Pa got me a cat even though I didn’t want one. All it does is sit on my bookshelf, groomin itself. I aint even named it. Jus this dumb animal on a shelf, lickin and lickin. Wont never leave neither. I try and push it off but it jus hisses and scratches at me. Damn critter. It’s like it thinks the floor is a thousand acres straight down and wont survive the jump.
Feel bad though. Pa jus wants to make me happy like. Pa was always a dog fella, but I never got on with Rufus, and the mutt never got on with me. Little Jack must be a cat fella, Pa musta figgered. Maybe I jus aint an animal fella. Or a people fella. Maybe I jus like walks and rivers and trees and suchlike. Snow, too, and sand and mud. Stuff that just is, that aint gotta eat or think. Some days I wisht it were just me and the world.
But it aint. The world’s full a people and animals and everything in between, and I need to play nice like. So I pretend to love the cat when Pa’s around. I stroke it, call it perty, dangle twine in front of it. I even have to bring its food and water to my bookshelf on a count a it doesnt wanter leave. Litter box too. Now my whole bedroom reeks, and pettin the cat makes me sneeze and blow litter dust all over the walls.
I dunno. I’m scairt Pa’s gonna leave. He’s gonna leave and I’m gonna have nothin a him cept that damn cat that’s scairt of fallin off a shelf. I guess we’re both scairt. That’s somethin we got in common anyways.
Day 335’s three random writing prompt categories were, “Cat on a bookshelf,” “A bottomless pit,” and, “In the Wild West.”