I dream that the cats, my daughter’s cats, can actually understand everything I say. And have been able to for many years. Therefore they know that I’ve been saying they’re retarded, or stupid, or crazy—that means they also know what I think of them—they go on as if they don’t, but they do. This secret knowledge eats at them and makes them even more crazy than they were to begin with. The effort they make to maintain appearances, to keep up the pretense of geniality and routine, is sometimes just too much for them, which is why they sometimes lash out at me, or at others, for no apparent reason.
