You said meow.

I expected nonsense.
The usual human noise.
Big mouth. No whiskers. No talent.

But then—

You said it again.

And it wasn’t… terrible.

I gave you the look.
The one from the side.
The “I saw what you just did” look.

Because that sounded close.

Not fluent.
Not impressive.
But close enough to make my ears tilt forward.

You weren’t teasing.

You were trying.

Oh.

That changes things.

I have spent years perfecting this system—
one meow for food,
Another for outside,
Yet another for “why is my bowl only half full,
explain yourself.”

And now you’re studying it.

Careful little copies.
Testing the shape of my words.

You’re not laughing.
You’re listening.

I stare at you longer.

Is this how it starts?
First a meow.
Then a conversation?

You say it again.

Still clumsy.
Still human.

But warmer.

And I feel something strange—
not insult,
not offense—

recognition.

You’re not invading my language.

You’re trying to meet me in it.

My tail gives one slow flick.

All right.

Try again.

I’m listening.