"When I come home each day, my cat rarely greets me at the door. He's usually sitting upstairs, neatly composed atop a book. "How far along did you come on your novel today?" I'll ask. It's an old joke with us. He and I both know that he spent his day sleeping, eating, and chasing shadows on the patio.
At least, it's a joke to me. He doesn't understand jokes, I remind myself. Cats don't speak English. I think….
But if this is so, why do I always need to remind myself of this, post-joke? Why do I always hope the book will be open to some page beyond my bookmark? Am I starting to believe my cat can read? Am I going crazy? Is it my cat's fault?
I blame the Internet. Months ago I saw a story claiming that cats could cause schizophrenia. A parasite in their poop—was that it? Somehow this little 
makes its way from sandbox to your brain, where it chews apart gray matter until you start hearing voices and imagining that the bus driver is tracking your movements. The idea that cats could literally drive me insane seemed too absurd, like a conspiracy to me, something cooked up by the Audubon Society, American Kennel Club, or some Internet meme-savvy pharmaceutical company…"
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Amicalement
Armand
