Excerpt of Must Worship Cats by Edie Ramer

Dorothy, the old lady who'd driven Cat to this place yesterday, had said the town's name was Miracle. It looked like a miracle to Cat with all the squirrels, rabbits and birds outside the back bedroom window. Oh, those juicy, chirping birds. Flying so close.

They taunted her as if she were invisible. As if they knew she was locked in this small house, unable to pounce on them.

But she wouldn't be a prisoner forever.

Somehow, some way, she would escape.

She thought about running free — the sun on her head, the wind ruffling her fur, a bird in her mouth — and her heart pitter–pattered.

Behind her, she heard the other cat coming her way, her steps heavy. So was her belly. Cat sat on the windowsill, but Queenie peered up from the floor of Dorothy's back bedroom. Too fat to jump up.

Usually Cat was picky, leaving her food in her dish and coming back to nibble when it pleased her. But after seeing Queenie in all her heftiness, Cat knew this morning if she didn't eat her food right away, Queenie would gobble it up before Cat could finish grooming her tail.

Cat didn't know how any self–respecting cat allowed herself to get so out of shape. Humans, yes. They had less legs and less sense. Otherwise why would they do such odd things?

Cat suspected some of their problems came from watching what they called TV and what she called ‘the loud thing.' Instead of staring at the loud thing, they could go outside and chase away small invaders. The younger ones could climb trees. When they were tired of that, they could come inside and take a nap with their cat.

"Sorry about your human." Queenie's voice was low for a cat. "Sorry you had to leave your home."

"For a long time she stank of sickness," Cat said. Vivian had gotten sicker before the first snow. Now the snow had melted — the second year of snow she could remember in her life — and it didn't look like it would come back again soon. The trees were sprouting leaves, and the squirrels and gophers were taking over this lawn.

When she escaped this place, the animals would scatter.

She craned her neck toward Queenie. "How do I get out of here?"

"Get out of here?" Queenie stared at Cat as if a horn had pushed out between her ears. "You don't want to leave. This is home."

"It doesn't smell like home."

"That's because it's a new home." Queenie spoke ponderously, her speech as slow as her swaying walk.

"I've lived in as many homes as I have claws." Cat held up a front paw and showed her sharp claws. "None of them smelled like home."

"This smells like home to me." Queenie's voice rose a bit and the black fur on her neck bristled. Even her face looked indignant with the slanted white streaks above her eyes.

"That's because it's your home." This home smelled like Queenie, too. Old and musky. "Not mine."

"But Mom named you. You're Princess."

Cat restrained herself from leaning down and swiping her paw across Queenie's wide face. "Princess will never be my name."

"It matches my name."

No, it didn't match Queenie, it was under. The queen was first, the princess second. Cat had been second in a home already. Second after a dog. She didn't ever want to be second again. "I don't like matching names."

"What name would you like?"

Cat swished her tail. Every family she'd lived with had given her a different name. No name had felt right. No home had the right smell.

"Goddess would be fitting. Humans used to worship us. I'd like to be worshipped."

Queenie backed up, her eyes rounded, and she hissed. As if Cat had said something so wrong it frightened her.

Cat understood. Queenie feared being powerful.

Not Cat, though she didn't want to be powerful over all humans. Just a chosen few.