The Buddhist Cat

Wilson, is its name. Wilson, bounces off the walls of my mind as I plan my Saturday night out.

“Wilson”, I say. The light of the setting sun shines through the wooden pickets of the fence. I catch a glimpse of a gray-haired something staring at a grey-feathered ball. I rub away the blinding pain caused by reading volumes of scientific literature. Behind white whiskers, Wilson draws a step toward a mourning dove. Time and space stretch in silence, witnessing the movement of the bird’s head. Like a quantum jump, the cat prances onto empty air, beside the daisies. The dove’s cucu echoes about the garden’s walls, but far from mocked, Wilson simply turns its head as if shrugging off its failed hunt. Five minutes of intense activity end with gray fur rolled upon itself.

My cell phone rings. Once. Two times. Three. It is my lab partner.

“Hello?”

“Hey, are you going out tonight?”

“I don’t know, I was just thinking about it. I still have a few papers to read by Monday.”

“C’mmon, it’s been three weeks of nothing but papers.”

Indeed, three weeks of classes, three weeks of math, three weeks of gawking onto letters and numbers printed on white papers, until all the signs lost meaning. I glance at Wilson and smile, hoping I can one day achieve to sleep sixteen hours without…