He was small for a human: maybe he was young and lost himself? He was making noises, trying to imitate our rich and diverse tongue, but it was utter nonsense. I asked him what he was trying to say, but that only encouraged him to do it even more and lower himself into the grass. He moved almost like he was one of us, regal and graceful, as he knelt not far from me. And then he stretched out one of the short legs he doesn't walk with and wiggled blunt and naked claws at me. An invitation. I was intrigued.
At first I didn't want him to touch me- I was afraid of humans. My mother had told me all about them. They're big and sometimes they yell at you and throw things if you're on the fence courting under the moon. Some even keep dogs. But this one was insistent, with eyes like one of my own and I could tell that he meant me no harm. My curiosity won out and I approached him with extreme care, ready to jump back and run if I had to, even though I knew there would be no need. Sometimes you can just tell when you've met a kindred soul.
He knew the rules already, gently extending his paw out to me so I could take in his scent. There was an unpleasant lingering odor of something burnt on his claws that at first made me shy away, but the smell of him underneath that was heady and I was drawn in. He smelled like a sunbeam to me, one of the ones that you want to lay and sleep in all day. Comfortable and safe. He also smelled like . . . home. Home as in ‘this is your human'. Sounds silly, I know, but there's no other way to describe it. Some of us are meant to spend our lives hunting mice and birds in back alleys and others are meant to spend them in the presence of one you can seduce into providing your kills for you on clean platters. This one would provide for me and provide for me well. I looked into his face then and I butted my head against his paw. Invitation accepted.
He spoke to me in his language, his voice low and calm, as he petted me. You wouldn't think those claws would be good for anything, but believe me they are. He knew all the right places to touch me: the top of my skull, all along my spine, behind my ears, under my chin, and he left my belly alone. Never before had I known that such a touch was possible. A few humans had tried to touch me or one of my sibs before, but my mother had always kept us from them, bristling her fur and hissing her threat of battle if they came any closer. I knew that she would be angry and hurt for what I was doing, but I also knew that this was a pleasure I didn't want to deny. I knew I was one of those that we didn't talk about often, and when we did we whispered about them with scorn and disdain. I knew I was destined to be . . . domesticated.
He cradled me gently in his grasp then and cooed at me with a voice that was suprisingly deep for one his size. It was a voice that thrilled me--it had the ring of power. Authority. I liked that. I could feel it vibrating within his chest as he held me close and I purred back at him in response, let him know that I too could entice in this manner. He made another sound, which I have since learned is his laugh (odd though it is), and he ran his claws back under my chin. And he carried me to what was to become my domain.
He tried to feed me dry cereal from a box once. Once. I caught a bird and ate part of it in front of him to show him what I liked. He didn't care for my display: he made faces and odd little high-pitched noises, but he understood my meaning. Since then, I've dined on tuna and cream, with the occasional treat of chicken or cheese. The contents of the box went to the grey tabby that claims the land outside as part of her grounds. I used to try to talk to her sometimes, but she's feral and called me names like "Tame" and "Kept", so I gave up. Call me what you like--I spend my winters in warmth and security, and I never have to seek shelter from the rain. And, most importantly, I never go hungry. I'm not stupid.
My human has a box that makes the most interesting noises. Sometimes they're bizarre and make my ears lie flat against my skull, but other times the sound is so full of his soul that I dance with sheer delight, batting at the air as if I can catch those sounds and take them into myself. He laughs then and makes more of the noises for me for awhile before he brings out the string. Oh yes, the string . . . and the little ball that rattles . . . but I digress.
Once he took me over to his box and let me see what was on the other side. I already knew that there were other, smaller black and white boxes there--I did some exploring one time when he was asleep--but now he was showing it to me. I watched as his claws raced across them and I heard some of the sounds that I liked. That time when he was sleeping I'd touched a few of them but nothing had happened. I don't have the magic like he does. He held up one claw to me then, like it was somehow very important, and rapidly touched as many of the boxes as he could. The sound was wonderful. Indeed, he knows magic.
But my human has more magic than that, however. He can change the fur on top of his skull. Sometimes it's light and sometimes it's dark, and sometimes it's both. It always smells wrong when it happens too. I can't do it. I don't think I want to if it means I'd smell like that.
There's still something of a communication barrier between us. I suppose it will always be there. I can't speak his language and he can't speak mine, although sometimes he still tries. We have to communicate through the nuances of tone and inflection, and to some degree body language. He knows the difference between when I'm hungry and when I want out and he has learned that when I flick my tail I want to be left alone. I can tell when he's amused and when he's lonely. Those are the times I go to him, curl up by his side and simply sing to him like my mother used to when I was small. He likes that, and I like making my human happy. They are such simple creatures, after all.
Sometimes he confuses me. I got in trouble one time when I saw something move under the soft thing he covers himself with when he sleeps and I attacked it. I was protecting my human! I didn't know those were his other paws . . . And why does he hold smouldering twigs? That's where the burnt odor comes from. I found some in a box once and I tore them up, but he chased me away and brought back more. So I hid the thing that makes the fire under the couch. He just got down on all fours and fished it out. Well, I tried.
He's finally beginning to come into his own now, realizing just what he can do when he puts his mind to it. I always knew it was in him: I knew it that first day. He's learning the depth of his magic and soon I won't be the only one dancing in abandon to the noises that he charms out of the box. Maybe then I can get chicken and cheese all the time. So I'm domestic: so what? Life is good when you've got a magic human.