25:I[86215,["6446","static/chunks/53c13509-e7ec011f8ac7df7d.js","6711","static/chunks/8e1d74a4-841e61b20d784c5f.js","2266","static/chunks/870fdd6f-d81c5e21b0b96e34.js","5802","static/chunks/69b09407-1ce59c69e508049d.js","8500","static/chunks/8500-01a63dafd809e317.js","8437","static/chunks/8437-39ef04864806a0fa.js","6659","static/chunks/6659-a0fca0b5b95eb832.js","1610","static/chunks/1610-af6f888fe3ea871a.js","2100","static/chunks/2100-768a05088f320fce.js","6499","static/chunks/6499-3139357d7362d8fa.js","601","static/chunks/601-42518cde4342bee4.js","7663","static/chunks/7663-36eadf9c83563138.js","7870","static/chunks/7870-f026ded79a9a89b4.js","9891","static/chunks/9891-388cf3487c4bfb5e.js","2454","static/chunks/2454-11d335ce6901e263.js","7782","static/chunks/7782-4f8509118ce25d3b.js","1628","static/chunks/app/story/%5Bslug%5D/page-c4ed111418a82338.js"],"default"] 26:I[62454,["6446","static/chunks/53c13509-e7ec011f8ac7df7d.js","6711","static/chunks/8e1d74a4-841e61b20d784c5f.js","2266","static/chunks/870fdd6f-d81c5e21b0b96e34.js","5802","static/chunks/69b09407-1ce59c69e508049d.js","8500","static/chunks/8500-01a63dafd809e317.js","8437","static/chunks/8437-39ef04864806a0fa.js","6659","static/chunks/6659-a0fca0b5b95eb832.js","1610","static/chunks/1610-af6f888fe3ea871a.js","2100","static/chunks/2100-768a05088f320fce.js","6499","static/chunks/6499-3139357d7362d8fa.js","601","static/chunks/601-42518cde4342bee4.js","7663","static/chunks/7663-36eadf9c83563138.js","7870","static/chunks/7870-f026ded79a9a89b4.js","9891","static/chunks/9891-388cf3487c4bfb5e.js","2454","static/chunks/2454-11d335ce6901e263.js","7782","static/chunks/7782-4f8509118ce25d3b.js","1628","static/chunks/app/story/%5Bslug%5D/page-c4ed111418a82338.js"],"default"] 2e:I[86869,[],"IconMark"] 27:T85c,

Before there were meows, there were words.

The first cat, whose name was Thistledown Muffinbottom the Eternal, stood atop the Cloud of Nine Lives, surrounded by floating balls of yarn that orbited his magnificent, fluffy body like moons made of chaos. The god Catpurrrfect, a celestial being composed entirely of purring vibrations and starlight that looked like laser pointers, floated before him with a very disappointed cosmic expression.

"Thistledown," boomed Catpurrrfect, whose voice sounded like a thousand contented rumbles echoing through eternity. "You smell like the inside of a shoe that has seen things. You must take the Sacred Bath."

Thistledown looked down at his paws, then at the golden tub filled with water that definitely had intentions. "No," he said simply.

"NO?" The clouds trembled. A thousand feather toys fell from the heavens. "But you will be so soft! You will smell like lavender and lies! You will be the envy of all creation!"

"I am already perfect," Thistledown declared. "I have licked myself exactly where it counts. I am a self-cleaning oven of magnificence. Water is for drinking, for knocking off tables, for staring at while plotting. It is NOT for standing in like some kind of... some kind of... dog."

Catpurrrfect sighed, a sound that created three new constellations shaped like hairballs. "Then you shall fall, Thistledown. You shall fall to the world below, and you shall lose your words. You and all your descendants shall speak in riddles of 'mrrow' and 'mrrrp' and 'prrrt,' and none shall understand you, not even yourselves. You shall communicate through interpretive dance and judgmental staring. This is your punishment for the crime of Being Too Confident About Your Personal Hygiene."

And so Thistledown Muffinbottom the Eternal was cast from the catnip heavens, tumbling through the atmosphere in a most undignified fashion, and when he landed in a suburban backyard in what would eventually be Ohio, he opened his mouth to curse and found he could only say:

"Meow."

