I’m sitting in the living room watching Pandora type away on her laptop. She’s been working on the same project for weeks, and I can tell she’s getting frustrated because every few minutes she stops, stares at the screen, sighs, and starts typing again. John Mercer is in the kitchen making breakfast, filling the apartment with the sound of sizzling bacon and the occasional clatter of a pan. Mr Whiskers is curled up on my lap, purring softly with his eyes closed. Everything seems completely normal, which is probably why I immediately notice the one thing that isn’t. Pandora’s laptop screen is facing away from me. She doesn’t normally do that. When we’re sitting together, she usually has the laptop angled toward the room, whether she’s working, showing me something, or half-watching something while pretending to work. Today, though, the screen is turned almost directly toward her. I can’t see a thing.
I tell myself it’s probably because she’s concentrating, but once I notice it, I can’t stop noticing it. Then I look toward the kitchen and realize John Mercer has his back to me too. He’s making considerably more noise than breakfast should require, banging a spatula against the pan like he’s performing percussion for an audience that didn’t buy tickets. I look down at Mr Whiskers. Normally, the smell of bacon would have him awake, alert, and attempting to negotiate ownership of half the pan. Instead, he’s lying perfectly still on my lap with his eyes closed. His breathing is slow, his paws are tucked underneath him, and he looks completely asleep. At least I think he’s asleep. His ears are pointed toward Pandora, and for some reason that seems important.
I rub the top of his head and tell myself I’m being ridiculous. A cat’s ears point wherever they point. Pandora is probably working. John Mercer is probably making breakfast. Mr Whiskers is probably sleeping. There is absolutely no reason for three ordinary things happening simultaneously to become suspicious just because I happen to be sitting in the middle of them. Then Pandora shifts her laptop slightly farther away from me, and suddenly there are four ordinary things. I remember Karen calling me earlier about the Johnson account at work. She mentioned that she might need me to ask Pandora something later, although I wasn’t paying much attention to the details at the time. Karen and I work together, so there was nothing unusual about the call. Still, with Pandora shielding her laptop like it contains nuclear launch codes, I’m reconsidering the entire conversation.
John Mercer starts whistling while he cooks. I look toward the kitchen and watch him casually flipping eggs as if he hasn’t a concern in the world. The whistling is particularly irritating because it sounds deliberate, almost theatrical. Who whistles while frying eggs? People whistle when they’re happy, sure, but they also whistle when they’re trying to look innocent. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen that in movies. John glances over his shoulder, catches me staring at him, and gives me a little nod before turning back to breakfast. Mr Whiskers’ left ear immediately rotates toward the kitchen. That settles absolutely nothing, but somehow I find it suspicious anyway.
I’m beginning to wonder whether Mr Whiskers is actually asleep at all. His eyes are closed, but his ears seem to be monitoring the entire apartment. Pandora types something and his right ear twitches. John opens a cabinet and his left ear turns toward the kitchen. I shift slightly on the couch and neither ear moves. Apparently, I’m the only person in the apartment who doesn’t warrant surveillance. Then I remember Dave’s guitar case sitting in the corner. He left it here last night after stopping by after work, saying he’d pick it up later. Dave is one of my coworkers, so there’s nothing particularly strange about him having visited, except now that I’m looking at the guitar case, I start wondering why he left it behind. Dave likes that guitar. He talks about it constantly. Leaving it seems careless for him, and suddenly I’m thinking about Karen’s phone call again. Karen works with Dave and me. Pandora has her laptop turned away. Dave’s guitar is sitting in my living room. John Mercer is aggressively whistling over scrambled eggs. And Mr Whiskers is listening to everything.
I decide I need to stop. This is exactly how these things happen. One minute I’m sitting peacefully on the couch, and ten minutes later I’ve constructed an international conspiracy around breakfast and a sleeping cat. I reach for the remote and turn on the television. Mr Whiskers doesn’t react. I increase the volume slightly. Nothing. Pandora keeps typing. John keeps cooking. For approximately thirty seconds, I successfully convince myself that everything is fine. Then Pandora’s phone vibrates, and Mr Whiskers’ ear twitches before Pandora even reaches for it. I stare down at him. “You heard that.” He gives me nothing. Pandora checks her phone, reads something, and smiles. Not a big smile, just one of those small private smiles people make when they read something they weren’t expecting. Then she puts the phone facedown beside the laptop and resumes typing. Now we have a facedown phone.
I glance toward John Mercer and ask if he’s expecting anybody today. He says no without even turning around, and the answer comes much too quickly for my liking. I look down at Mr Whiskers again. His eyes remain closed, but one ear is now pointed directly toward John. I’m beginning to appreciate the tactical advantage of pretending to be asleep. Nobody filters themselves around a sleeping cat. People talk. Phones buzz. Laptops stay open. Breakfast conversations happen freely. Meanwhile, Mr Whiskers lies there collecting information while everyone assumes he’s unconscious. The more I think about it, the more ingenious it seems. Cats have been living among humans for thousands of years, and we’ve apparently never stopped to ask what they’re doing with everything they hear.
Pandora gets up and heads toward the kitchen. The instant she moves, Mr Whiskers opens one eye. I freeze. He closes it again. That changes everything. Pandora walks past John and quietly says something to him. I can’t hear what it is because John chooses that exact moment to scrape his spatula loudly across the pan. He says something back, Pandora laughs, and then she returns to the couch with a cup of coffee. Her laptop is still angled away from me. Mr Whiskers hasn’t moved, but now I know. He isn’t asleep. He’s pretending to be asleep.
I start thinking about all the conversations we’ve had around this cat. Pandora and I have discussed bills around him. John Mercer has complained about work around him. Karen has called while he was sitting beside me. Dave has stopped by after work and talked about whatever ridiculous thing happened at the office while Mr Whiskers lounged nearby looking completely uninterested. Mrs Jenkins talks to him constantly whenever she comes over, probably because she thinks he enjoys hearing about her garden. This cat knows everything. Maybe that explains his behavior lately. Maybe all those long afternoons lying on the windowsill aren’t naps. Maybe he’s monitoring Mrs Jenkins. Maybe sitting beside John Mercer isn’t affection. Maybe it’s intelligence gathering. Maybe those nights when he sits outside the bedroom staring down the hallway aren’t random feline weirdness. He’s on watch.
Mr Whiskers suddenly stretches, yawns extravagantly, and looks up at me with the innocent expression of an animal who has absolutely no idea what I’m thinking. Nice try. Pandora glances over and asks why I’m staring at the cat. I tell her I’m not staring at him; I’m observing him. She gives me that look. It’s the same look she always gives me when she realizes my brain has wandered into territory where sensible people should probably have a map and emergency supplies. She takes another sip of coffee and returns to her laptop. Mr Whiskers looks at Pandora, then at John, then at me. I swear there’s something behind those eyes.
John finally brings breakfast into the living room and sets a plate on the coffee table. Mr Whiskers immediately jumps off my lap and trots toward him, suddenly wide awake and perfectly normal. John tears off the tiniest piece of bacon and gives it to him. Mr Whiskers eats it, rubs against John’s leg, and settles beside him as though the two of them have been friends for years. That’s when everything becomes clear. The laptop, the facedown phone, the whistling, the strategic sleeping, the twitching ears, the bacon. Mr Whiskers hasn’t been spying on Pandora for me. He’s been spying on me for them. I don’t know what they’re planning yet, but I’m going to figure it out, and until then, I’m not discussing anything important in front of the cat.