The cats know better than we do, most of the time.

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Of course, that’s not to say you should always trust them. Although they know better than we do, it’s not often that they think we deserve to benefit from their knowledge. If you ever see one that doesn’t run hissing from your presence, you can be sure it wants something from you. Rarely is it a painless gift.

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Which is why I’m surprised to find myself following a cat home.

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I presume we’re going to some sort of home, anyway. We’re certainly not going to mine.  But this cat is beautiful, with pristine paws and a swishing tail, and although he didn’t try to lure me over to his corner of the street, neither did he move while I crossed the pavement. He just looked at me, whiskers twitching as flies buzzed around his black-and-white face, and when I drew close enough, he hopped off the curb and started trotting down the alley behind him. And, like I didn’t know any better, I followed.

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The door he sits in front of is unremarkable in every way. Perhaps a little paint is chipping off near the doorknob, revealing water-stained wood underneath. Perhaps it isn’t painted at all. Perhaps the window in the center is square or round, with iron inlays to keep the glass from being broken, if it isn’t already. Perhaps the hinges are rusty, squeaking uncomfortably when I open them. The cat winces less than I do.

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It’s dim inside the building. What little light filters in through the front windows is rendered dingy and gray by the grime coating them. The cat’s paws kick up dust in little eddies as he pads ahead of me. I cough into my fist, but when my lungs and vision clear, his fur is still spotless, and there’s no disturbance in the layer of filth on the floor. I step forward and close the door. When I glance down, my footprints are glaringly obvious.

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Nothing moves when I enter; no rats or cockroaches or starving children squatting under the remarkably intact roof. While this should give me pause, at least make me consider my incongruous presence in this space devoid of life, I find myself relieved. We won’t be interrupted; for that, I am grateful.

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There’s only one piece of furniture in this room: a long wooden table, as thickly coated with dust as the rest of the space. Atop the table rests a slightly shorter, thinner box. The cat jumps up onto the table and sits by the right end, delicately licking a paw and pulling it over his ear. The purpose of the box becomes clearer as I approach it.

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It’s been a long time since I’ve known anyone who could afford to be buried in a coffin.

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Dust cascades off of the lid as I open it, a morbid, uncontrollable curiosity driving me to peer inside, but though it is musty, it’s devoid of an occupant. I can’t say it looks comfortable. The quilted pattern of the white satin interior would wreak havoc on my lower back, and the small pillow seems as hard as a brick. But then again, it’s not meant for anyone who would care.

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“Why did you bring me here?” I ask. The cat blinks slowly at me from his perch by the foot of the coffin. Predictably, he doesn’t respond.

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I run my hands along the inside wall. The satin is smooth and brittle under my fingertips.  It feels like it’ll break if I breathe too heavily on it. “How long has this been here?” I wait to look at him until I’ve finished speaking. All he does is stare back.

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Something in those unnaturally green eyes triggers a synapse or two, and a new question creeps unbidden through my mind. “How long have you been trying to fill it?”

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His lip curls briefly, whiskers quivering in the stale air, before he sneezes. That’s the closest thing to an answer I’m likely to get.

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I don’t really know what I’m doing until I’ve levered myself up with a knee on the edge of the table. Below me, the coffin stretches impossibly long. I’d like to be able to say I lower myself into it gracefully, but if you’ve ever tried, you know that’s just not possible. At the very least, my ungainly flop over the side doesn’t cause too much damage.

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I was right before. The quilted pattern is already knotting my muscles, and I can feel the back of my head swelling where it hit the pillow too hard. At least I won’t have to suffer for too long.

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As I squirm around, I entertain the notion of crossing my arms on my chest, but somehow that of all things seems too trite. My hands end up pressed between my thighs and the walls of the coffin. It’s not the worst experience I’ve had on my back.

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When I’ve finally settled, a furry face appears at the edge of my field of vision. The cat hops daintily into the coffin, landing lightly on my stomach. With a flick of his tail, he curls up where he stands, peering at me over his folded paws.

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The lid doesn’t snap shut on us. It jolts, then starts closing like someone’s lowering it on purpose. The rectangle of light on my body gets thinner and thinner. “How did you know I would be the one?” I ask the cat, but this time he doesn’t need to say anything. I already know.

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Cats know better than we do, most of the time. The last sliver of illumination disappears.