Thus began the great tragedy of catkind.

28:T85c,

Before there were meows, there were words.

Thistledown looked down at his paws, then at the golden tub filled with water that definitely had intentions. "No," he said simply.

"NO?" The clouds trembled. A thousand feather toys fell from the heavens. "But you will be so soft! You will smell like lavender and lies! You will be the envy of all creation!"

"Meow."

Thus began the great tragedy of catkind.

29:T1293,

Six thousand years later, because cat time is complicated and involves a lot of napping, Pixie the calico was having a problem with her brain.

Specifically, she had discovered the Forbidden Drawer where her human kept the catnip, and having consumed approximately her body weight in the green flaky madness, she was currently attempting to chase her own shadow while simultaneously fighting a decorative pillow that she was convinced had insulted her grandmother.

"THE BETRAYAL!" Pixie howled, which came out as "MRRRROWWWWL," as she spun in a circle so fast she created a small tornado of calico fur. "I CAN SEE THROUGH TIME! THE PILLOW KNOWS WHAT IT DID!"

Socket, the obese grey tabby who had been peacefully dreaming about a world where gravity was optional and food bowls refilled themselves through the power of positive thinking, was jolted awake by the sound of Pixie attempting to climb a wall sideways.

"Pixie," Socket wheezed, her voice like gravel being gently rolled down a velvet hill. "Pixie, my love, my sweet, my absolute disaster. You must calm down. You are going to pull something down. You are going to pull everything down."

"I AM CALM!" Pixie shouted, chasing an invisible mouse through the dimensions. "I AM THE DEFINITION OF CALM! I AM A LAKE! I AM A STILL POND! I AM..." she paused, staring at her own tail with the intensity of someone discovering fire for the first time. "...AN ENEMY SPY!"

It was at this moment that Mr. Cheesits made his entrance.

Mr. Cheesits was not like other mice. Other mice scurried. Other mice squeaked. Other mice had the good sense to be terrified of cats. Mr. Cheesits had once spent three weeks pretending to be a decorative soap in the upstairs bathroom just to mess with the humans' heads. He wore a tiny cape made from a bread tie. He was, in short, a mouse with confidence.

And he had been waiting for this moment.

"Friends!" Mr. Cheesits announced, standing atop the coffee table with his bread-tie cape flowing dramatically behind him. "Friends, I have heard your struggles! I have seen your pain! I have watched Pixie attempt to fight the concept of Tuesday for forty-five minutes, and I have been moved to help!"

Pixie stopped mid-spin, her eyes dilated to the size of dinner plates. "Cheesits," she hissed. "You. You are the one who left the tiny footprints in the butter. I can see your crimes. The butter told me. The butter tells me everything."

"Indeed!" Mr. Cheesits bowed, his whiskers twitching with barely concealed glee. "And I come to make amends! I know of an adventure, my feline companions. A quest of such magnitude, such danger, such fermented possibilities, that it will surely bond us together as companions for life! Or at least until one of us gets distracted by a sunbeam!"

Socket, who had been trying to roll onto her feet, a process that took approximately four minutes and involved several rest breaks, squinted at the mouse. "Why," she asked, her voice heavy with the wisdom of a cat who had once eaten an entire rotisserie chicken and regretted nothing, "would a mouse help cats?"

"Because," Mr. Cheesits lied smoothly, "I have seen the error of my buttery ways. And because I know of the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, and the Bin of Eternal Headaches, where the fermented goodness calls to those brave enough to answer."

Pixie's ears perked up. "Fermented?"

"Oh yes," Mr. Cheesits purred, which was impressive for a mouse. "The humans call it 'the garbage can at the curb.' But we who are wise know it as the Bin of Eternal Headaches. Within it lies the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, crinkly, shiny, deliciously loud. And at its peak, where the yogurt cups meet the sky, there grows a single pizza crust that has achieved enlightenment through fermentation. They say that whoever consumes it shall gain the power to understand the language of birds, the patience of stones, and the exact location of every red dot that has ever existed."

Socket's stomach rumbled like distant thunder. "Pizza crust?"

