July/August 2023

A house cat dreams of becoming a human girl so she can play the piano The melody came on the beams of moonlight. Moonlight poured through a tall window, covering the room in an eerie glow. Ivy lay on the fluffy carpet, fur glowing slightly. Her ears finally stopped twitching at every noise, wishing it was music. More specifically, piano music. She sighed in her sleep, the comforting sound filling her dreams. Ivy dreamt of kitchens full of mice—so many! an endless source of entertainment—and swarms of birds in the air, fresh and warm, to bring inside for her beloved Dahlia. She rolled over in her sleep, and her dreams changed to the piano. If only I was human . . . Ivy purred to herself in her sleep. Then I could play the piano, the wonderful piano Dahlia sits at for hours and hours . . . I could be tall, tall enough to reach the piano, to sit down on the stool with my human legs touching the ground. But now it towers over me, grand and elegant, leaving me feeling small and vulnerable. If only I was human . . . As she wished and wished to be human, the moonlight wrapped itself around her. It grew thicker and thicker, almost solid now. Swirls of it were bright and sounded slightly higher pitched. To most it would sound like nothing, but to the moonlight it was speaking. Should we do it? Should we do it now? She had tried. She had tried to play the piano but was only able to make horrid, wild noise. And when she failed, it made her desire stronger. Does she truly want this? the moonlight sang. Yes! said a shiny swirl. Are you sure? said another. A third said: We will find out soon. *          *          * It was now the sun which bathed Ivy in its light, and delicious birds’ bouncy music that filled the room. They never knew it might be their last day. Ivy stretched and let out a yawn. Something was different. Her paws no longer felt furry, nor did her face, which was getting itchy from being pressed up against the carpet. In fact, her paws didn’t feel like paws anymore. It was as if they had been pulled too much in all directions, leaving them stretched and achy. Ivy’s legs were too long and smooth, and instead of claws she had stubby nails. Soft cloth covered her, a dress like Dahlia sometimes wore. Like Dahlia! What had happened? She was staring at Ivy as if she was some horrible monster. Why wasn’t she happy? Ivy jerked up. She was much heavier, so she had to use her arms to hold herself up. They were strange, and at the end had large palms with fleshy, furless fingers. It was a hand! Emotions bubbled up in Ivy’s throat, stronger even than when she spotted a mouse, exposed, nibbling on a crumb in the kitchen. She could do anything now! She could play the piano! With Dahlia! They could read together, and have conversations about birds! Footsteps echoed in the hallway, coming closer. “Ivy! Where are you, you silly cat! It’s time for breakfa—aaaaaah!!!” Dahlia stood in the doorway, frozen, her eyes on Ivy. Ivy looked up. Dahlia had always been so kind, giving Ivy extra cat treats, scratching her chin, petting her, and her eyes were always filled with warmth and love when she looked at her. Now all of that was gone, and she was staring at Ivy as if she was some horrible monster. Why wasn’t she happy? Ivy tried standing up, but her legs were too long and she fell down. She opened her mouth to speak, but instead of words like Dahlia’s came a croaking, raspy sound: “Eh-eh-grrr! Mrr—” Dahlia squealed and backed out of the room. “Mom! Dad!” Ivy finally managed to stand up, and stumbled over to the piano. It wasn’t so huge anymore; she was taller than it. Finally. After dreaming for so long, I can play the piano! Maybe Dahlia won’t laugh at me anymore. Ivy lay her large human hands on the keys. Then, a horrible noise! It was wild, worse than a five-year-old trying to play the piano; it sounded like nails scratching on a chalkboard. “There!” Dahlia cried out, running into the room with her parents at her heels. “Oh, my . . .” “What in the world . . .” They both stared at Ivy as if they were trying to find out if she was dangerous or not. Ivy tried to talk again, and this time it came out something like this: “Mrrreeeek!” She moved her mouth into what she thought was a smile. Dahlia and her parents looked horrified. Maybe she had smiled wrong? “Who are you?! Where are your parents?” Dahlia’s mom asked. “Mreeeee!” Ivy stood up, holding on to the piano for balance. She tried taking a few steps, but gave up and got on her hands and feet and tried crawling like a cat. “Aaaaaah!” Dahlia and her parents stepped back. “Get out of my house!” Dahlia’s mom yelled. “I’m calling the police.” Ivy had never heard Dahlia’s mom talk to her like that. “I said, get out!” Ivy half-walked, half-crawled to the back door. She tried to use the cat flap but did not fit. Finally, after a few minutes of hard work, she managed to use the handle and stumbled outside. The air was warm and had a pleasant scent of summer flowers and birds. A breeze rustled Ivy’s long, flowing white hair. It felt strange, yet pleasant, on her furless skin. If this were yesterday, she would have thoroughly enjoyed the nice weather, catching birds and chasing butterflies, but she could barely even walk. Ivy stumbled down the stone path winding its way through the garden. She usually moved smoothly and gracefully, quiet and stealthy. Now her bare