The House Has a Witness

I was petting Bouji when I looked at him and said, very calmly,

“Bouji… did you know that you are so handsome just like your daddy?”

Then I looked over at his cat tree.

“How about we do a mini-photoshoot?”

Bouji looked at me in a way that felt remarkably close to:

Did you just ask me to ...work?

I called him over.

Nothing.

This was interesting because Bouji usually understands “come here” perfectly well. But apparently there are two versions of the phrase.

One means:

Come here and let me give you head rubs and back strokes for the rest of eternity.

The other means:

Come here. I need something from you.

He knew exactly which one I meant.

So I looked at him and said,

“Oh, I see what’s happening here. You want to negotiate?”

Bouji calmly looked away.

“Cat…”

His head turned immediately.

“…nip?”

Suddenly, we were in business.

He ran toward me and the cat tree while I rubbed my fingers together. He climbed up, I got excited and ran for my camera, and he promptly jumped back down and followed me.

Fair enough.

He wanted to see the money first.

I sprayed the top of the cat tree once.

Bouji paused.

Caught the scent.

Jumped up.

And the mini-photoshoot began.

What emerged felt less like a portrait session and more like documentation.

The creatures sharing our homes become witnesses to versions of our lives that nobody else sees.

Bouji has been here for ordinary mornings, long nights, visitors, silence, frustration, laughter, work, rest and reinvention. He has watched rooms change, routines change, and me change with them.

He cannot tell me what any of it means.

Which is probably for the best.

He has seen entirely too much.

And yet every day, he wakes up, asks for food, and minds absolutely none of his business.

He was compensated after the shoot, of course.

Another spray or two of catnip.

Professional rates.

Now in the Room: Bouji Stevenson