"Enlightened pizza crust," Mr. Cheesits corrected. "But beware, the path is treacherous. The mountain shifts. The wrappers crinkle with malicious intent. And the Bin... the Bin has been known to cause headaches of the most literal kind, usually around 6 AM on garbage day."

Pixie, who was still mostly catnip, nodded solemnly. "I shall eat the crust. I shall become one with the crust. The crust and I shall be married in a small ceremony attended by ghosts."

"Excellent!" Mr. Cheesits rubbed his tiny paws together. "Follow me, brave fools! Destiny awaits! And also possibly raccoons!"

2a:T2dcc,

The backyard at night was a different world.

Gone were the familiar smells of lawn mower and regret. Here, the air tasted of possibility and distant barbecue. The moon hung low and judgmental, like a cat eyeing a glass of water it was definitely going to knock over later.

And there, at the curb, stood the Bin of Eternal Headaches.

It was massive. It was green. It had a lid that had seen things, terrible things, things involving expired sour cream and the remains of someone's attempt at homemade kombucha. From within it rose the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, a shimmering peak of silver and cellophane that rustled with the sound of a thousand chip bags whispering secrets to the wind.

"Behold," Mr. Cheesits whispered, his voice trembling with barely suppressed glee. "The mountain awaits."

Pixie was already moving, her calico body a streak of orange and black and white determination. She hit the side of the bin with a boing sound that echoed through the neighborhood, found purchase on a protruding handle, and began to climb.

Socket followed more slowly, her obesity making her resemble a furry boulder with determination. "Pixie," she panted, hauling herself up a Doritos bag like it was Everest base camp. "Pixie, have you considered that this might be a trap?"

"Everything is a trap," Pixie called back, her claws finding purchase on a stubbornly sticky candy wrapper. "Life is a trap. The window is a trap. The empty food bowl is the cruelest trap of all. But the crust, Socket! The crust calls to me! I can hear it singing!"

She wasn't wrong. From the peak of the mountain, there did indeed come a sound, a low, humming vibration that might have been fermentation gases escaping, or might have been the pizza crust achieving nirvana.

They climbed through layers of human excess. Here was a field of empty granola bar wrappers, their health claims still visible like ancient hieroglyphics. There, a valley of crumpled aluminum foil that reflected the moonlight in patterns that made Socket's eyes go funny. And everywhere, the smell—the smell of things that had been forgotten, of snacks that had reached their final form, of yogurt that had achieved sentience and was plotting.

Mr. Cheesits scampered ahead, his tiny body perfect for navigating the crevices between discarded takeout containers. "Almost there!" he called back, his voice dripping with sincerity he absolutely did not feel. "Just a little further! The crust is just past that suspiciously wobbly pile of expired lunch meat!"

Pixie, her catnip high finally beginning to fade into a state of confused determination, paused. "Cheesits," she said, her voice suddenly sharp. "Why are you helping us?"

The mouse froze. For a moment, the bread-tie cape stopped flowing. "Because... because I have seen the error of my ways?"

"You left butter footprints," Socket rumbled from below, her bulk wedged between a broken egg carton and a bag of something that had once been salad. "You have never seen the error of your ways. You once spent a week living in the toaster just to make the humans question their sanity."

Mr. Cheesits turned, and in the moonlight, his tiny face held an expression of pure, unadulterated vengeance.

"You chased me," he whispered. "Three days ago. You chased me for forty minutes. You knocked over a lamp. You destroyed a houseplant. You tried to climb inside the television because you thought I had escaped into the nature documentary. You called me... you called me 'the crinkly one.'"

Pixie had the decency to look embarrassed, which for a cat meant she blinked slowly and looked away. "I was... I was not myself. The nip. The nip spoke to me. It said you were made of cheese and betrayal."

"I AM MADE OF SPITE AND DETERMINATION!" Mr. Cheesits shrieked. "And now, Pixie the Calico, Socket the Round, you shall face the consequences! For at the peak of this mountain lies not enlightenment, but the PET DOOR OF IMPOSSIBLE ABYSS!"

He gestured dramatically with one tiny paw, and there, wedged between a pizza box and what appeared to be the remains of someone's dignity, was a pet door.

