Back in the days when everyone smoked and every corner had its own haze, doctors lit cigarettes before delivering babies, and even cats—yes, cats—puffed on pipes. Don’t believe me? Look at the old ads: four out of five doctors smoked Camels. It was a different world then, children—a world where neither man nor beast gave a second thought to health.
I remember those days well, for I lived through them myself—though not as you might expect.
Life was leisure then, though I didn’t yet know it. I spent my days wandering the woods with friends—hunting when we could, sleeping when we pleased. We worked just enough to last until tomorrow. We neither feared nor fancied the past or the future. They didn’t exist for us any more than government, money, or the laws of men existed. We lived by instinct and appetite. There’s no room for memory or dream in the mind of a creature that feels only today’s hunger and pain.
After one long day of roaming and coming up empty, I stretched out in a sunny patch near the waterfall. I’ve always been fond of water—odd for a cat, I know. I liked to wade in the shallows, feeling the cold current lick at my paws. I suppose I was peculiar that way—fond of what might drown me.
It was there, by the low roar of the falls, sun-warmed and hungry, that I first met the old woman. She bent beneath the weight of her sacks, gathering kindling and herbs. Gray hair, wrinkled face—but eyes clear and sharp.
She saw me from a distance. “Hey, Cat! Cat!” she called. “Would you like a cigarette?”
Though I preferred a cigar, I took the offering and let her light it. She asked about my life—how I passed my days. When she spoke of her home—full of food, warmth, and soft places to rest—I thought she pitied me. She pulled a piece of chicken from her bag and handed it over, along with another cigarette.
“Would you like to come see my home? It’s very nice,” she said.
I refused. It wasn’t my kind of life. So she left.
But she came back the next day, and the next—each time with some new gift: chicken, a blanket, a bowl, a small shelter to keep the rain off me. Slowly, she built a little home around me.
At last, I asked her how far her home was. “Far,” she said, “but worth the walk.” She told me we could help each other. She would give me food and warmth; I would keep her company until her dying day. That sounded like a heavy burden, so I suggested we just meet halfway.
And so, halfway became closer and closer to her home.
Weeks passed, and I found myself straying from my wild friends. They noticed the change before I did—my soft fur, my plump belly, the lightness in my step. But I told myself I hadn’t changed. I could always go back. This was only temporary—a clever game.
Ah, but she cooked such meals. Rich soups and stews, pork roasts that melted in the mouth. A cigar after supper, sometimes a cigarette before bed. I told myself I was only waiting—that when the time was right, I’d return to my old life.
Yet within months, I found myself at her door—and then inside it. My paws grew too soft for the snow, my belly too full for hunger, my claws too dull for hunting. My friends came by sometimes, peering through the window. I waved them off and whispered, It’s still a long con.
The old woman said I’d get the house when she died. I’d eat well, and when the time came, I could open the doors for my friends too. In the meantime, she made such savory food—always the soups, the stews, the roasts. Always the smoke curling up after. I thought: it’s only a matter of time. I’d inherit her home, take my fill, and return to the woods—wild again.
Years turned over like seasons: winter to spring, spring to summer, summer to fall. She grew weaker as I grew strong. I began helping her more and more—for the long con, I said to myself. I fetched her kindling, stirred her stews, brushed her hair, tucked the blanket around her feet. I spooned broth into her mouth when she was too tired to lift her hands.
Her breath smelled of smoke and thyme. I thought of that first day by the waterfall—how she bent beneath the same burden of kindling. Only now, it was I who bore the weight.
Now, children, you may think she bewitched me—that I was caught by some spell. But no. It was my own pride and foolishness that bound me. I thought I was using her, when in truth, she was teaching me. She gave freely, and when she could give no longer, I found I could not help but give in return. It was the most natural thing in the world.
Be mindful whom you let near your heart. You may start wild, hungry, and selfish—and end tame, full, and kind.
When she died, I was not the cat I once was. I was something else—more human than beast—the last smoking cat. I lived in her house. Cleaned floors. Cooked stews. Smoked cigars. Slept in bed. My old friends were long gone, impossible to find. They had forgotten that we animals once smoked cigarettes. They thought only of the day’s meal—not of yesterday, not of tomorrow.
But me—ah, I think of her still. Sometimes, when the smoke rises just right, I almost see her there—bending under the weight of kindling and herbs, calling, “Hey, Cat!” one last time.
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