The Cat in the Maze

A very short story

The light appeared in the form of a cat. A friendly cat, young, but not a kitten. He was inquisitive and affectionate, but also vigilant and cautious, the way all smart cats must be.

The cat seemed so familiar, but I had never seen him before. He had grey and tan patches on a mostly white coat; long, fine hair, with a bushy tail. He might have been part Maine Coon, or he might have been part squirrel. To my tired eyes, he seemed to glow slightly, with a pearly aura. But I knew this was just a trick of the moonlight.

I asked the cat his name; he did not answer, because he was a cat. He had no tag, no collar. He sniffed eagerly at my fingertips, then rubbed his cheeks against my knuckles.

Suddenly, the cats’ eyes widened fully, and he stood at attention, tail twitching, as if he sensed some potential threat among the hedges – but just as suddenly, he relaxed and rolled onto his side, lazily stretching his legs as far as they could stretch.

But as I approached him, he sprang up with a jolt, and broke into a manic sprint. Instinctively, I ran after him. I struggled to keep up, as he darted around corners and shimmied underneath and over the hedges, where I could not follow. Eventually, I lost sight of him completely, but I kept running, telling myself that if only I kept moving, inevitably I would come across him again.

Finally, I gave up. My head spun as I gasped for breath, sweating and pacing around the maze aimlessly. I was gripped by panic and sorrow when I realized I might never find the cat again. Because there was something about him – something that I felt powerfully, superphysically drawn to. I must find the cat. Like a drunk I stumbled around the maze, still sweating, still panting, disoriented and desperate.

And then, I turned a corner, and there he was – thank god! I rushed to him and stooped down to pick him up; he did not protest. He relaxed into my arms, purring; he rubbed his face against mine, and I held him close.

Eventually I set him down. He was less excitable now; less nervous. He was still alert – as all smart cats must be – but whatever triggered his zoomies had left him. He walked ahead of me, at a manageable trot this time, and I followed. Soon, we arrived at the exit.

I had been stuck in the maze for years; he led me out in a matter of minutes. I laughed through tears of relief; I scooped the cat up again and nuzzled him hard, overjoyed. This time, he squirmed and chirped with mild annoyance. I relented and set him down. He shook his coat and began grooming himself, evidently unconcerned that he had just saved my life.

Together, we went home, and he and I have stayed there ever since. The whole time, the cat has never expected reciprocation for the salvation he gave to me. He needed no thanks, no praise, no reward. What he did need – as we all do – was food, and a warm lap to curl up in, both of which he relished. I was more than happy to provide these things for him. And so we spent most of our days in my old armchair, reading books, and sharing sandwiches (he especially loved smoked salmon, when I could afford it). I could tell he was content because of how he purred. Could he know my contentment? I cannot purr – I never learned how – but I could offer smoked salmon, and a warm lap.