Cat

My name is Sasha, I'm six and a half years old, our cat Marika is five, Dimka, my brother, is nineteen, and my mom is a whopping forty-eight.

Dimka used to be terrible, but now he's awesome. He graduated from high school with Cs and didn't go to college, but he's not just a janitor, as Mom used to say, but the coolest person in the world. He flies all over the world photographing animals for a magazine. We've already published four of these magazines—they're amazing!

Marika adores him! He can even sit or lie down like a puppy when Dimka asks. When I ask him, he never lies down!

He took pictures of Marika, too. And he said it was Marika who found him the job—because her photos got noticed, and then he started photographing other animals at the zoo, and then he got noticed again, by the "big guys at National."

 So now he's stopped being awful, and he always brings tons of gifts, and talks about lions, but he's rarely home.

I'm terribly jealous of him.

When I grow up, I'll take pictures of animals too.

No, I'd rather be a veterinarian. I'll treat animals.

Like Marika.

She's been sick for the last few days.

I tell Mom, "Let's take Marika to the vet, he'll fix her." And Mom replies, "She's not sick, she's bored. Don't bother the cat."

And she starts crying again.

She cries for the last five days when she thinks I'm not looking.

I'm a serious person. And I've been taking taekwondo for three months. I don't need to ask Dimka about things like that.

So I tell her, "Mom, if anyone has offended you, tell me."

And she hugs me, so hard I can hardly breathe, asks for forgiveness, and then bursts into tears again. And I'm crying too, I don't know, it just comes out that way.

Although I'm not a crybaby.

But Marika still got sick, and I don't know how to treat animals yet.

I go into Dimka's room—she hisses at me.

Mom comes in—her hisses even worse.

Or if one of us approaches Dimka—her fur just stands on end!

She usually sleeps in Dimka's bed, almost never with me, and when Dimka leaves, she sleeps with Mom.

And when she comes back, like this time, she's right back with him. She's loyal, better than any dog, and very smart!

She just got sick.

I say to Dimka, "Dimka, let's take her to the vet. She's sick. I'm a vet, I know these things."

 Dimka can't speak now—his throat has been pierced with an iron rod. Those are the kind you see on airplanes.

He can only hiss.

Almost like Marika.

Only louder.

And he can't fluff up his fur—where does he get his fur?

I'm a serious person. I understand the vet won't accept him like this. They'll accept a cat, but not him. He can't even say her name. He's completely lost his mind. He stands there like a pillar in the middle of the room, just watching us with his eyes. He didn't bring any presents, and he won't show us any photos.

I'll have to take her myself.

I tell Mom—I'll take her myself.

Mom is sitting in the kitchen, covering her face with her hands.

"Catch her first, the wild thing," she says. "She's completely mad. She probably senses it."

And she sobs again.

Why should we catch her when she's sitting next to Dimka?

 But there’s no point in telling Mom this – I’ve already tried.