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.