“No, I don’t know her name, and honestly, I could care less to know who she is. Wait. Did you hear that?” Cauble’s ears perk up, losing all attention to me. Then, without hesitation, her eyes zero in on me, Gregory Tremaine, interviewer of all pets.

How did I get this gig? You may be asking yourself, Gregory, why cats? Better question – how can you possibly understand what they are saying? I mean, they can’t talk. Yeah. I used to think the same thing until one day my pug, we named him Daniel, after Daniel Tiger from Mr. Roger’s Neighborhood. My boyfriend, Carl, and me? We thought it was a great name until he spoke to me. Carl couldn’t and didn’t understand him. But I did. I tried to understand why I had this strange, exotic talent. I’ve not figured it out yet, but I have been able to capitalize on it, taking on problem case animals and diagnosing their owners’ problems. I say the owners are the responsible party, not the animal. Because nine times out of ten, it’s the owner. Not the animal! Miscommunication is on both sides, but the animal is typically reasonable, except for this rottweiler once. That dog was a real piece of work! Woah. He had some serious anger management problems. I mean, his breed is tempered to have a temper! But Daniel? He hated that name, so we came up with something that was considered distasteful, bordering on being racist – animals have this thing about ‘human’ names. So, Carl and I gave him the name he wanted, Puggsy. (For the record, that was the name I was going to give him, but Carl? Carl wouldn’t hear of it! Not until I told him about how racist Daniel was to him. Then he threw up his hands and said, ‘Whatever, Gregory. Do what you will.’ So we named him Puggsy. He liked it.)

So, back to me interviewing the cat, Cauble. She claimed some traumatic event happened with her owner, and I was trying to get to the bottom of it. But, like most domesticated cats, she was having difficulty focusing on me.

“Cauble? Can we talk about the woman, your owner?”

“Why?” She stared at me for a minute, not blinking or saying a word. “Wait. What did you say? My owner? Oh, yeah,” she yawned, bored with the conversation. “I think her name is Kathy or Katie. Kristy? Maybe it’s Kristy. You know what would be great?” She smacked her lips. “Some tuna. You got any tuna over there, Grissle. Grant? No. That’s not right. What is your name again?” Cauble glanced around the room. “Oh, did you see that fly a minute ago? Yeah. Me neither.”

“So, Cauble, what did you owner do?”

“Oh, Kari? Yeah. Well, she kinda does this thing where she like walks and does stuff in her sleep. At least, I think she’s asleep. Once, you know what I got her to do?” Cauble mewed. “I got her to open four cans of food! Wow. I was so full before breakfast. It was fantastic!”

“What exactly did she do?”

“Who? Oh. Right. That owner lady of mine. Kathy. Her name’s Kathy, right?”

“No.”

“But I’m close. I know I’m close. It’s not that big of a deal anyway. Kami! That’s it. The Hawaiian girl. Oh wow.” Cauble stops talking and stretches, yawning. “Oh yeah! That hit the spot. Now, what did you want to know?”

“What happened last night?”

“Oh, that owner person of mine? She went like full-blown psycho! Someone tried to come in the house. I think they tried to. She took them out. Bam! Wait. What was that?” Cauble started looking around the room, and a flashing light caught her attention. “Do you see that? I need to get it!” She chased after the shiny light, ending my interview.

“Well, guys. I guess that’s a wrap. We’ll transcribe it tomorrow and hand it over to the Cleveland Police, okay? Okay. Thanks. Bye!”

[After the interview, Cauble chased a mouse out of Michelle’s apartment toward Lake Erie. Whether she caught it or not has yet to be revealed, but until then, Gregory’s interview is in evidence at the Cleveland Police Department’s evidence lockup.]