The Morning of the Upright One
(As Recorded by Freckles the Dog and Tang the Cat)
Freckles’ Account ~ The day begins wrong, as usual, with the door closed. Every morning, I lie outside that door, nose pressed against the gap where the warm smells leak out… soap, human skin, a trace of deodorant. Tang crouches beside me, tail flicking in that impatient way of hers, pretending she isn’t waiting too. She says she’s here for “scientific observation.” I’m here for love and maybe a treat.
Then the sound comes: footsteps, the slow pad of sock feet on carpet. The door opens. Behold. He emerges. One of my humans. The Tall One. I leap up, tail wagging. “Good morning!” I say in the tongue of joy. He doesn’t answer, of course, because he only speaks in sighs and groans before coffee.
Tang slinks forward, stretching like she invented bones. “Observe,” she whispers. “He’s thinking about caffeine before he’s even crossed the threshold.”
“He’s thinking about petting me,” I correct her. But he walks right past us toward the kitchen, muttering something that sounds like “Don’t start.”
I follow anyway. It’s important to supervise. Tang glides behind me, moving like smoke.
Tang’s Commentary ~ The man is a predictable creature. Every morning he performs the same rituals, each act both tragic and fascinating. On the way to the kitchen, he stops long enough to turn on the TV then continues on. In the kitchen, he touches the coffee machine as if awakening an idol. The machine blinks its single amber eye. He stares into it with reverence, waiting for it to breathe life into him.
I sit on the window sill to observe. He doesn’t like that, but rules mean little before caffeine. The first hiss of hot water fills the kitchen with the bitter scent of roasted despair. He opens the refrigerator and frowns as though betrayed.
“No leftovers,” he says aloud, because he must narrate even if there are no other humans around to hear him. I purr softly in agreement; I, too, find the refrigerator’s contents unacceptable.
Then he rummages through the cabinets and produces a box of pastries that expired, if memory serves, before the last presidential administration.
Freckles’ Account ~ He unwraps something crinkly. It smells like cardboard and sugar. He’s going to eat that? Oh no. I look up at him, giving the eyes of compassion. “There’s dog biscuits,” I suggest. “Better yet, bacon! You used to make bacon!”
He doesn’t hear me. He puts the pastries in the microwave. Tang says the microwave is a sun in captivity. I just know it beeps, and when it beeps, food happens. I wait.
Beep. The man takes out the pastries. I wag with approval. “Is that for sharing?”
He sips coffee, listening to the TV which he can hear from the kitchen. The news people start talking about the end of the world again. He listens with the calm of someone already resigned to it.
Tang’s Commentary ~ He never eats properly. The pastries collapse in his hands like ancient ruins. I imagine the crumbs under his nails will one day evolve into new forms of life.
The dog sits by his feet, drooling, convinced every bite might fall his way. I admire such optimism. I prefer strategy. I sit on the counter and fix him with my most penetrating gaze. Humans interpret this as affection. In truth, I am attempting telepathic influence.
“Leave the plate,” I think. “Walk away.”
He doesn’t, but he does mutter, “Stop staring at me.” Progress.
When he finishes, he carries his coffee to the living room. The dog bounds after him, nails clicking on tile like impatient applause.
Freckles’ Account ~ Now comes the good part. He sits in the big chair. The one that sighs when he sits down. He opens the flat glowing box, the thing he calls a “laptop.” He starts typing.
This is when he becomes quiet for hours. Sometimes he whispers sentences to himself, like spells. “What if the creature feeds on fear?” he asks himself. I perk my ears. “Creature? Fear? Is this a story about me?”
Tang says the man writes “fiction.” I don’t know what that is, but judging by his face, it’s something that makes humans frown at walls.
He says he’s writing a “science fiction horror novel.” I have sniffed at the pages of one. It smelled of dried ink, dust, and anxiety.
Tang’s Commentary ~ The man’s creative process fascinates me. He spends long minutes staring at nothing, as though daring the void to blink first. Then, suddenly, he types furiously, as if chased by invisible predators.
The dog naps nearby, snoring like an old idling truck. I sit upon the windowsill, basking in light. We are, in our way, his muses. He just doesn’t realize it.
Once, curiosity led me to read over his shoulder. The words involved an alien parasite that feeds on fear and devours the mind. I found it refreshingly autobiographical.
Freckles’ Account ~ Sometimes he talks to himself. “Needs more visceral action,” he says. I wag. I can provide action! I can chase Tang across the room, knock over the lamp… instant action. But he never asks.
After a while, he sighs, stands, and goes to refill his coffee. I follow. Tang pretends she doesn’t care, but she watches from her perch on the back of the couch.
He pours another cup, black as midnight, and stares out the window like a man awaiting rescue. I nudge his leg. “You could throw the ball.”
Instead, he says, “You two are lucky. No jobs, free food, no responsibilities.”
I tilt my head. If keeping him company isn’t a job, I don’t know what is.
Tang’s Commentary ~ He underestimates the burden of observation. I must monitor his every movement, record his habits for the grand feline archives. Already I have a theory: humans are powered by a combination of caffeine and melancholy. Remove either, and they collapse.
The dog lacks the patience for research. He spends the morning oscillating between joy and despair depending on whether pastry crumbs fall within range.
Still, I tolerate him. He is warm. And occasionally, he dreams
out loud. Whimpers about chasing a squirrel that lives in the oak tree in our front yard. His paws twitch, and I imagine him galloping through some vast mental meadow where rules do not apply. I envy him that freedom.
Freckles’ Account ~ By late morning, he’s deep into his writing again. His fingers click like claws. The TV mutters quietly in the background, warning about weather or politics. I lie at his feet, half-dozing, thinking how peaceful it is when the world just smells like coffee and I can hear the quiet sounds of typing.
Then the driveway alarm sounds. There is a knock at the door. The apocalypse, at last! I leap up barking. Tang hisses. The man yells, “Freckles, for the love of… It's only a package delivery...hush up!”
I charge the door. Intruder scent! I bark until I’m sure the threat is gone. Tang glares. “Imbecile,” she says without saying.
The man rubs his temples. “I can’t work like this.”
Mission accomplished.
Tang’s Final Entry ~ Eventually the human quiets again. The dog settles down. The house returns to its fragile rhythm. The low background noise of the TV, the hum of electronics, the soft clicking of a keyboard. I think he likes the silence but fears it, too. That may be why he keeps us.
He doesn’t love us, not in the way my human, the woman, does. But we are witnesses, companions of habit. When he finally leaves the chair and stretches, and he looks around as if surprised we are still here, I feel a curious warmth.
Perhaps he tolerates us better than the way he tolerates the stale pastries and the endless news. I think he tolerates us not out of affection, but because he knows we make his wife happy.
He refills his mug, sits again, and begins another chapter. The dog sighs. I close my eyes.
Another successful observation. The world hasn’t ended… Yet.
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<<<<< Clyde Verhine ~ November 2025>>>>>