I Hope He Is My Cat in Every Universe

The first thing you should know about me is that I am not aloof.

I am dignified.

There’s a difference. Humans often confuse the two. They see me curled up on the bookshelf, eyes narrowed, whiskers flicking, and think, “Ah, the cat doesn’t care.”
No. I care deeply. I just have standards.

My human, her name is Aisha, understands this. She is the chosen one. The one who smells faintly of coffee and books, whose laugh rattles like windchimes, and whose hugs I tolerate for an average of 7.4 seconds before wriggling away. That’s true love, in case you’re wondering.

 

Aisha is mine. But she insists on surrounding herself with… others.

There’s her mother, who brings tins of biscuits and calls me “the little prince.” She means well, though she insists on patting my head like I’m some common pillow. She’s not dangerous. Just noisy.

Then there’s her cousin Rahul. Ah, Rahul. He is what we cats call “the sneaker.” He arrives smiling, cooing, scratching my chin, yet his scent betrays him. He reeks of insincerity, like a dog sprayed with cologne. I’ve seen the way he slides his eyes to Aisha’s laptop, the jewelry tray on her dresser. He once “accidentally” dropped a piece of grilled chicken near me, then snatched it back when he thought no one was looking. I almost clawed his sock that day, but I spared him, only because it would have dirtied my paw.

Her friend Meera visits every Thursday. She is the opposite: all warmth, spilling laughter like milk from a bowl. She brings me toys. She says things like, “Aisha, you deserve the stars.” I approve of Meera. She smells like cardamom and loyalty.

Humans are not as sharp as cats when it comes to perception. Aisha, my beloved human, has the heart of a golden retriever: she assumes everyone is good until they prove otherwise. My job, of course, is to guard her from the liars, the opportunists, and worst of all, the ones who bring cheap tuna.

 

Aisha often complains:
“Shadow” (that’s my name, though I would have chosen something nobler, like Maharaj Adhiraj Vikram Singh Rathore), “you never sit with me when I’m sad. You just… watch.”

Exactly. Watching is my art. Do you know how exhausting it is to feel every flicker of your human’s mood? When she sighs, I catalog the pitch. When she types furiously, I note the speed of the keystrokes. When she cries quietly into her pillow, I sit on the dresser and guard her dreams.

I may look aloof. But I am a sentry. A furry knight with paws instead of a sword.

Also, tears make my fur damp. Let’s be practical.

 

Now, a humorous twist.
Aisha, like many humans, dabbles in romance.

Suitor Number One: Ankit.
He wore too much cologne, the kind that makes a cat sneeze three times in succession. He brought roses. I chewed them. He said cats were “okay” but dogs were “real companions.” I considered relocating a hairball to his shoes.

Suitor Number Two: Dev.
This one was sneakier. He acted as though he loved cats. He brought a laser pointer, the nerve! I know fully well it’s just a red dot of futility, but I played along, to test him. Sure enough, midway through a game, he muttered, “Ugh, this cat is spoiled.” Ah. The mask slipped. Strike two, Dev.

Suitor Number Three: Varun.
Now, this one had potential. He respected my bubble. He brought Aisha chocolate, and me yes, ME, salmon treats. He even asked, “Does Shadow approve of me?” Points for that. But then he laughed at Aisha’s dream of writing a novel. “That won’t pay bills,” he scoffed. I hissed so loud he dropped his fancy watch. Verdict: rejected.

Humans may deceive each other. But no one fools a cat.

 

One evening, Rahul (the sneaker cousin) came over when Aisha wasn’t home yet. He pretended to fuss with his phone, but I saw his eyes darting to the drawer where she kept her savings.

He thought he was alone.
He was not.

I leapt gracefully onto the table, tail swishing like a metronome. He froze. “Just a cat,” he muttered.
Just a cat, my claws whispered as they extended.

He reached for the drawer. I launched myself with the precision of a ninja warrior. Straight onto his shoulder. He yelped, stumbled, and knocked over a vase. The crash brought Aisha’s elderly neighbor rushing in. By the time Aisha arrived, Rahul was sweating and babbling about how “the cat attacked me for no reason!”

Aisha looked at me. I looked at her.
She didn’t believe him.

That night she gave me extra salmon.

 

Here’s something humans don’t know: cats dream not just of mice and strings, but of universes. I’ve wandered them in sleep, countless worlds, countless Aishas. In one, she is a painter with blue on her fingertips. In another, she is old, and I am still by her side. In yet another, she is a child, and I am her guardian from the shadows.

In every universe, I find her. Always her.

 

It was late. She was lying on her bed, scrolling through her phone, while I curled in my usual spot by her feet. She sighed, one of those soft sighs that drifts like mist.

“You know, Shadow,” she said, “I don’t care what happens with people. They come, they go, they disappoint, they surprise. But you… you’ve always been here. You never pretend. You just… are.”

I flicked an ear. Go on, human.

She laughed a little, then whispered:
“I hope he is my cat in every universe.”

Ah. She knew.

I stretched, yawned, and gave her my slow blink, the cat’s version of a smile. Then I padded up to her chest, curled against her heartbeat, and purred. Loudly.

Because words are unnecessary when you already belong to each other.

 

The next morning, Rahul sent Aisha a text: “Sorry about yesterday. Your cat is evil.”
She showed me the message. “Evil?” she asked.
I licked my paw delicately, as if polishing a crown.

She laughed so hard she spilled coffee.

Evil, indeed. Only to those who dare to cross my human.