in a barber’s shop, cut from the locks to downward drop. The last roll of the drum when the drum-roll stops. It was the pad of a tom—as the click of a thumb—as it counted a song. And they didn’t move till then.

I remember you had to stop then and have a water. And when you came back, what you said the matter was was to try to describe the music, and the dancing they were doing.

You said it was soft. That it wasn’t like what you would ever guess. It wasn’t like a yowl, or like a purr. It was the dancing that made the music, you said, but then you said no, it was the music that made the dancing. No, then you said, not either. The music wasn’t dancing noise, and the dancing wasn’t playing moves. But that you didn’t know how to go on, as it was all in the way they moved, but you didn’t think cats could move that way, and whether anyone had … and I remember, that’s when you started crying.

I thought this might happen. And don’t you try to stop now for me, you just go. It was best to let you go then. But just let me talk so I can finish.

What you said next was that you felt a firm touch, just beneath the chin, here. It felt calloused, like my thumb. It pulled, and your head moved to the side. You didn’t even think of it—you just moved with it. On the wall following the steps to the back there was a large white cat, and it was its paw beneath your jaw. It stared at you, and licked its chops. There in the well-lit back, with the dance out the side of your eye.

It said, “I am the Talking Cat—the one and only one. You have seen the Cat Dance. That must not be done. When not-done is done, we cats claim right … of fun. You are now the not-cat in the Cats’ Game—Run.”

And I could tell you had. I could tell you’d been sweating in the cold outside. And I heard the door slam.

Now, you told me the whole thing. The easy part is for me to say: I love you, and I will always be on your side. I’m with you. So I know the Cats’ Game is real, and that’s why I want us to talk about it. Because I want to help you figure it out. I think we can figure it out. And think about this—if we don’t try to figure it out, we won’t be able to figure it out. I’m not annoyed we left the party tonight. I don’t care if we leave every party, wedding and funeral going. I’m not annoyed that you’re scared. I just think we need to try to figure it out. Even if the cats are smarter than us—that they’ve always been smarter than us—they can’t be that smart.

Ok, let’s go over it. I saw the cat at the party lick its chops. Then what happened?

Ross Hetherington

Image by Birgit from Pixabay a close up of the nose of a white car.