It's Still Life

The Birthday Grievance
(Or: A Feline Case for Cake)

The cat sits on the windowsill,
nose pressed to glass,
watching the boy across the street
run through a garden of balloons,
bunting,
and what appears to be
a very large cake.

His tail twitches.
His ears flatten.

“Old Woman,” he says,
without turning,
“why have I never had a birthday party?
Why has my existence
not been celebrated with bunting
and balloons
and a cake that is clearly
too large for one small human?”

The Old Woman looks up from her knitting.
“We don’t know when you were born, cat.
You just… appeared.
Like a weather system.
Or a tax bill.”

“Exactly,” he says,
as if she has just proven his point.
“I am mysterious.
I am significant.
I am worthy of celebration.
You could pick a date.
Arbitrarily.
Today, perhaps.
Now, perhaps.
Before the cake gets eaten by children
who don’t even appreciate
the texture of a good fishy frosting.”

She sighs.
“You want a birthday?”

“I want recognition.
I want a song sung in my honour.
I want a balloon tied to my tail.
I want to be carried around the garden
while the neighbours applaud.
And I want cake.
Fish cake.
With anchovies.”

He turns now,
eyes wide,
tail like a exclamation mark.

“The boy gets presents.
I am a present.
Every day.
A gift of presence.
Of purr.
Of judgement perfectly placed.
Surely that is worth at least
one afternoon of pomp and pageantry.”

The Old Woman puts down her needles.
“Fine.
Tomorrow.
We’ll have a party.
You and me.
And the crow.
And maybe a small fish cake.”

The cat blinks.
Slowly.
Satisfaction incarnate.

“Acceptable.
I shall expect formalwear,
and speeches.
Brief ones.
I am a busy cat.