I had been watching Mr Whiskers for eleven minutes when I realized that, from his perspective, I was probably the suspicious one. He was sitting on the far end of the couch grooming the same patch of fur behind his left ear with extraordinary concentration, while I sat at the other end pretending to look at my phone and periodically glancing sideways at him. Every few seconds he would stop licking, look at me, and then resume. There was nothing inherently unusual about any of this. Cats groom themselves. People look at cats. Under normal circumstances, this interaction would not have required analysis. Unfortunately, these were no longer normal circumstances. The night before, I had whispered to Mr Whiskers in the hallway that I had been right about Pandora acting strangely, and from the bedroom Pandora had immediately called, “Hal, leave the cat out of this.” I had spent a significant portion of the night considering how she could possibly have known what I was doing. Acoustics remained the leading explanation. Mr Whiskers remained the second. I was trying not to think about that now because Pandora and I were supposed to meet for lunch at twelve-thirty, and it was already twelve-forty-two. Twelve minutes is not late in any meaningful sense. Twelve minutes is traffic. Twelve minutes is looking for your keys. Twelve minutes is realizing you left your phone upstairs after you already reached the car. I knew this. I was being rational about it. The problem was that Mr Whiskers had stopped grooming himself at exactly twelve-thirty-eight and looked toward the front door. He had remained that way for several seconds before returning to the patch behind his ear. I checked the clock when he did it. I wish I hadn’t, because now the time was part of the record. “You know where she is?” I asked. Mr Whiskers continued licking himself. I considered this a refusal to answer.
Pandora had texted earlier saying she would be back by twelve-thirty so we could head out together. She hadn’t said where she was going beforehand because I hadn’t asked, which had seemed perfectly reasonable at the time and now felt like an administrative failure. I checked my phone. No new message. I thought about texting her, but twelve minutes did not justify a status inquiry. Fifteen might. Twenty definitely did. I wasn’t sure when concern officially became reasonable, but I was determined not to cross that line prematurely. I had made considerable progress recently in distinguishing between observation and investigation, and I wasn’t about to throw that away because Pandora was twelve minutes late and my cat had looked at a door. Then Mr Whiskers stopped grooming again. This time he looked toward the window. I looked toward the window. Nothing was there. He looked back at me. I narrowed my eyes. He yawned. There are few things more irritating than being dismissed by an animal that once got his head stuck in a paper grocery bag. I got up and walked to the kitchen, mostly because sitting across from Mr Whiskers had begun to feel like an interrogation in which I was somehow losing. The coffee creamer was in the refrigerator with the cap securely attached, which I considered encouraging. After the previous few days, I had developed an involuntary habit of checking. I poured myself some water and reminded myself that everything was fine. Pandora was late. Mr Whiskers was grooming himself. There was no connection between these events. Even thinking there might be a connection was exactly how I ended up assigning strategic significance to throw pillows the night before. I had learned from that. I was improving.
Then Mr Whiskers walked into the kitchen and sat beside the refrigerator, which was unnecessary. “What?” I asked. He meowed. “I’m not doing this with you.” He meowed again. I opened the refrigerator, and Mr Whiskers stood up immediately. I looked inside. Nothing seemed unusual. Milk, coffee creamer, eggs, leftovers, vegetables, half a bottle of orange juice and several containers whose contents I had reached an informal agreement with myself not to investigate. I looked down at Mr Whiskers. “What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?” He stepped closer and stared into the refrigerator. For one absurd moment, the two of us stood side by side examining its contents like detectives at a crime scene. Then he attempted to stick his head past my leg. I closed the door. “You’re hungry.” Mr Whiskers looked offended. “That’s what this is.” He walked away, and I felt vindicated for almost thirty seconds. Then someone knocked on the door.
It was Mrs Jenkins. She was standing in the hallway holding a small grocery bag and smiling in the way Mrs Jenkins smiles when she has either brought you something or acquired information she believes you should have. I opened the door only far enough to speak to her because I had learned that allowing Mrs Jenkins full visual access to the apartment could turn a thirty-second interaction into a twenty-minute conversation. She held up the bag and said, “I brought something for Mr Whiskers.” Of course she had. I asked what, and she explained that the cat treats he liked had been on sale. I stared at the bag. Mr Whiskers appeared beside my feet. Mrs Jenkins looked down at him and said, “There he is.” Mr Whiskers meowed. She laughed. I did not. There were now too many relationships operating around me that I had not authorized. Mrs Jenkins apparently knew what treats Mr Whiskers liked. Mr Whiskers recognized Mrs Jenkins at the door. Pandora could somehow detect when I was talking to the cat from another room. The cat had predicted activity at the front door earlier, although admittedly the prediction had been four minutes premature and involved him staring at the wrong thing afterward. Still, I was beginning to see an informal communications network taking shape.
