American Catseye

Chapter 15

by Philosopher Jones

When Hooman #1
and Hooman #A
return to our home,
they open the front door
to a living room abuzz
with lights glinting
from computers
wired together
like an aughts LAN party,
and us six cats,
plus the new kitten,
Lahea,
sit nobly on
the single-story cat stands
we ordered from Amazon,
click-clacking away
at keyboards
thanks to the furry,
thumb-enabled gloves
we've strapped
onto our hands.
The gloves,
like the B.I.R.D.,
were my brother's design.

I can tell the hoomans
are struggling with seeing
all of us sitting upright
like bipedal tiger-men,
panther-men,
tiger-women,
and snow-leopard-women,
our eyes glittering
with intelligence
they never guessed
we possessed before now,
and I decide
to ignore them
until they close
their gaping mouths.

Hooman #A looks
to Lahea first,
tabby kitten,
then to me,
long-haired, black,
in charge,
and Phoebe,
silvery
like a cyborg princess,
followed by DeeJAY,
a tabby
in an army-print tux,
before trailing
his hooman gaze
to the other side
of the room,
where Tom,
a tux cat
in an all-natural suit,
and Greg,
a tabby draped in gold necklaces,
type diligently
on their computers
next to Buttercup,
who's quietly mixing vials
like the mad torty she is.

Hooman #A
Where's the couch?

Hooman #1
That's your concern?

Again the hoomans
survey our living room,
shelves now filled
with alien feline literature,
the PlayStation 4
converted into one
of our desktop computers,
the walls lined
with glass tubing
that carries plasma
from outlets
to flip-phone devices
tucked in Target cubbies
next to me,
DeeJAY,
and blinged Greg,
our home converted into
Feline Society #337's
fully operational
American hub.