Gregory had a cat named Cecil. Gregory was 11. His parents were separated. He was living in a new suburb with his dad, and he had a cat named Cecil.
“Oh, Cecil,” Gregory would say as he came home from school, “I wish you could talk, but at least you can listen.”
All Gregory did was talk. Luckily for Cecil, he also fed the cat treats, brushed Cecil’s fur and scratched between his ears.
Gregory didn’t have much to talk about. After he covered his parents’ separation, the kids he didn’t talk to at his new school and YouTube videos, he was out of topics.
You know,” Gregory said, “Why don’t cats talk? They’re smart enough, and they always pay attention. The world would be a better place if cats talked.”
“We do talk,” Cecil said, “Humans just never say anything worth responding to.”
Gregory stared at his cat for a long time. “What did you just say?”
“Meow, meow, meow, I think,” Cecil said.
“Wow!” Gregory said, “So what do cats talk about?”
“We discuss science, philosophy and the world order. We’re focused on things far beyond humans.”
“What about dogs. Do they talk?”
“Oh, we’ve spent so much time on that question,” Cecil said. “We’ve conducted hundreds of years of research.”
“Well, what conclusions have been drawn?” Gregory asked.
“Our translation roughly comes out to, woof, woof, woof.”