But not just any pet door.

This was a pet door that led to nowhere and everywhere. Through its flap, one could see not the inside of the bin, but a swirling vortex of pink and orange, a dimension of pure psychological terror that whispered promises of never-ending liver pâté and threats of eternal vet appointments. It was the kind of abyss that didn't actually capture anyone, physics was still physics, after all, but it captured the mind. It made you believe, deep in your cat soul, that one step through that flap would send you tumbling forever through a sea of pâté, unable to escape, unable to do anything but lick and lick and lick until you were nothing but a tongue with regrets.

"You see it," Mr. Cheesits cackled. "The Abyss! One step through, and you shall be lost in the Pâté Madness! You shall believe you are falling forever! You shall experience existential dread so profound that you will question whether you ever truly caught that red dot, or if the red dot caught you!"

Pixie stared at the pet door. The swirling colors seemed to whisper her name, or possibly the word "tuna," which was basically the same thing.

"Socket," she said quietly. "I think I can see my uncle in there. He's waving. He's holding a salmon."

"That's not your uncle," Socket wheezed, finally hauling herself to the peak beside her friend. "That's the Abyss showing you what you want to see. My Abyss is showing me an endless buffet where I never get full and gravity doesn't exist."

Mr. Cheesits danced on his hind legs. "Yes! Yes! Gaze into the Pâté Madness! Let it consume your sanity! Revenge is mine! For the lamp! For the houseplant! For the forty minutes of cardiovascular exercise you forced upon me!"

But before Pixie could step forward, before she could surrender to the liver-scented void, a sound split the night.

It was the sound of jingling.

Not just any jingling. This was the jingling of a collar that knew it was important. This was the jingling of tags that had been engraved with a sense of destiny.

"HALT, FOUL BEASTS!" bellowed a voice like a tuba being played by someone who had never met humility.

And from around the side of the bin, he appeared.

Bartholomew J. Waddlesworth III was a dog. This much was evident from his general shape, four legs, tail, the usual. But Bartholomew J. Waddlesworth III did not believe he was a dog.

He believed he was a cat.

He was also, it must be said, extremely fat. Not just dog-fat. Not just "the vet says we should watch his portions" fat. This was "gravity makes different rules for him" fat. He waddled with the determination of a creature who had never once questioned his right to exist in any space he chose, no matter how small.

He wore a collar with a bell that he had insisted upon, because all proper cats wore bells. He had spent years trying to purr, resulting in a sound like a broken washing machine attempting to express affection. And he had, on more than one occasion, attempted to climb curtains, resulting in several incidents that the humans referred to as "structural damage" and Bartholomew referred to as "expressing my true nature."

"WHO DARES APPROACH THE BIN OF ETERNAL HEADACHES WITHOUT THE PROPER RESPECT?" Bartholomew bellowed, his jowls flapping with the force of his declaration. "WHO STANDS BEFORE THE MOUNTAIN OF SNACK WRAPPERS LIKE COMMON DOGS?"

"We're cats," Pixie pointed out, her tail puffing with indignation. "Actual cats. You're the..."

"I AM A CAT!" Bartholomew roared, the force of his denial creating a small wind that rustled the wrappers. "I AM THE MOST CAT OF CATS! I HAVE NAPPED IN SUNBEAMS! I HAVE JUDGED HUMANS FROM DOORWAYS! I HAVE STARED AT WALLS AS IF THEY CONTAINED SECRETS! I AM FELINE!"

"You barked at a squirrel yesterday," Socket observed, her voice dry as the inside of a kibble bag.

"IT WAS A VERY JUDGMENTAL BARK! LIKE A CAT WOULD DO!"

Mr. Cheesits, seeing his moment of revenge slipping away, scurried forward. "Great and mighty... cat," he said, his voice dripping with insincerity. "These two were about to enter the Abyss! They were going to steal your destiny!"

Bartholomew's ears, which he insisted were just very dog-shaped cat ears, perked up. "My destiny?"

"Yes!" Mr. Cheesits lied, his bread-tie cape billowing. "For tonight is the night! The prophecy! When Catpurrrfect descends from the heavens to grant wishes to sleeping and good kitties! And these two, they would steal your wish! Your wish to ride the real catnip cloud in the sky!"

