I Swear on my Nine Lives

I swear on my nine lives I didn’t mean to do it.

The jar was too close to the edge. Way too close. Not just “cat” close, but too close by all standards. I know it’s a classic on-edge cat trope (I see them watching the videos all the time), but this time it’s true. Even a dog would have knocked it over. With their fat, idiot tail or goofy, oversized paws. They simply put it too close to the granite cliff and the tiled abyss. I didn’t even have to try.

But first, let’s be clear: I usually do not bother the good stuff. We have a mutual respect in this house. I don’t shred the furniture, I do not gnaw or nibble on anything that isn’t a snack, and I do not do any of those other unflattering things you might catch a dog doing (Ew!). Yes, I might gracefully flip my tail at it or bat at it a bit with my (appropriately sized) paw, but it is all in good fun. I never make contact with that which might cost more than my diamond collar. Well, it sparkles like diamond. I heard them joke once that it was . . . Crystal? Quartz? Zirconia? No. Bedazzled. That’s right. A rare gemstone.

So, to my credit, in this instance, the glass vessel was set too close to the edge and nearly overflowing with goodness—the shinys—the silvers and gold(ish) mixed with swirling streams of green. Yet that is not what gave it away. They have entire trays littered with the same. And I will admit, when it comes to that ever-replenishing key-and-coin corral, I am constantly batting those to the floor because this queen loves when sparkles ascend. But in this case, the high-value vibe did not come from the contents; it came from the outrageously emotional outbursts that drew them to it.

It was like human clockwork. They would be deep in conversation somewhere in the home (I assume discussing the intricacies of my next meal) and then one would say something—a statement riddled with ferocious power—and emerge with goods for the glass. They arrived loud, aggressive, and annoyed, then made a deposit and departed with relief. Their literal and figurative investment was clear: It was a behavioral feedback mechanism disguised as home décor. A space that fills with the human’s despair.

So, I was minding my own business, nestled in the cat condo they “built” for me. Two stories, two scratch posts, two rooms—but hardly a Feline Versailles if you ask me. It came out of a box, nearly assembled, which tells you how spacious it is. Most of their furniture came on carts or with at least a few bags of bits that I could punt between the goal posts of the chair legs. Their sofa has better insulation, and their bookshelf has better views; I can get bird’s eye view from up there. (Yes, it is only from that fantastic height that I will admit those feather-brained bozos have the advantage). Atop that oak mountain, I can spot whenever they open the door to the food, open the drawer to the metal that opens the food, or empty the contents of food into my dish. So, there I was, resting and self-bathing while they bantered.

“I’m always finding rhinestones in my shoes. I don’t even know what we own that has rhinestones. And I swear she ate my earring.”

“If it shines, she finds! My cufflinks have vanished, the spare change tray is always empty, and the sequins are gone from your scarf.”

I’m not sure what their point was, but it sounds like they have a jewelry thief. Yes, I may have relocated a few shinys. Those things were begging to be freed. I liberated them to a place where they can glisten their best life (so be it if that place is the floor). When the light is just right, the shiny bits can cast reflections for miles, or at least across the apartment. They don’t have mice to catch, so I cast and catch rays—don’t judge. You spend all day in this place and tell me a few bouncing sunbeams do not literally lighten the mood or at least give you a good run because I know I will catch them eventually.

But now they’re spouting words like “hoarder” and “magpie” at each other, and it feels like unrest.

I remember shifting nervously in my cat house, shrinking into the fleece as I felt their pointed words upon me, even if I couldn’t translate. At the same time, I could see the vessel glistening from across the room, the glassy chalice brimming with shiny enticements. Then suddenly I was upright, drawn to its glow while they continued some indecipherable but accusatory dispute.

Meanwhile, talk of rhinestones, crystal keychains, and other emissaries of sparkle continued. Sure, they had all gone missing and reappeared, once suddenly misplaced then surfacing beneath their feet to the tone of . . . anguished discomfort. And this time, it happened again. In the heat of this discussion, there was an explosion of fury, one of them grabbing their paw in excitement.

“Ouch. Shit! See?! I told you—another earring!”

The situation escalated, bustling around the room and revisiting the ever-filling treasure trove. They dug deep in their pockets and they made a deposit.

While they argued, the closer I went. Like a butterfly or bee nearing the flower, I floated in. Then I only meant to stretch. One paw out, and then the other. Today’s token was right there, right within my outstretched (appropriately sized, ever-graceful) paw’s reach.

Then it all went dark. Well, quite bright actually. Chaos and coins erupted as the jar fell to the floor. I had never seen so many shinys liberated at once.

“Dammit! Shit. Son of a . . .” they hollered, looking at me and the fractured glass, coins, and dollars, strewn across the floor. “ . . . Ugh, now I don’t even have a place to put my two swear dollars!”