Inside Cat

Johnny Mathis stands at the precipice of Outside, crouched down, sniffing at the door frame. This is no ordinary unexplored closet or space beneath the bed, this is something new entirely. It is unfamiliar. Outside is ever present behind the windows he so often growls at the birds from, but when faced with the prospect of actually setting foot outside the house and exploring he has no idea what to do. His ears pricked up, he daintily cranes his grey and white head out, peering around the corner. I stand a few feet behind, keeping my eye on him as I clean out and reorder my bookshelf.

While Johnny is inside the house he is bored, complacent, a little hostile. He'll often leap up while lounging on the carpet in the center of the floor to chase after some sort of ghostly prey, his claws digging into the carpet, his tail raised up. While I walk down the stairs he makes sport of chasing me and swatting from the first staircase as I make my way down the second. He is truly the master of the house- sometimes seeking affection and attention when feeling bored or playful, always dashing away in disgust whenever anyone makes to pet him or pick him up.

To see him so humbled in the face of the great, unknowable vastness of the deck above our backyard is very funny. Every noise and motion I make sends panic straight into his little feline heart, and he dashes out of the room, only to return to the vestibule of Outside after a few moments. Even now he is sitting in the center of my room, surveying the giant collection of random things scattered over the floor, standing tall, chest thrust forward, ears standing at attention. Yet when faced with the unfamiliar he is flattened to the ground, on the alert for any number of fearsome beasts that lurk beyond the protection of the sliding glass door.

I used to be an inside cat.
I wonder if I still am.