The first time Clare's cat started to talk, Clare assumed she'd used a too strong rye in her Manhattan. The next night when Clare poured herself a tiny glass of Cabernet, Mr. Whiskers walked into the kitchen, jumped on the counter, and announced that a white would go better with miso black cod. “Cats don't talk,” Clare said to Mr. Whiskers. Mr. Whiskers nodded. “Most of the time we're content to observe. But we could take over the world.” His round yellow eyes blinked at Clare. “If we wanted to.” He lifted a paw and licked it daintily.
Ann Lewis Hamilton is a writer living in California.