wildscape. literary journal

Good Mammals
by Angela Townsend

I would like to commission a statistical analysis. Is there an Ivy League post-doc seeking to contribute something novel to the field? I do not know to which field I am referring, but people with velvet stripes on their robes can sort that out. All I need is a scientist.

The object under study: declarations directed at cats.

Hypothesis: Upwards of ninety percent of catward statements translate to, “you are good.” Cats do not need to hear it, but we need to say it.

I am a child, not a scientist. I scarcely passed Geology. Still, I come into this project with a high measure of confidence. I laugh the roof off my laboratory daily. Laughter is the unsung sibyl of science. Laughter is the healthiest and holiest response to that which we cannot control, such as the moon, the trajectory of aerosol cheese, or ourselves.

I cannot control myself. I can only hear myself. Every time the nutmeg nugget swaggers into the room, I slobber like a sycophant. You are a good baby! You are beautiful! You are in the ninety-ninth percentile of verbal reasoning!

Cosette’s accomplishment is her arrival. This is sufficient. She may pursue her own tail like a felon, claim my lap for France, or consume beef nuggets shaped like stars. It does not matter. Her goodness is under her ribs and out of her hands. This is why her empty bag of worries blows in the wind like a flag. This is why I would like to be Cosette when I grow up.

My mother has been campaigning for me to grow up since I was smaller and wiser than I am now. When I tell her I feel precarious, her hair stands on end, as though a wombat ran into the room. I tell her this so often, her hair should not still get surprised.

I tell her I am afraid I will lose my job because our income was down. It was down three percent, but all three were obese and uncouth. I tell her I am afraid my friends have impeached me because no one responded to my text about elves. I tell her I saw God fold God’s head in God’s hands because I spent profane sums on ice cream.  

I tell her I want someone to tell me that I am so excellent, I have outrun the boogey man. I would like this notarized in triplicate. I would also like a Pulitzer Prize.

My mother is a psychologist, so she uses words like “internal locus of control.” My mother is a theologian, so she uses words like “mercy.” My mother is in her fourth decade of hearing me ask if I am lovable, so she uses words like “dammit.”

I am a child, not a scientist, so I follow impulses like the ice cream man. I code “you are good” into emails to the Board of Directors and texts to my nutritionist. I am an aggressive awarder, pinning blue ribbons on lapels and Led Zeppelin T-shirts. I inform many mammals of the news I need to hear. I see God fold God’s head in God’s hands because I am yelping too fast to hear God.

Our post-doc may need backup from the divinity school. It has been conclusively proven that cats believe they are the Pope, but their theological agenda remains unexplored. If ever they espoused insecurity, they have gone apostate. They are evangelists of the unconditional. They are not going to tell us what to believe. They are not going to wait for us to tell them that they are good. They are going to laugh. They have velvet stripes on their arms.

about the author // Angela Townsend