is this a film?

My cat makes me think we’re in a film. He looks at me with his “why” eyes: why is the fire not on, why is my dish empty, why is the boy flattening my ears again, why is the pillow not on your legs for me to sit on?

Why?

And I think, if this were a film, I could be sure we were able to understand eachother. Catching gazes from across the room: “he’ll be in bed soon” I would transmit.

“Good” he’d reply, shoulders sour, with cross bent whiskers.

Because, if it were a film, we’d talk like friends. Magical realism, you know.

It’s not a film though, I don’t think.

But, we still talk.

I read this week that those who ‘speak out loud’ to themselves are more likely to have a well-regulated nervous system.

Sounds about right, I say to myself, chancing it.

Early – before sunrise – I hear the pad-pad of four fluffy feet coming along the hallway. He had soon leapt up onto the duvet – perfectly, of course – like an animatronic teddybear onto his Hollywood co-star. Settled, he stretched his front legs towards my tea, edging his paws into place against the hot china cup.

He has never done this before.

He went on to warm one paw up, tucked it away, then presented the other paw.

This is the film! I declare in my head. Scene! — snapping the clapperboard shut. His eyelids stay closed, his pea-shaped toes no longer cold.

We sit until he had to go. I’m never sure what calls him away. I have tried asking. Though, I may have just heard some scuttling under the floorboards: our small, round-eared tenants seem to be back for their winter-let. That might be one of the Whys.

I might think it’s all a film because he goes about the house like a celebrity. Greeting people at the door, or not, depending on the day. I might think this is a film because I spend so much time watching him do nothing — which, I’ve realised, is what the most accomplished actors and films seem to do best: act normal, like they’re doing nothing special at all.

Life imitates art, isn’t that it?

Roll credits.

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