The Cat loved to hear animal stories, from the time before animals could talk, because on some level she didn’t believe them. “Doesn’t it strain credulity…” she said stretching her legs by the radiator — it was snowing for the second time that day, the pot roast was burbling on the stove and it was a good day for doing nothing, except perhaps, listening to stories and pursuing the answers to questions that most likely had none — “I say doesn’t it strain credulity to say that we couldn’t talk for years and then we could. Isn’t it more likely…” she yawned “Isn’t it more likely that you just weren’t paying attention and then after some time, you…were?” “I don’t think so.” said Mother, adding a little, a very little pepper to the pot. The Cat became bored with her own line of inquiry, but she did want to hear a story, so she asked for one and mother told her.
There were two sisters, a young one who was so pretty that she could bring a smile to a man on his way to the e-chair, and an older one who was also pretty, but somehow stern. Their father took the Space Train to work every year and returned on Christmas, and to keep his daughters safe he kept them in a cyborg pumpkin, that kept them warm and safe and fed.
“Was it expensive?” asked the Cat “Was it good to eat?” These were the orange animal’s questions about everything and Mother answered them. “Yes. Somewhat.”
The orange Cat stretched and purred and the radiator clanked and whistled. You could barely see the snow through the window, from the steam on the inside and the frost on the out.
TO BE CONTINUED