Cat Got Your Tongue

“Food?” was the first thing my cat said to me.

“What the f—” was the first thing I said back.

Because in the five years since I had adopted Daisy, she had never uttered a word. Obviously. She’s a cat.

But then, one morning, Daisy talked.

It was a day just like any other. My alarm chirped at 6:30 am, I hit the snooze three times, then I finally heaved myself out of bed to tug the blinds open.

Daisy butted her head against my calf, purring as she snaked between my legs. Her orange and black calico fur whispered softly against my bare skin.

I scratched Daisy behind the ear, but I apparently failed to give her the usual quarter-can of wet food as quickly as she had wanted.

That was when one simple word burst from her kitty mouth and our lives suddenly became less simple.

“Food?” Daisy asked again when I did nothing but stare at her, dumbfounded, for over a minute.

Her voice was like her meow, high and lilting. She looked at me expectantly, her marble-green eyes glinting in the sunlight.

“Y-you want breakfast?” I couldn’t help but default to baby talk and cringed at how patronizing I sounded. But Daisy didn’t seem to mind.

“Yes, food!” She responded happily and trotted toward her empty food dish.

Daisy didn’t say anything else as I popped open a can of whitefish paté and spooned it into her bowl.

“Do you like whitefish or salmon better?”

Nothing. She munched on her food without a word and I wondered whether I had imagined the whole thing.

Daisy finished her breakfast, silently, then strolled over to a sunbeam slashing across the living room rug. She stretched out and started licking her front paw, as aloof as ever.

“Daisy?” My heart flip-flopped when she raised her head to look at me, but still, she didn’t say anything. “Can you understand me?”

I couldn’t tell if she was considering the question, or in classic cat fashion, was choosing to ignore me. A few more tortuous seconds passed before she answered, simply.

“Yes.”

My hand shot up in something like a fist pump mixed with wild flailing, my body feeling just as confused as my brain.

My cat can talk!

I didn’t know whether to be freaked out or thrilled. Another minute passed—me, mouth agape; Daisy, grooming herself—before I settled on thrilled.

“Daisy!” I whipped out my phone and pointed it at her. “Daisy, can you say hello?”

“Hello,” she sing-songed, like a meow. She was purring again, blinking contentedly in the sun.

“Can you say your name?”

“Daisy.”

Maybe I was reading too much into it, but she sounded a little annoyed by that question. Of course she could say her own name, stupid human.

I put the phone away—no one would believe it, anyway—and decided to just sit with her. And talk.

What’s your favorite toy?

Blue mouse.

The vacuum cleaner won’t hurt you, I promise.

Lies.

Who’s a pretty kitty?

Me.

Daisy didn’t always respond. Philosophical questions seemed to stump her, or bore her, so I made peace with never knowing her thoughts on the trolley problem and kept things simple.

Will you please stop chewing on the money plant?

No.

She acted the same as always, like nothing had changed at all. Throughout the day, I followed her from room to room, petted her, waited impatiently while she napped.

Why do you always sleep in that corner?

Smells good.

Daisy seldom said anything unprompted, except when dinnertime rolled around and she asked to be fed again.

You want more kibble?

Yes.

She grew quieter as the day wore on and I got the impression I was tiring her out. Close to midnight, she ambled into the bedroom with a single word.

“Sleep.”

It sounded like a command. I was admittedly exhausted, so I didn’t argue.

Once I was under the covers, Daisy curled up on my chest. I could feel her gentle purr vibrating my ribs, her warm weight pushing me to sleep. I scratched her chin in the way she liked—she told me so—and she closed her eyes drowsily.

“Daisy, are you happy?” I didn’t expect an answer. She hadn’t expressed or reacted to any emotional statements so far. But she replied.

“Yes.”

In that moment, I realized there had only ever been one thing we needed to say to each other.

“I love you, Daisy.”

“Love you.”

When we woke up the next morning, it was a day just like any other. Daisy rubbed against my legs, meowed, and never said another word.