November Interview: Schrodinger (Patreon)

Upon stage, Nicholas Wiseman sits in one of two chairs. His shoulders are tense, his back doesn’t touch the seat, and he sits with the wary stillness of hunted prey, eyes affixed, gazelle-like, upon the disinterested looking white cat grooming itself in the seat opposite him.

Nick: Today, we have the pleasure of unveiling new technology that will change the world.

He tugs down his shirt collar to expose a band that wraps around the back of his neck and secures around his ears.

Nick: Through the dedicated efforts of Cadet Parker, Unity’s NPO Program has produced a device allows humans to communicate with animals. Unfortunately for Cadet Zarneki, the reported inspiration for the project, the Parker Pet Prattler requires that it be worn by a telepath in order to function.

He stares directly into the camera and winks.

Nick: Sold only in the metarealm of existence where this interview show takes place.

Schrodinger hisses. Nick jumps at the sudden noise, his temporary ease instantly evaporating upon being reminded of the cat’s presence.

Schrodinger: Ha.

Nick: Did you just scoff at me?

Schrodinger stretches in a feline version of a shrug, his claws uncurling to dig into the seat’s cushion.

Nick, muttering: I don’t know how they expect me to interview a cat that won’t even acknowledge my existence.

Schrodinger: You’re not worthy of my acknowledgement.

Nick: Great. Fantastic. Well, at least that we know that the PPP works. What did I ever do to you, Schrodinger? Why do you hate me?

Schrodinger: How long do we have?

Nick: I’m sure you can’t spend the entire interview listing reasons why you—

Schrodinger: Reason Number One: Big Foot refuses to answer simple questions.

Nick: That’s not fair, you didn’t—

Schrodinger: Reason Number Two: when I visit his abode, Big Foot rudely pushes me off the kitchen counter.

Nick: Only when I’m cooking! No one wants cat hair in their—

Schrodinger: Reason Number Three: Big Foot cooks food for the humans but never presents me with my portion. Even when he cooks tuna, I receive not one single bite of fish.

Two gasps echo from direction of the audience. The camera pans to zoom in on Antigone and Cassandra, each seated in their own chair, eyes wide with horror and appalment.

Nick: Look, some foods are poisonous for dogs, right? I don’t know whether or not it’s okay for cats to eat—

Schrodinger: Reason Number Four: When Big Foot is around, he doesn’t let me sit on the warm oven.

Nick: Neither does Salome! Also, why do you keep calling me Big Foot?

Schrodinger: Reason Number Five: Big Foot lacks deductive reasoning.

Nick, defensively: My feet aren’t even that big. Gray wears a size 14.

Schrodinger: Reason Number Six: Big Foot steps on my tail.

Nick: Once. I stepped on your tail once.

Schrodinger: Reason Number Seven: Big Foot is forgetful. He has stepped on my tail twice.

Nick: Fine, then. Twice. But it’s not’s as if I—

Schrodinger: Reason Number Eight: Big Foot makes Warmth Giver make loud sounds.

Nick: Warmth Giver? Oh, you mean Salome! Wait . . . are you talking about when she yells at me for something, or when I make her laugh? Both happen pretty frequently, and she does have a really loud laugh.

Sally’s offended gasp of “I do not!” sounds from backstage.

Nick, calling back to her: It’s charming!

He lowers his voice so that Sally can no longer hear.

Nick: Even it once got her and Button kicked out of a library.

Schrodinger: Reason Number Nine—

Nick: Alright, I think the audience gets the picture. I’m not your favorite human. Is there any way that I might earn at least a little favor? A nice ahi poke? A tuna fillet? 

Schrodinger: I do like tuna.

Nick: You know, just because the brand of your food is called Tuna Tibbles doesn’t mean it has any tuna in it. The ingredient only lists “ocean fish,” and that could be anything.

Schrodinger: Reason Number Ten—

Nick, hastily backpedaling: I mean, sure. Yeah. I'll make you tuna.

Schrodinger purrs as Nick looks down at his next notecard.

Nick: What breed are you?

Schrodinger: What breed are you? Other than ill-bred, that is.

Nick: You don’t know?

Schrodinger, stiffly: My parents were not around long enough for me to inquire about my genealogy. Father went to get cream shortly after I was born and never returned—I suppose he realized that having twelve kittens at once was not cheaper by the dozen. Mother did her best to make ends meet, but we were eventually evicted from our home behind a Panera Bread after she attempted to drop off our rent—a dead rat—during a health inspector’s visit.

Nick: Where did you go after that?

Schrodinger: The health inspector adopted my mother. My siblings and I were separated into foster care.

The cat licks his paw to avoid making eye-to-eyes contact with Nick.

