Marked by Death, Judged by a Cat

I woke up this morning with a thought burning a hole in my skull. One of those rare moments where the universe hands you something clean and sharp and ready to land on the page. It was right there. Front of the brain. Glowing. Important. And then a cat jumped on the bed.

Not my cat. I don’t have animals anymore. People who know me are probably already confused, but don’t worry. I’m still recovering at my friend’s house and she has cats. Mystery solved. You’re fucking welcome.

The cat in question is Lucifer. Black. Opinionated. Slightly unhinged. And for reasons that probably belong in a theology textbook, he and I have a strange history. I was there the day Brittney brought him home. He was the runt of the litter, picked on and a little malnourished, with that scrappy look that says, “I dare you to underestimate me.” We had ordered sandwiches from Panera or whatever that chain is called, and Lucifer absolutely lost his goddamned mind at the smell of chicken. Brittney and I took turns feeding him scraps, and he devoured them like he was auditioning for a Discovery Channel documentary. That was our whole relationship for years. One moment of chicken-based bonding and then nothing. I ceased to exist in Lucifer’s worldview.

Until I died. Three times.

After I came back from… wherever I went… that cat suddenly couldn’t leave me alone. And I couldn’t leave him alone either. It was like death had branded me with something only he could see or smell or sense. Maybe I met God, maybe I didn’t. I forgot to ask for ID. But whatever happened, Lucifer recognized it. He understood it. And he was completely fucking fine with it.

Which makes the rest of this even funnier.

The light in the room has a remote, and I keep it on the bed so when I wake up I can turn the light on before doing anything stupid with my healing body. Lucifer decided the remote was a toy. Normally he’s affectionate with me, but since the accident he’s been skittish around the chair, the splints, the bandages. Apparently the signs of the living are far less interesting to him than the signs of the almost-dead.

But this morning he came in, finally, like some cosmic olive branch. I pet him. He purred. Things were good. And then he took the remote and batted it off the bed.

So there I was. Broken wrist. Broken foot. Rolled over like a wounded walrus in the dark, trying not to scream as I fished around blindly for this stupid piece of plastic while Lucifer fled the scene like he had just witnessed a murder he did not want to be questioned about.

By the time I got the light on and the room settled, whatever perfect thought I woke up with had evaporated completely. Gone. Just a faint ghost of something that might have been brilliant or might have been absolute bullshit. No way to know now.

So here we are. Me needing to write anyway. Me pushing out words to keep the channel open. Me wondering who the loser is in this whole scenario. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s you for reading this. Maybe it’s Lucifer, who got scared off before he could get either proper affection or a satisfying new toy.

Or maybe this is the whole point. Inspiration is fragile. Life is ridiculous. Cats are assholes. Healing is loud and clumsy. And sometimes the thing you end up writing is not the thing you meant to write, but the thing that refused to leave.