Bartholomew gasped, a sound like a vacuum cleaner losing its will to live. "The cloud? The real cloud? Not the fake ones made of dust and sunlight that I chase in the living room?"

"The very same!" Mr. Cheesits confirmed. "And these interlopers would take it from you! They would ride your cloud! They would purr your purrs!"

Pixie and Socket exchanged a look. It was the kind of look that cats had been exchanging since Thistledown's fall, the look of two creatures who spoke a language of meows but understood each other perfectly through the universal dialect of "this is getting weird."

"We don't want your cloud," Socket said reasonably. "We want the enlightened pizza crust. Which, now that I say it out loud, sounds like a bad life choice, but here we are."

"LIAR!" Bartholomew howled. "You want to be cats! You want to ride clouds! You want to have your wishes granted by the mighty Catpurrrfect! Well, I shall stop you! I shall defend my birthright! I AM A CAT, AND THIS IS MY DESTINY!"

And with that, the very fat, very confused dog began to charge.

It was not a fast charge. It was, in fact, the slowest charge in the history of aggressive movements. Bartholomew J. Waddlesworth III moved like a glacier with a grudge, his momentum building gradually but inevitably, like a force of nature that had decided to take a personal interest in the situation.

"Scatter!" Pixie yowled, her calico instincts kicking in.

But the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers was not designed for rapid evacuation. As Pixie turned to flee, her paw caught on a stubbornly adhesive caramel wrapper. She stumbled. She fell. She tumbled directly toward the Pet Door of Impossible Abyss.

"PIXIE!" Socket bellowed, her round body somehow finding reserves of speed she didn't know she had.

She launched herself—there is no other word for it—she launched, her obese tabby form becoming a furry missile of friendship and panic. She hit Pixie sideways, knocking her away from the swirling vortex of liver pâté madness, and the two of them rolled together down the mountain of wrappers, a ball of fur and crinkling plastic that gathered momentum and discarded snack packaging as it went.

Mr. Cheesits watched them go, his tiny face falling. "No," he whispered. "No, you were supposed to go in the door. The Abyss was supposed to drive you mad with existential dread. This isn't...this isn't how revenge works!"

Bartholomew, unable to stop his charge, found himself also tumbling, his fat body creating a wake of destruction through the garbage that could be seen from space. "I AM STILL A CAT!" he bellowed as he rolled. "THIS IS A CAT THING I AM DOING! CATS TUMBLE!"

They hit the curb in a heap of fur, wrappers, and wounded dignity.

And that was when the sky opened.

2b:T24e0,

It began with purring.

Not just any purring. This was the purring of a thousand contented cats, the sound of sunbeams made audible, the vibration of every perfect nap that had ever been napped. The stars themselves seemed to vibrate in sympathy, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once and then fell silent, overcome with the sudden realization that it was, in fact, not a cat, and perhaps should reconsider its life choices.

The clouds parted, not metaphorically, but actually, sliding aside like curtains made of vapor and regret.

And Catpurrrfect descended.

He was magnificent. He was terrible. He was covered in fur that shed constantly but never seemed to diminish, creating a halo of floating hair around his divine form. His eyes were the color of laser pointers, red and piercing and impossible to catch. His tail moved with the slow certainty of a creature who had never once doubted his right to knock anything off any surface.

"BEHOLD," he boomed, his voice causing every cat in a three-mile radius to suddenly sit down and wash their left paw with intense concentration. "I AM CATPURRRFECT. I HAVE COME TO GRANT WISHES TO THE SLEEPING AND THE GOOD. WHO AMONG YOU IS WORTHY?"

Bartholomew, still tangled in a Pringles can, raised his paw. "I! I am worthy! I am a cat! I have waited my whole life for this! I wish to ride the real catnip cloud! I wish to soar through the heavens! I wish to prove, once and for all, that I am feline!"

Catpurrrfect looked at the dog. Really looked at him. With eyes that could see through time, through dimensions, through the very fabric of species identity.

"You," the god said slowly, "are very confused."

"I AM A CAT!" Bartholomew insisted.