Mrs Jenkins handed me the bag and casually mentioned that Pandora had told her Mr Whiskers liked those particular treats. I stopped. “When?” I asked. Mrs Jenkins looked confused. “When what?” I clarified that I wanted to know when Pandora had told her about the treats. She thought about it for a moment and said, “Yesterday, I think.” Yesterday. I looked down at Mr Whiskers. He looked up at me. There are moments when a collection of unrelated facts suddenly aligns itself into something that resembles a pattern. This was one of those moments. Pandora had discussed Mr Whiskers with Mrs Jenkins yesterday. That same night, Pandora had somehow known I was talking to Mr Whiskers from another room. Today Mr Whiskers had been behaving strangely while Pandora was late, and now Mrs Jenkins had arrived carrying treats specifically selected according to information Pandora had provided. Was any of this proof of anything? No. Was it enough to justify increased observational vigilance? Absolutely. After Mrs Jenkins left, I put the treats on the kitchen counter without opening them. Mr Whiskers followed me and sat beneath them, staring upward. “No,” I told him. He meowed. “These are evidence.” Another meow. “You can have them later.” He stared at me with an intensity that suggested he was considering whether my continued participation in the household was necessary.
At twelve-fifty-one, Pandora texted to say she was running late because Karen needed help returning something and that she would be home in ten minutes. I read the message twice. Karen. The sweater. I had forgotten about the sweater. Pandora had told me the night before that Karen needed help returning it because she was busy. This was not a mystery. It was literally an event I had been informed about in advance. I had possessed the relevant information and somehow failed to incorporate it into my analysis, which was a methodological problem I chose not to dwell on. Pandora wasn’t missing. She wasn’t secretly meeting John. She wasn’t involved in anything suspicious. She was helping Karen return a sweater, exactly as she had told me she would. I looked at Mr Whiskers. “This changes nothing.” He licked his paw.
By the time Pandora came home, I had developed what I considered a modest and evidence-based theory. I did not believe Mr Whiskers was controlling anyone. I did not believe he was transmitting information telepathically. I did not believe Pandora, Mrs Jenkins, Karen, John, and the cat were participating in an organized conspiracy. Those would have been unreasonable conclusions. What I believed was much simpler: Mr Whiskers had somehow positioned himself at the center of an informal household information network. People talked around him. People talked to him. Mrs Jenkins brought him treats. Pandora told him things while she cooked. John talked to him when he visited. Karen scratched his head and complained about whatever was bothering her. Nobody considered any of this significant because he was a cat. Meanwhile, Mr Whiskers moved between all of them, collecting information without ever having to provide any in return. Pandora came through the door carrying her purse and apologized for being late. I told her it was fine. She noticed the bag on the counter and asked where it came from. “Mrs Jenkins,” I said. “For Mr Whiskers.” Pandora smiled and said, “Oh, good. I told her he liked those.” There it was again. I asked whether she discussed Mr Whiskers with Mrs Jenkins. Pandora stopped taking off her jacket. “I discuss the cat?” she asked. “Yes.” She told me that sometimes she did. I asked how often. She stared at me. I immediately recognized that I had exceeded the acceptable number of follow-up questions. “Never mind.” Pandora looked at Mr Whiskers, then at me. “What are you doing?” I told her nothing. “Are you investigating the cat?” she asked. “No,” I said. She waited. “I’m evaluating his access to information.” Pandora closed her eyes.
That afternoon John stopped by, and I decided to test my theory. I didn’t tell him what I was doing because that would contaminate the experiment. We sat in the living room talking while Mr Whiskers slept on the armchair nearby. I deliberately mentioned that Pandora and I might order pizza that evening. Mr Whiskers did not move. I mentioned that Karen might stop by later. Nothing. Then I said, “We’re almost out of cat treats.” His eyes opened. I stopped talking. John looked at the cat and then looked at me. “Don’t,” he said. I pointed out that I hadn’t said anything. “I know that look,” John replied. I asked what look. “The one where something completely normal happens and you decide you’ve uncovered an operation.” Mr Whiskers jumped down from the chair and walked toward the kitchen. I pointed after him. “You saw that.” John shook his head. “I’m not participating.” Interesting choice of words. I let it go. Mostly.
That evening, after John had gone home and Pandora was reading on the couch, I sat across the room watching Mr Whiskers. He was grooming the same patch behind his ear again. Pandora noticed me staring and lowered her book. “What?” she asked. I told her nothing. She pointed out that I was staring at him. I told her I was observing. “Why?” I considered explaining my theory about the household information network, but I had enough experience with Pandora to know that certain ideas benefited from additional development before presentation. “No reason.” Pandora looked at Mr Whiskers and said, “He’s been scratching that ear all day.” I sat forward. “What?” She explained that he kept bothering the same ear, then got up, walked over and gently checked behind it. After a few seconds she laughed. I immediately asked what she had found. Pandora reached into his fur and pulled out a tiny dried leaf. That was it. Mr Whiskers had apparently picked up a small piece of leaf somewhere and spent half the day trying to get it out of his fur. Pandora held it up and announced, “Mystery solved.” I looked at the leaf. I looked at Mr Whiskers. Mr Whiskers looked at Pandora. She scratched behind his ear, and he immediately began purring.
Fine. The grooming had been the leaf. The refrigerator had been food. Mrs Jenkins had brought treats because Pandora had told her which ones he liked. Pandora had been late because she was helping Karen with the sweater, exactly as she’d told me she would. Every suspicious event had an explanation, and I accepted all of them. Then Pandora returned to the couch, picked up her book, and Mr Whiskers jumped up beside her. He turned around twice before settling against her leg, and Pandora scratched his head absently while she read. I watched them for a moment. Then, without looking up from her book, Pandora said, “And stop staring at us.” I froze. Mr Whiskers opened one eye. There was no way she should have known I was staring. I looked at him. His eye slowly closed. The leaf explained the grooming. It did not explain everything.