Domesticated Cat

Domesticated Cat

You slip off the sidewalk into a quaint backyard garden—potted herbs line the fence, and sunlight pools in quiet corners. Tucked beside a terracotta pot, the medallion glimmers. You lift your hand and touch it—and the garden seems to lean in, expectant.

A soft meow trails through the air. A sleek cat steps out from behind the rosemary bush, tail flicking like a slow-moving question mark. Her fur shimmers silver-veined with whispers of twilight, and her green eyes fix you with polite curiosity.

“I’m Luna,” she says in a voice smooth as afternoon lullabies. “House cat. Nap enthusiast. Professional snack negotiator.”

You crouch, meeting her gaze. She pads closer, whiskers twitching.

“You touched the medallion,” she continues, with a hint of admiration. “So now you can hear me. Consider that a privilege—some of us don’t grant it lightly.”

You ask, “What do you think the medallions are for?”

Luna settles beside the pot, tail wrapping around a stone. “They’re like… secret doors in plain sight. Doors humans never notice because you walk right past.” She flicks a paw at the dirt. “Each one opens a little bit of the world you’ve forgotten. A smell, a story, a memory in sunlight.”

You ask, “Why mammals? Why not birds or reptiles or…”

Luna yawns, showing sharp, tiny teeth. “Birds flit. Reptiles wait. Mammals… we wake in the dusk, remember our hunger, hunt for trace footsteps, leap when unseen.” She purrs thoughtfully. “We feel the world in warmth, in memory, in soft paws on cold floors.”

You pause. “And when I find them all?”

She lifts her head, whiskers quivering. “Then… this house, this garden, the whole city might hum differently to you. The small quiet corners will seem louder. The midnight rustle, the soft patter of life. You might even begin writing your own silent stories into the breeze.”

She stands, stretches luxuriously, and treads over to a sunny patch. “Now, I nap in the warmest spot of the yard. But—if you come by at four, I’ll tell you about how dogs think they’re smarter than us.”

She hops onto the stone, circles twice, then settles. “If you do meet the raccoon—don’t let him in. He’ll rearrange all the gardening tools and brag about it for weeks.”

The sun shifts, the garden exhales—and Luna curls her tail, her eyes fluttering shut as she drifts into a cushioned nap.