My little protector

You've probably noticed at least once that your pets are staring at something in the air. For as long as I can remember, my own cats or those of my friends would often stare wide-eyed at invisible objects, sniff, or hiss. I never paid it much attention.

About seven years ago, I got a calico cat named Masya. She was a dumpster fire, and she had a very nasty personality. When I saw her, I knew she was my cat. For a year, the same apartment was waiting for me when I came home: overturned flowers, torn wastepaper, a ransacked trash can... All my efforts were fruitless.

The kitten also had some odd behavior. For example, while sitting in her favorite corner, she would purr affectionately, as if someone were petting her. She chased an invisible creature all over the apartment, and it felt like someone was playing fetch with her. Sometimes she'd arch her back and hiss at the darkness in the hallway, then dart off into the darkness with her characteristic battle cries.

When Masya was about two years old, she fell out of a window. And not just like that, it was as if she'd been pushed. We spent a long time getting treatment, and after that, she was like a different person. She became embittered toward everyone except me, often running into the empty, dark hallway. Sometimes, you'd be sitting in the evening reading a book—she'd be lying there, purring next to you, then suddenly jump off, start growling, and run into the hallway, where the sounds of battle could be heard. When I follow her, she'd simply sit in a corner, stare at a point, and growl. Sometimes the invisible point would start moving, and Masya would immediately begin retaliating by lunging at the invisible object. When dishes rattle in the apartment, a door slams in a draft, a floorboard creaks, or the neighbors laugh loudly, Masya assumes a fighting stance and rushes to the source of the noise to sort it out.

One evening, the power went out in our entire neighborhood due to an accident, and I was left home alone. With nothing else to do, I was reading a book by candlelight, as in the old days, when I suddenly heard crisp footsteps from the kitchen to the hallway. It felt like a small child stomping quickly. Masya growled and rushed off to investigate. Accustomed to her outbursts, I continued my task. A couple of minutes later, the cat returned. But then the footsteps came from roughly where they had left off, quickly stomping down the long hallway toward the large room where I was lying. Masya, her stance even more aggressive, ran off to defend herself. Returning with her hair disheveled, she looked at me strangely, still breathing heavily. Just as I was about to pick her up and pet her, footsteps sounded again, this time at the threshold of my room. The cat hissed, arched her back, and became like a large, fluffy thorn. I felt terrified, because in this case, I couldn't find a logical explanation for the sound of approaching footsteps. Masya, not moving a single step from me, hissed with redoubled intensity, turning into a wheezing sound. I stared at the threshold, when suddenly something invisible jumped onto the edge of the sofa where I was lying. Clear footprints left clear marks on the soft blanket. The cat darted toward the footprints, and a terrible battle began—like two cats fighting, only you can't see one. At that moment, the light came on, and the battle stopped. Masya sat next to me for a long time and sternly followed me around the apartment that evening.

 Now the light in my apartment is always on everywhere, and if a light bulb burns out somewhere, I hear hurried footsteps shuffling in my direction and see the fur of my protector standing on end.