“What do you think, my baby Bartle-boy?” Simon moves his cold bony hands from around my neck. I’m staring at the mirror, at that black and white cat with the mismatched eyes, and I see it. It’s a collar. A bright, neon green, utterly restrictive, utterly ugly collar. With a bell. A bright, annoying, silvery bell. I hate it, Simon. I hate it. I paw at it. Ding. I paw at it again. Ding. Wait. Actually. Ding. Ding. Actually…this is fun. Ding. Ding, Ding. Wait, this is funny! “Well, I suppose you do like it, don’t you?” Simon muses as he turns to walk out of the bathroom. “I’ll leave you to it, then.” I stop pawing at the silver bell and turn. He’s leaving. I leap off the counter after him, the bell making sharp dinging noises as I run after him. Slowing my gait to a trot as my body becomes parallel with his ankle, the bell quiets a bit, but it still makes a little bit of noise. And besides—if I didn’t jump after him, he’d get all concerned and sappy or something..and he would take me to the veterinarian. And said veterinarian would either give me two things: the cone of shame, or a thermometer up the backside. And neither of those are pleasant. I follow Simon to the living room, and he plops down onto the couch with a sigh. He looks over to the corner of the room, making eye contact with me. “Come here, my beautiful tux boy.” He makes a hand motion to me. I’m not tuxedo, for the last time, Simon! I’m clearly spotted. Just because I’m black and white does not make me a tuxedo! Still, I force my paws to move, and I jump up next to him on the armrest. He scratches behind my ears in the way I like—and I stifle a purr. The vibration in my chest still escapes a little bit, and Simon coos at me like he always does whenever I make a remotely “adorable” noise. It’s just an automated response. Not everything I do is cute. “Shall we watch something, Bartleby?” I mean, I’m down. As long as it isn’t those “funny” cat videos. Those cats could have been seriously injured, and we’re laughing at them? He grabs the remote with his free hand, scratching me with the other, and switches on the television. It’s the news again. Channel five, seven thirty. Same time every day. It always has something to do with inflating prices—specifically gas. I curl my tail around my paws, looking over at Simon. He’s more like a dog than anything—waiting for something new to pop up on the screen every evening. Like a crime or something. All hopeful eyes, scarily rapid tail wags. Hopefully waiting for something that’ll never come. Dogs. There’s no hope of understanding them. That annoying lady on the screen with the brunette messy bun speaks, her gray eyes almost boring into mine. “Famous model Annie Atkinson’s model dog Lola has gone missing.” I knew it! I knew it was gonna be about ga– Wait what? A dog? Missing? A picture of the creature pulls up on the screen with emboldened red letters: MISSING. “If you have any information about Lola’s whereabouts, please contact the police. Miss Annie is very devastated by the loss of her pup.” The news lady says. Lola’s got weird big brown eyes, long floppy ears. And she seems strangely happy. Almost too happy. Well, it’s not my problem. Probably never will be. If Annie wants a dog, she could just go buy a new one. No big deal. It’s just a dog. “Oh no…” Simon muses worriedly.”Hope Lola’s okay.” I hope she’s not okay. That’ll be one less dog to bark my ears off. I feel a satisfied purr coming on, and I turn to Simon, giving him a meow. He’ll change his mind if I meow at him enough. “Oh. Sorry, Bartleby.” He stands, shutting off the television and goes to the kitchen. “You must be hungry, huh?” No, you stupid human! I ate twenty-one minutes ago! I meow again, hoping he’d understand that. Though, I know it’s no use. “Chill, dude! I’m getting it. No need to be so impatient.” He reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the chicken-flavored wet food. …I mean, there’s no shame in more food, though I’m not hungry. I’ll just burn the fullness off later–considering how much running I’m gonna have to do. I watch as the food falls into the bowl with a wet, disgusting plop, and normally that’d be music to my ears. But I’m not hungry, so it simply isn’t. He places my silver bowl in front of my paws, and I lean down to take a few bites. As I chew, I follow Simon with my gaze as he pours himself a glass of water. I don’t know why he likes water more than food, but I guess that’s just a human thing. He sits back down on the couch with his water, taking a long gulp before setting it down on the coffee table. I jump up onto his lap and rest my head on his thigh.
He smiles down at me. He leans his head back against the cushion and closes his eyes. I close mine too, but sleep is almost as elusive as me. I stretch my limbs, trying to induce that feeling of relaxation, but still nothing. The concept of sleep really is stupid. So I just lie there next to him, staring at the ceiling and listening to the sound of Simon’s deep breathing. What’re we doing tonight? Besides sleep, of course. I find I’m purring again, but even I have no clue why. Normally I have at least an inkling… Eh. Does it matter? As long as Simon likes it, I suppose. After a long while of me and Simon chilling together on the couch—his hand still resting on my head, when there was a knock on the door. Three sharp raps. I almost know that rhythm–only one person I know knocks like that. Yet, I still can’t put my paw on it. Who exactly is that? Simon snores loud enough to wake the dead. He doesn’t notice or care to answer it…So I leap off of the couch again. As I land, my bell makes a noise. Ding. Ooh. I paw at it again, And again. And again. It’s so funny! Hahahahahahahah! Dingadingadingadinga— “Bartleby!” A familiar voice calls out sharply. …Oh. Right. The door. I look back, making sure Simon hasn’t snorted awake again. I resume a more…professional stance, and walk smoothly over to the door. Ignoring my bell, the night air hits my fur, and it’s almost refreshing. My tail curls around my paws almost subconsciously. I look up at whoever knocked. It’s my colleague—Lunaire. She’s unmistakable—long, dark hair, grey eyes. Basically the best detective there is on the Nightfall. Not better than me, though. No one is better than me. “What do you want?” I ask. “Did you not hear me the first five times I knocked?” She asks, crossing her arms and looking down her nose at me. “And here I thought that cats had amazing hearing.” “We do.” I puff out my chest. “Really, now?” She glares. “Yep.” “Whatever. I was told to come get you, since you’re super late,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “you’re typically not one for lateness.” Oh, shoot. The meeting! I look up at the digital clock through the window. 12:30 a.m. I’m more than just late; I’m mega late. “So? Coming or what?” “Um. Yes.” I can feel my face burning hot, even if cats don’t blush. “Lead the way.” She looks over me from head to tail, and after a few moments, she finally speaks. “Gladly.”
