A pile of green cats mews from the centre of my living room floor. I’m not sure what to do. When you’re experiencing a case of spontaneously existing animals—not to mention animals of entirely the wrong colour—it’s difficult to remember your own name, never mind figure out what to do with the creatures. I run over my recent actions, trying to discover some kind of explanation for this occurrence.
I made myself a Pop Tart. No. I check what’s in my hand. A Pizza Pop. Breakfast. Maybe the microwave did it?
One of the cats yawns, little pink mouth and little pink tongue in a verdant fluff face, and plops out of the pile. They’re kittens, really, now that I’m paying attention. The shock must be wearing off. Except—and I’m sure of this, I think—the pile was larger when I first entered the room. Not because there were more kittens, but because they really were cats before.
The wee kitten stumbles over to me and headbutts my ankle. It rubs its face into the hem of my pants before it curls up on my foot and falls asleep.
It looks older than the others. Weren’t they the same age only moments ago? These other kittens are week-old babies. Cat infants, not like the lime-hued toddler currently warming my toes.
The pile continues to shrink as the kittens do, the impossible animals growing younger and younger before my eyes until they contract out of existence, a feline singularity with an unfortunate dye job.
The kitten on my foot is still fast asleep. It bats at neon dream-mice (I assume they’re neon. It seems only logical, under the circumstances).
I still don’t know what to do, so I eat my Pizza Pop and wonder when would be a good time to call a psychiatrist.
And that's why I'm unable to come into work today. Do you happen to know of anyone who wants a green cat?