Devonne Brown

Norris Tales, The Adventures of an Awful House Cat .

I like to call Norris Tales hyperbolic nonfiction. Norris has superpowers of good and evil.

Norris, the actual cat, is sixteen years old. He’s become that friend you argue with all the time. He’s demanding. He wants cream, or attention, or no attention. He doesn’t say which until I’ve crossed whatever line he drew in his sandbox of a mind. And he is whisker twitching pissed off about it. I should have known better. It’s a constant game of “hot and cold” with him.

My arms are rough with needle mark scabs. He tells me what he wants one claw a time. He works his index claw on his right paw like a conductor’s baton to get to get what he wants.

Norris got himself locked in the linen closet, when I went fishing yesterday. He wasn’t on the back of the chair to greet me when I came home. He didn’t make any noise until I started calling his name. He’d been locked in so many closets in his life had been in deep cat sleep and was grouchy about being called out of it. Of course he’d been having a good dream when I woke him too, another reason to be mad at me. Never expect gratitude from a cat you locked in a closet.