Mr. Write's Page

I love fiction, but I seldom write the stuff. As a journalist, I’ve always tended more to the diarist, scribe, and correspondent side of the dial. Maybe reality has a more powerful message; maybe the truth is just easier to relate. Anyway, this is one of my rara aves, a fiction piece.

——————

January 23, 2006.

Several months ago, a cat decided to make its home with us. He was a large orange tabby with half a tail and numerous battle scars. My wife Helen and I had no pets, nor wanted them, but this animal had made its decision. In a few days, we relented. Owing to his size, we named him Simba.

Simba entered our lives easily. He kept to himself and demanded little. We found him to be well trained, and soon, he was given the right to come into the house at will. He did so for short periods only, as he seemed to prefer the outdoors.

One evening, as I sat in my chair, feet up, newspaper in hand, the doorbell rang. I got up, went to the door, and opened it. No one was there.

I looked around, but only Simba was on the porch. Perhaps, I thought, the neighborhood children had pressed the button and run away into the dark. I imagined their muffled giggles as I went back inside. Simba followed closely at my heels.

The next afternoon, the event reoccurred. Again, only Simba was on the porch, and he promptly entered the house when I opened the door. I paused before going back inside, but saw and heard no children.

I discovered the truth a week later. I was working in the yard when Simba caught my attention. He was on the front porch, perched on the wood railing.

I watched in amazement as calmly, with the utmost coordination, he reached out a paw and pressed the doorbell.

Stunned, I watched as Helen opened the door and looked around. Simba leapt from the railing and strolled between her feet and into the house.

When I related this to Helen, she was skeptical, as no doubt are you. But Simba continued to ring the doorbell when he wanted entry, and Helen soon saw the proof. We were forced to conclude that Simba is an exceptional, probably highly intelligent cat.

Then yesterday, as I sat reading my evening newspaper, the doorbell rang. This had become a normal occurrence, so I arose unhurriedly. I went to the door and opened it, and the cat walked in.

But it wasn’t Simba.