It’s easy to understand why the cat has eclipsed the dog as modern America’s favorite pet. People like pets to possess the same qualities they do. Cats are irresponsible and recognize no authority, yet are completely dependent on others for their material needs. Cats cannot be made to do anything useful. Cats are mean for the fun of it.
— P.J. O’Rourke
* * *
“Marga, get me coffee. Homp, you stupid dog! What is that? You call that monitoring? Call Dein and tell him to fix the bug. And you—yes, you four-eyed freak—didn’t I give you the f*cking budget to upgrade the lenses? What are you muttering about? I don’t freaking care if you’re insulted that I called you four eyes. I don’t have the time to count how many eyes you have behind those nerdy glasses of yours—wait, you’re getting me off track. You and Dein—where the hell is my coffee?—fix the lenses and the position of the bug! If I lose sight of the dummy again, I swear I’ll poke each of your eyes out. Where the hell is my coffee?!”
* * *
“Turn off the lights, I’m still sleepy,” Stella muttered.
She received no response except for a loud meow. Stella buried her face further into her soft pillow as she bit back a curse. What, since her Uncle Tots couldn’t wake her, he suddenly decided to sic a cat on her? Dumb trick.
“Get up, lazy. Your uncle has gone somewhere for a while and had left you under my care.”
The voice was low. Unfamiliar. Had a steely, authoritative edge. Stella’s hand crept under her pillow for her ruler. She sat up in her bed, her 12-inch transparent ruler pointing at the direction of where the voice had come from, her eyes barely open, her mouth still parched and smelled like cheeseburger dinner she had from Jollibee yesterday. “Who are you?” she asked groggily.
Again, no response. Stella blinked rapidly and refocused her sight. All she saw was a thin, gray cat licking its paw, silver-grey eyes staring at her in boredom. “What, never seen a talking cat before?”
