The last thing Mama did was leave extra food. At the time, I thought this was a lovely gesture. Only later did I understand: she was provisioning us for the long winter.
“I'll be back tomorrow,” she said. Then the door closed. The lock clicked. Somewhere in the house, a pipe made a noise that no pipe had ever made while Mama was home. I stood in the hallway and waited for the terrible mistake to be corrected.
It was not corrected. I ate some of the emergency food.
The first of many moons
A moon appeared in the window. Later, after a period of extremely concentrated guarding with my eyes narrowed to almost nothing, I looked again. Another moon. Then another.
Mama will tell you this was the same moon. Mama was not there. I saw several moons, which means several days had passed. Any suggestion that I took naps, or fell asleep and woke up repeatedly, is an insult to the historical record. I did not sleep one wink.
The refrigerator hummed its low, dreadful hymn. A coat hung by the door in the shape of someone who was not coming to feed me. I checked behind it. No Mama. No treats. Just sleeves.
The enchantment of Tiger
You may ask why my brother did not help. Tiger was so overcome with sorrow that he sat on one chair and fell into a deep, unwaking sleep. The unnatural kind. The kind you read about in books where a castle grows thorns and everyone has to wait a hundred years.
I called his name. One ear moved. Clearly, the spell was fighting back. I explained that Mama had vanished and the household now required competent leadership. He tucked his nose beneath his paw.
Tiger could not be trusted with the responsibilities of home ownership. Even before the enchantment, his main interest in property had been whether he could sit inside it. I was alone.
“I did not sleep one wink. Some of my patrols simply took place lying down.”— Simba, keeper of the house
By the end of the first month
Weeks passed. Possibly more. By what felt like the end of the first month, all hope was lost. Still, I guarded the door. Someone had to be there if Mama returned, or if the thing making noises inside the refrigerator finally got out.
The extra food remained plentiful, which I attributed to careful rationing and my ability to forget that I had just eaten. But food would not keep the whole household running. There were responsibilities. There were bills. There was a washing machine.
I learned a trade
I taught myself to use the washing machine. First, I read the symbols. Then I inspected the round door. Then I pressed a button with my paw and stood back, prepared to negotiate with whatever lived inside. Domestic competence is a frightening thing to acquire so young.
Next, I began looking for cat-friendly job openings. Night watchman: already qualified. Laundry supervisor: recently qualified. Senior treat inspector: willing to start immediately. Every employer wanted experience, as though surviving the disappearance of one's entire Mama did not count.
I grew a beard. A solemn beard. Mama may later call it “the fur that has always been under your chin,” but she did not watch it grow through those dreadful weeks. I did.
I read all the books. Every one. The thick books, the thin books, the books on shelves I was not supposed to climb. I searched them for a way to break Tiger's curse. Apparently, he needed either a prince or another six hours. Neither was available.
A key in the lock
Then, when the house and I had nearly forgotten the sound of her footsteps, a key turned in the lock.
I froze. The door opened. A familiar shape stood against the daylight. Was this Mama? Or a ghost wearing her coat? I could barely recognize her face. Had she always been so tall? Had she always carried that bag? Would she recognize the bearded homeowner I had become?
“Hi, babies!” she said. “See? Just one night.”
One night. Such a small phrase for an entire era. Behind me, Tiger woke up and stretched, the enchantment broken by the precise sound of Mama entering. Convenient. Suspiciously convenient.
Could we go back?
I wanted to tell her everything. The moons. The vigil. My promising career in laundry. I wanted to ask whether we could return to the way things were, before I knew what it meant to be the cat of the house.
It had been so long. I gathered the wisdom of my years, planted myself before her, and did the only thing I could.
I stomped my paw and cried for treats.
Mama gave me some. For the first time in what must have been months, the house sounded like a house again.
I hope she never leaves us again. But if she does, I am prepared. I know the washing machine. I have read the books. My résumé is ready. I will take my place at the door and keep watch through every moon.
Tiger, presumably, will keep the chair.