Under Scrutiny

There is a particular way a cat looks at you across the table, still as a statue, eyes wide as old coins, tail tucked neatly like punctuation. It is not the look of hunger, though hunger may be nearby. It is not love, though love, in its own private dialect, might be present. No, it is the look of deep and ancient consideration.

Your cat, in that moment, is likely running a quiet inventory of your usefulness.

They are wondering why you eat food that comes from boxes instead of bowls on the floor. They are puzzled by your insistence on utensils when hands would clearly suffice. They are mildly disappointed that you have not dropped anything yet, but they are patient. Time means little to a creature who naps for a living.

They may also be revisiting old questions. Why do you sit on furniture when the floor is available? Why do you speak out loud to no one in particular? Why do you laugh at glowing rectangles? These mysteries are cataloged carefully, to be revisited later during a 3 a.m. ceiling-stare.

There is judgment there, yes, but not unkind judgment. More like the judgment of a librarian watching someone dog-ear a page. A sigh forms, invisible but loud.

Occasionally, the cat considers the possibility that you are a large, hairless kitten who never quite figured things out. This theory explains much. It also justifies continued supervision.

And then, suddenly, the staring stops. The cat blinks. The moment passes. Whatever verdict was reached is filed away in the great mental cabinet marked Human: Ongoing Project.

You resume eating. The cat resumes being a cat.

But rest assured, somewhere behind those eyes, notes were taken.