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I’m a cat. This is my story.

In case you haven’t already closed the book in alarm—which *I* sure the hell would--I didn’t always use to be a cat.  And I won’t *be* a feline forever, thank god.  Right now I’m a female cat, a tortoiseshell.   Cute little thing.  Running for the fifth of my nine lives from a pack of *real* cats who pretty much agree with my cute assessment.

I wasn’t always feminine either, and won’t be in future, not every time.  It’s random as hell like everything else.  Usually the gender change isn’t more than a fender-bender to me, but a girl cat has *problems.*  About fifty of which were pelting down the street after me, wailing with lust.  And not a good-looking one in the bunch, goddammit.  They all tended to missing toes or dumpster effluvia.

It was my own stupidity that got me here; dirty, frightened, and finally backed into an alley with a sore ass.  I was being “nice” and just chose to leave my “home” a little too early.   What a dork.

I’d scored an owner at the shelter instantly; what can I say? I had big green eyes and a woeful expression even when bipedal.  And being kitten-size counts for a lot among humans.  I’m not a fool; didn’t try to explain even by meows that I’ve got more years on me than their grandparents.  One of which toothless old farts glared at me suspiciously, whacked me with his cane (I dodged) then barked wheezily “Goddammit, a cat!  You KNOW I’m allergic!”

I purred resounding, stared up at him with big melting eyes, and magically instructed my fur to start shedding like crazy and loft to his nose.   Which it did instantly; telekinesis is my specialty!

But after gobbling all the kibble in the kitty bowl (yuck! But food is food when you’re starving) and charming a couple of the kids out of their Bugs Bunny chicken bites from under the table, I decided to leave.  My internal meter was telling me it was near time for a body change.

These people had not been mean nor hateful, not even the sneezing granpa.  I saw no reason to embarrass or alarm them when the alteration occurred.  I envisioned one of the screeching tots snuggling the new kitty, just as Pussums morphed to a 30 foot ice dragon.  The kid would be too squashed to be traumatized, but that was the only plus.

She might be equally distressed—or maybe happy as a clam if it was Mom doing the snuggle-thing--if I changed to a naked male elf with ripped abs, but either way. I’d be in soooo much trouble.

Thus---out the window and though the wood to grandma’s house we go----arrrgh, excuse me.  When you have no permanent home nor any hope of one, you tend to sing the dammdest stuff.

I was cornered by about fifty horny cats when I changed.   And not into the ice dragon I’d fondly imagined.

Nope.  I changed into a duck.

Go, me.