Frank in a tree

Hello,

I don't know if you are aware, but I can see you making silly faces at me through the glass doors. You want me to come over to the glass and pay attention to you. Don’t you? Please be aware that I do not respond to such taunting. Well, no matter, since you're not going to leave, I've decided to tell you something very interesting that happened recently. I doubt your ability to understand my form of communication, but that is exactly why I have no problems telling you the tale. If you could understand, you might be inclined to think me insane. I'm not.

My human won't allow me to go outside, as she fears I'll get lost or climb the trees. One time, when I was much younger than I am now, I did get out. On that occasion, she had to phone someone to come and get me down. She said I was stuck up there. I wasn't stuck, and I wasn't planning on living in the tree; humans think the silliest things. I didn't want to come down. It wasn't an accident that I was in the tree, as I'd gone to extreme efforts to get up there. While the other person climbed up and pulled me away from my interests, he kept saying silly things. He said things like: Awe, who's a pretty kitty, and we're not going to go up the tree again now, are we? I mean, really! We? I can’t speak for him, but given the chance, I most certainly do intend to go up again. Anyway, I'm much older now. She should know me better than that by now.

What she doesn’t understand is that I don’t care one fig about the trees. The trees are in the way of what holds my deepest interest. Sitting on top of my repurposed cardboard boxes, looking out the sliding glass doors, is a favorite pastime of mine. Until this particular day, I sat there most of the day, gazing out the doors, waiting with laser-like focus. You see, it was what was in the tree that mattered most. Behind the rattling branches and distracting leaves, in one---particular---tree...

The interesting thing about this tree was the strange and annoying creature living in it. At least I assumed it lived there since it never seemed to leave for very long. This creature was slightly smaller than me. The front legs on it were smaller than mine, and the fur was shorter, except for its tail. My human calls it a squirrel, which I've taken to be its name, since I'm a cat, but she doesn't call me cat; she calls me Frank. Squirrel was more annoying than anything I've ever encountered. As fast as it can, it would climb up and down, twitching and pausing at indeterminate spots in the tree. Sometimes I would think Squirrel was looking at me. At these times, it made a sound I can't copy; it's an awful sound it makes as it twitches its tail and goes about its day collecting these tiny things that fall off the tree, up and down, up and down. The sound is chirpy. It's not at all: regal, smooth, or impressive like a cat's meow. With a shake of my head, I decide I don't like chirpy sounds.

Squirrel’s tail is a big bushy thing, not like mine at all. Because this tail never goes down, I assume Squirrel is in a constant state of frustration. I think this because the only time my tail poofs up is when I'm frustrated. Mostly, my tail poofs when I see Squirrel. Much as I don't like Squirrel, its tail is a massive size in comparison to its tiny body. Although I don't know what I would do if I got the chance to get close to Squirrel, absolutely nothing occupied my thoughts quite so much as the chance to encounter Squirrel. The chance to get up very close to it would be an amazing experience.

Yesterday, my human was going in and out with packages and didn't notice that she had left the door open just enough for me to fit through. My thoughts were racing; stealthily, I mustn’t rush, if she sees me, I'll lose the opportunity. There it was, I took my chance. Good job, my head is smallish but hard. Pushing with the top of my head on the edge of the opening, outside and up the tree I went, determined with every breath that Squirrel was not getting away. These opportunities were extremely rare after all, and Squirrel and I simply must meet. Closer and closer I came until Squirrel's tail-poof was ever so slightly brushing my nose. Looking right at me, freezing in its place on the branch, Squirrel seemed to be waiting for me to do something. It had a very surprised look and stopped making the chirping noise. Even the tree was still, no breeze, then things got truly interesting.

Then, something incredibly strange happened: right before my eyes, Squirrel's body seemed to stretch and ripple, fur growing longer and its shape shifting. Suddenly, where Squirrel had been, there was a cat that looked exactly like me, down to the swishing tail and the color of its fur. For a moment, we stared at each other—cat to cat. Shocked, I tore down the tree and ran through the still-open door. Squirrel, not yet accustomed to being a cat, seemed to have trouble following me. I didn't care; it was better for me if Squirrel was stuck in the tree for good.

Alone and safely back behind the doors, I decided chasing Squirrel was not a pursuit for me. Squirrel must have figured out how to get down because I never saw Squirrel in its natural form again. Now, when I look out the now-shut doors, I see the same tree, but in the tree is a long-haired cat. How do I know this cat used to be Squirrel? You might ask, is this: its tail, although long, is always poofed and very similar to Squirrel's tail. Rather than meow, it still makes the chirpy noise. I often wonder if Squirrel likes being a cat.