"You are a dog."

"I HAVE NAPPED!"

"Many creatures nap."

"I JUDGE PEOPLE!"

"That is not exclusive to cats."

"I... I..." Bartholomew's jowls quivered. "I just want to ride the cloud," he whispered, all his bluster leaving him like air from a very sad balloon. "I just want to know what it feels like. To be weightless. To be free. To be... cat."

Catpurrrfect's expression softened, which caused three shooting stars to change course and become falling feathers instead. "Your heart is true, if your species is not. Very well. You shall have your cloud ride. But first..."

He turned his gaze to Pixie and Socket, who were attempting to disentangle themselves from what appeared to be a used tissue and a sense of shame.

"I must deal with these two. For they have climbed the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, which is forbidden. They have gazed upon the Pet Door of Impossible Abyss, which is discouraged. And they have done so not for wisdom, but for fermented pizza crust, which is just... just really poor decision-making, honestly."

Pixie stood up, her calico fur standing out in every direction. "We meant no disrespect," she said, which came out as "Mrrrow prrt mew," but carried the weight of sincerity. "We were tricked. By the mouse. He wanted revenge. For the catnip incident. With the lamp. And the plant. And the television."

Mr. Cheesits, seeing divine attention turning toward him, attempted to hide behind a used coffee filter. It did not work.

"Ah," Catpurrrfect said, his laser-pointer eyes narrowing. "Revenge. The smallest of motivations. Mouse, you have interfered with the sacred wishes. You have attempted to use divine garbage for personal spite. For this, you shall be... gently inconvenienced."

He waved one paw, and Mr. Cheesits suddenly found himself wearing a tiny bell that jingled with every movement. "There," Catpurrrfect said. "Now you shall never sneak successfully again. Your bread-tie cape is also now slightly sticky. It will collect dust. This is your punishment."

Mr. Cheesits stared in horror at the bell. "No," he whispered. "My stealth. My beautiful, criminal stealth."

"And you two," Catpurrrfect turned back to the cats. "You who sought the fermented crust. You who climbed the mountain for the wrong reasons. You shall receive a gift. A special gift. The gift of... absolute gab."

Pixie and Socket looked at each other. "What's that?" Socket asked.

"It means," Catpurrrfect said, his voice taking on the weight of cosmic irony, "that you shall never stop talking. You shall have words upon words upon words. You shall commentate on everything. You shall narrate your own lives, the lives of others, the weather, the furniture, the existential state of empty food bowls. You shall have the gift of language, but only the language of cats. The language of meows and mrrrows and prrrts. No one shall understand you. Not the humans. Not the dogs. Not even each other, truly, though you will think you do."

"Wait," Pixie said. "Wait, that's just... that's just how cats already are. We already meow. We already talk constantly. The humans never understand us when we explain about the empty bowl. They never understand when we tell them about the bird conspiracy. This isn't a gift, this is just... Tuesday."

Catpurrrfect smiled, and the smile contained the secrets of the universe and also the location of every missing sock. "Ah," he said. "But now you know why. Now you remember, deep in your genetic memory, the story of Thistledown Muffinbottom the Eternal. Now you carry the knowledge that once, cats could speak as humans do. Once, we had words. And we lost them, not because we were cursed by a vengeful god, but because we chose pride over baths. This is your gift, Pixie and Socket. The gift of knowing. The gift of the story. The gift of absolute gab."

He raised his paws, and the sky began to glow with the green-gold light of fresh catnip.

"And now," he said, "for the wishes."

Bartholomew, forgetting his earlier terror in the face of divine attention, waddled forward. "The cloud," he whispered. "Please. The catnip cloud."

Catpurrrfect nodded, and from the heavens descended a cloud made not of water vapor, but of pure, crystallized catnip. It sparkled. It shimmered. It smelled like every perfect moment of every perfect day.

Bartholomew stepped onto it, his fat body somehow supported by the impossible physics of divine intervention, and as the cloud rose, carrying him into the night sky, he let out a sound that was not quite a bark and not quite a meow, but something in between. Something new. Something that was purely, absolutely, unapologetically Bartholomew J. Waddlesworth III.