Schrodinger: It’s not an uncommon story.

Nick: When Sally found you, you were living in an Arby's dumpster. Are you saying that you once had other owners?

Schrodinger gives Nick a look of unbridled disdain at the implication that any cat would be “owned” by a human (as every sentient being of good sense is fully aware that it’s the other way around).

Schrodinger: My foster humans were tolerable, but . . . I took after my father. Domesticity wasn’t for me. I wanted to explore alleyways, chase pigeons, see the ocean. By the time I was a year old, I had escaped my human caretakers.

Nick: Foster care? That explains a lot.

Nick examines Schrodinger’s bite-marked ears and lacking eye.

Nick: I kind of expected you to sound like a pirate, once we were able to communicate.

Schrodinger: And I expected you to have the speech patterns of an idiot. At least one of us was correct.

Nick: You're implying—

Schrodinger: That you sound like an idiot. Yes.

Nick, conversationally: You know, I’ve interviewed terrorists on this show.

Schrodinger: Your point?

Nick: They made for more pleasant guests.

His gaze darts to the curtain, remembering that Sally is backstage. Schrodinger purrs.

Schrodinger: Go on.

Nick, still nervously staring at the curtain: I should probably ask more questions.

Schrodinger: Coward.

Nick forges on, determined to change the subject before he gets in trouble.

Nick: How did you lose your eye?

Schrodinger: I’m not permitted to speak of The War with humans. Let alone humans like you.

Nick: Talent. Dashing? Incredibly good-looking?

Schrodinger: An idiot.

Nick: Ouch. When you talk about a war . . .  you're claiming that you don’t just visit the vet; you are one.

He snickers at his own joke. Schrodinger’s tail swishes menacingly.

Schrodinger: Would you treat human veterans with the such disregard?

Nick: You’re not human.

Schrodinger looks as if the words “thank god for that” are on his tongue, but he’s too prideful to go for the easy rebuttal. His tail swishes again.

Schrodinger: Human are a stupid species who wage wars against their own kind.

Nick: Then you didn’t get injured in a fight with another cat?

Schrodinger: I didn’t say that. Even the best species has its traitors. That particular feline had decided to throw in her lot with The Racoon Empire.

Nick: She was a mole?

Schrodinger, briskly: No, she was a cat. A cat who betrayed everything that our kind represents and honorably fights for.

He hisses, fur bristling.

Schrodinger: Her vile sabotage couldn’t be allowed to continue.

Nick: . . . You’re joking, right?

Schrodinger doesn’t reply, pink tongue smoothing down a tuft of hair on his paw.

Nick: Right?

Schrodinger continues to groom himself.

Nick, looking more than a little disturbed: Er, let’s try another question. What’s your favorite thing about living with Sally?

Schrodinger: Warmth Giver?

Nick nods. Schrodinger straightens to sit upright.

Schrodinger: Warmth Giver often spends many hours where only her hands move. I would've become restless when I was young, but now . . 

The cat purrs contentedly.

Nick: You mean when she paints?

Schrodinger: She shares her warmth until I fall asleep on her. She doesn’t move around like the other two.

Nick: The other two being her dads? Do you have a favorite?

Schrodinger: One always talks about being healthy. The other sneaks me treats.

Nick: The treat-giver would be Matt.

Schrodinger: Together, though, don’t like to stay still. On the couch, they fall asleep on each other’s shoulders. There’s no room for me. Whereas Warmth Giver’s shoulders are mine.

The cat glares accusingly at Nick.

Schrodinger: Usually.

Nick: You must have an opinion on Button since they’re over your place so often.

Schrodinger: Your littermate? They are not annoying.

Nick: That’s it? I get a nasty rendition of 10 Things I Hate About You, and Button gets “not annoying”?

Schrodinger: Although . . . they and Warmth Giver behave oddly when together.

Nick: Oddly how?

Schrodinger: They wear big hats.

Nick, nodding sagely: You mean the sombrero incident. You know, I never heard how that ended.

Schrodinger: Inside the big hat, there was—

* * * *

You bolt upwards in a cold sweat, your legs bared and sheets bunched around your throat. Of all your recurring nightmares—of your mother, of the bombing, of Vengeance—this one is the most terrifying.

No one must ever know the sombrero story. No one. Not ever.

It’s a memory you’ve suppressed so deeply, so ardently refuse to think about, that not even Nick has been able to glean it from your brain.

You reach over to the cellphone on your nightstand and open up Glitch’s Instagram. The only alert is a new photo of IC-UW with a top hat. There’s no mention of a new invention, let alone one that would allow Ments to communicate with animals.

You heave a sigh of relief. Your ultimate secret is safe.

. . . For now.