Free M.I.N.D. by Elissa Harris Page B

mother loves cleaning, and what kind of daughter would I be if I deprived her of her joy? Oreo, Oreo, I want to be Oreo. Basking in the sun on the windowsill, watching the world go by…no worries about where my next meal is coming from (a can)…not caring about my poofy hair…
    I’m still me, which means one or more of three things:
1. It doesn’t work trans-species.
2. It doesn’t work on males.
3. He’s not as enamored with me as I thought.
    Even though I’m a little offended, I choose Door #3, since it’s something I can change. At least, I hope so. Maybe get him to associate me with food? But don’t cats associate everything with food?
    I reach over to my nightstand, grab the jar of kitty treats, take out a fish-shaped cookie. Ugh. It even smells like fish. I hold it under his nose, wish I were him…
    He bats it, sniffs it, gobbles it down.
    Lets out a yowl.
    Clearly not today’s flavor of choice. From his reaction, you’d think I’d stroked his fur the wrong way. Cats. You love them to pieces, but you’ll never understand them. They meow to be let out, and as soon as they go, they meow to come in. They sit in absurd positions and fall asleep in strange places. They bite the hand that feeds them and make nice to anyone who ignores them. And why drink from a bowl when there’s a toilet?
    And that gives me an idea. Did I say crazy? I’ll show him crazy. Certifiably crazy. Maybe that’s what it’ll take to get me on his mind.
    I climb out of bed and start jumping up and down. I stick out my tongue and cross my eyes. I twirl around and around, a ballerina on crack. “Hey, Oreo,” I say, “what do you think of Cassie Cat now?”
    He looks bored and I’m getting dizzy, so I stop.
    Feeling helpless, I climb back into bed. Yeah, I know. He’s old. Sixteen years old, precisely. But does that mean he has to suffer? I stroke him gently behind his ears, thinking that if I could change places with him and absorb his pain, I’d do it in a flash.
    His eyes are half closed, signifying trust. He blinks at me slowly, deliberately, as if to say, “My guard is down. I’ll allow you to keep petting me.”
    And in that instant the scent of lilac wafts through my room.
    ***
    I’m fast asleep on my bed, except my body looks distorted, like a Picasso painting. Also, what’s up with my bathrobe? The green in the terry cloth has faded to gray, and the stripes have completely dissolved. And talk about a bad hair day! Is that wool growing out of my head or what? I could definitely use a grooming. And a new flat iron.
    While I’m on the subject, I should mention that the hair on my new body isn’t doing much better. It’s everywhere. I feel like I’m a wall-to-wall carpet.
    Swish.
    Swish?
    I don’t even want to think about that furry thing sticking out of my butt.
    This. Is. The. Weirdest. Thing. In. The. Known. Universe.
    I’m a cat.
    I’m Oreo.
    Okay, maybe not the weirdest thing. I once dreamed I was a ferret. But it was a dream, for cripes’ sake. It wasn’t real, for cripes’ sake.
    I feel so…slinky. And short.
    I swear, I’ll never complain about being five-foot two again.
    â€œTehen-meeenudz!” a voice booms up from downstairs.
    Tehen-meeenudz?
    â€œKazeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
    It sounds like my mother’s voice, except it’s amplified about a hundred times, as if she’s standing by my bed with a bullhorn.
    Oreo looks up and I notice my canopy. It’s no longer pink but a shade of muted mud. Though I have to admit, it’s a definite improvement. I used to wonder why he never tried to climb it, since it practically begs, “Jump up, paw this, scratch that, claw here!” Now I know. It looks like something that could squash him.
    My desk, too, is humongous, like I’m looking at it in the convex mirror of an eighteen-wheeler. Narrowing his eyes