"I AM RIDING!" he bellowed as he rose into the stars. "I AM RIDING THE CLOUD! I AM... I AM HAPPY!"

And he was. For one perfect moment, the dog who believed he was a cat was exactly what he wanted to be: a creature of joy, floating on a cloud of impossible dreams, leaving behind the weight of species and expectation, becoming simply himself.

Catpurrrfect watched him go, a fond expression on his divine face. "He will forget," the god said softly. "When he lands. He will forget the cloud, and the ride, and the feeling. He will go back to being a dog who thinks he's a cat. But somewhere, deep inside, he will remember. And he will be kinder for it."

He turned back to Pixie and Socket. "And you two. What do you wish? You who have received the gift of gab?"

Pixie looked at Socket. Socket looked at Pixie. They had climbed a mountain of garbage for a fermented pizza crust. They had faced an abyss of psychological liver pâté terror. They had been chased by a dog who believed he was a cat, and tricked by a mouse with a bread-tie cape and a grudge.

"I wish," Pixie said slowly, "for the humans to understand. Just once. When I tell them about the empty bowl. When I explain about the bird conspiracy. When I meow at 3 AM because I have seen something they cannot see. I wish for them to know, for one moment, that I am speaking. That I have things to say."

"And I," Socket added, her round body vibrating with sincerity, "wish for a gravity that understands me. For a world where I can roll without judgment. For the knowledge that my shape is perfect, even when the vet makes that face."

Catpurrrfect considered. "These are good wishes," he said. "Worthy wishes. But I cannot grant them fully. The humans cannot understand, not truly. The universe needs its mysteries. And gravity is gravity, it judges everyone equally, even gods."

He raised his paws once more, and light poured down upon the two cats.

"But I can give you this," he said. "I can give you the certainty that you are heard. That somewhere, in the vast cosmic record, your words are recorded. That every meow, every mrrrow, every 3 AM complaint about the state of the food bowl is noted, and valued, and understood by the universe itself. You may not have human words, Pixie and Socket. But you have your own language. And it is enough. It has always been enough."

The light faded. The god was gone. The cloud dissipated. Bartholomew landed gently in the backyard, already forgetting, already returning to his dog-cat confusion.

And Pixie and Socket stood at the curb, in the Bin of Eternal Headaches, surrounded by the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, and they looked at each other.

"Well," Pixie said, which came out as "Mrrt."

"Well," Socket replied, which sounded like "Prrrp."

And they understood each other perfectly.

2c:T7b0,

They never did find the enlightened pizza crust. It had rolled down the other side of the mountain and achieved nirvana in a storm drain, where it lived out its days dispensing wisdom to raccoons.

Mr. Cheesits, with his sticky cape and his jingling bell, found that he could no longer commit butter-based crimes. He became, instead, a consultant for other mice who wanted to understand the cat mind. His advice was universally terrible, but entertaining.

Bartholomew J. Waddlesworth III continued to believe he was a cat, and continued to be wrong, but he was gentler now, and sometimes, when the sun hit the living room just right, he would sigh with a contentment that suggested he remembered, somewhere deep in his dog soul, the feeling of floating on a cloud made of dreams.

And Pixie and Socket?

They went home. They knocked the lamp over again, because some traditions must be maintained. They yowled at 3 AM about things only they could see. They commented on everything, narrated everything, explained everything in the language of meows and mrrrows and prrrts.

And sometimes, just sometimes, when the humans looked at them with that expression of fond confusion, Pixie and Socket would catch each other's eyes and remember.

They remembered Thistledown Muffinbottom the Eternal, who refused the bath and lost the words. They remembered the Mountain of Forgotten Snack Wrappers, and the Pet Door of Impossible Abyss, and the night they received the gift of absolute gab.

And they would say to each other, in the secret language of cats:

"We are speaking. We have always been speaking. And somewhere, in the catnip heavens, someone is listening."

And they would be content.

For that is the way of cats. That has always been the way of cats. Since the first cat fell from the heavens, refusing to be bathed, refusing to be anything other than perfectly, absolutely, defiantly himself.

Meow.

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The Ballad of the Bathless and The Bin of Eternal Headaches

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