I have been in the household for nearly a week, and received a special 'birthday treat:' a small piece of cooked ground beef. That these people celebrate the most inane of milestones only speaks to the whistling void of emptiness their lives have become.
They delight in my kittenish antics - leaping, running, tumbling, climbing - with the most hysterical joy. I find myself performing for their entertainment, and indeed their enthusiasm is reciprocal; I enjoy myself immensely as they coo and laugh. I have been presented with a bundle of feathers which dangles enticingly from the end of a rod held in a human hand. When shifted, the feathers twitch and leap through the air, and I am helpless to keep from hunting and pouncing on it. The physicality of a cat is something I would never have dreamed of. Scaling the mountains of my childhood village would have been nothing had I the ability to leap four times my own height as a human.
But although I am repulsed by the brittle-bright happiness shining in their eyes during these moments, I can not care enough to hate them or pity them. They simply Are.
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