I am a disappointment to my cats

It is no secret that felines catalogue the shortcomings of their humans. Judgment radiates around them like a force field shot from their whiskers. The servant classes (those with two legs) are slow, clumsy and painfully slow to anticipate their needs. Plus, we use silly voices.

Their attitude is never so acute as at Halloween.  Note that I share my space with two black cats, so the date has special significance. Somewhere between fever dreams of tuna and fields of catnip, they imagine themselves familiars in want of a proper witch. In a just world, October 31 would see them frolicking with bats and Jack o’ lanterns around a bonfire instead of watching their human watch Netflix and scarf down fun size candy bars. It’s a sad fate, a kind of gray sad fraught with poetic ennui. They sigh and stare out the window, or perhaps at a blank wall, and pretend to see aliens.

It could be worse. There is the chance they might be forced to wear dumb costumes and have their picture taken. They anticipate this, and plot my demise with Shakespearean gravitas just in case.

I concede that their world is short on dignity as well as dancing skeletons. The closest thing to a coven at hand is my writing group, and our only incantations—primarily curse words—involve punctuation and the Amazon algorithm.  Most of us can’t even drive (broom)stick. We are entirely unfit for purpose. All any cat can do is fling themselves dramatically across the keyboard like a starlet of the silver screen bravely greeting an oncoming train. A feeble gesture, but there is dignity in protest.

As the author of their disappointment, I am obliged to demonstrate sympathy.  Ear rubs. Treats. Assurances that they are the most fearsomest wee fluffies ever. I receive the radiant glares of death, but then I break out the lickable treat tubes. We negotiate forgiveness with lapping tongues, and I am admitted back into their good graces.

Tricks. Treats. The only magic spells that matter are the ones that work.