NINE LIVES
ALM No.94, October 2026
SHORT STORIES
Dare I say I sympathize with humans?
Always in a hurry, running endless circles, trying to squeeze every last ounce from their short-lived lives.
Every evening they cascade through the front door, frantic to complete their to-dos, all in a feeble attempt to earn a meager hour of solitude before they do it all over.
Never a moment’s rest.
But I dictate my own pace. Maybe take a nap or two—or three if I’m feeling indulgent.
I sense their envious stares like a spotlight as I clean myself and trot round the house on agile paws.
Is it time for another rest? I’ve already stayed awake longer than I’d like. It’s been two hours since my last.
“What I would give to be a cat!” I hear them say. “To sleep all day, have people clean up after my shit, and eat for free.”
Yes, it’s as great as you’d imagine.
When you have nine lives, what’s the rush?
Though there is a catch. The small child, Wally.
He’s still young—young enough to not know better. That’s what his parents say.
He grabs at my tail with greasy hands, inserts a dirty fingernail into my ears, strangles me into positions I cannot escape.
But I endure. For the treeets.
Ah, the sweet, sumptuous treeets. The first human word I ever learned.
“Do you wanna treeet?” they ask, shaking the small receptacle. I put on my best behavior, knowing what comes next: those luscious brown chunks. They smell of freshly caught fish, straight from the ocean just beyond our back door.
But Wally, he does not respond the same way to his treeets.
His come in a miniature white plastic bottle. He swallows them with anguish. The parents must always remind him to take his treeets at the same time each day and tell him to take them with water. On certain days, not long after, he leaves for his vet appointment.
How he and I both lament that place. As with treeets, I’ve developed my own association with the word vet.
It comes with nothing but misery. When I sense it’s time, I scurry beneath the couch, out of sight. Yet, they always manage to outwit me. Those infernal treeets—they call for me, even when I know where they lead. Who could resist such temptation?
As I take my midday stroll, the boy locks eyes with mine. He runs over, feet slapping against the hardwood floor, the ground trembling beneath me.
A sudden yank of my tail. My claws come out.
I send the boy crying to his father.
“She hurt me!”
The scratch draws a mere dot of blood. No need for theatrics.
“Be careful with the cat,” the father says.
“But cats have nine lives! I can’t hurt her.”
“That’s a myth, Wally. They’re just like us.” He gives his son a quick pat on the head, then promptly cleans the scratch. “In fact, they live shorter lives than we do.”
What?
No… I must have misheard.
Cats have nine lives. That’s the rule.
I’m not worried. I’ve got plenty of lives ahead. It’s not nearly the end—
I must discuss this with the others.
***
Along the coast, right outside my back door, I see my colleagues waiting.
The plump orange one is licking himself clear of sand trapped in the folds of his fur. How he got so large I’ll never know. Rumor has it his human is a single woman, pampering this orange behemoth as her own kin.
Cheeto is his name. Lovely. He sports a golden collar round his beefy neck with the name engraved as a permanent reminder of the human’s twisted sense of humor.
The emaciated brown one that sits beside Cheeto is Gordo—painful irony. We were told the word means “fat.” We don’t know where the name came from, but Gordo hasn’t had a full meal or a place to reside for as long as I’ve known him.
Beauford—the one who holds my highest regard—is a mixed breed. His coat is patterned with equal patches of orange, black, and white. His insight is worth its weight in gold.
I approach as they sit silent, awaiting my arrival before beginning today’s discussions.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I apologize for being late. I’ve come to discuss—”
“Got any food?” Gordo’s favorite question.
“No, my apologies. I assumed Cheeto would’ve provided for you this time.”
Cheeto looks at me with disdain. “Assumption is the enemy of reason.”
“Cheeto, providing for your fellow feline is tenet number three within the Order of—”
“Don’t act as if you are a follower! You spend more time speaking against our doctrine than you do supporting it.” His hiss puts me on guard. The hairs on his back stand upright, his ears flattening. “Our faith is what provides us with these wonderful lives we’ve been gifted. Do not mock it.”
Gordo scoffs. “You’ve mistaken the word wonderful for miserable.”
“Please, calm yourselves.” Beauford stands between us.
“Beauford…” I say. “I don’t mean to waste your time with frivolous questions, but may I ask you something?”
Beauford arches his spine and stands tall over Cheeto, who smartly backs down.
“Please, ask away.”
“We have nine lives; it’s a simple fact. It’s always been known. Surely that’s true?”
“Perhaps…” He takes longer to answer than I like. “I’ve long battled the notion, though. We’re raised to believe it, yet rarely hear the opposing view.” He gazes toward the shoreline as the crashing waves slam against the wooden pylons. “And that worries me.”
“We couldn’t have been lied to all this time, could we? I’ve heard talk from the family I reside with. They claim—”
“Lower your voice. Cheeto may overhear.” Beauford looks at me. “You know he’s a pious one. You must never question the nine lives doctrine in front of him.” Cheeto lies back beside us, basking in the warm light. He yawns, rolling over to one side. “We must talk in private, away from the others.”
Beauford nods toward the jetty in the distance. As I make my way over, I can hear him speak to the others.
“Grant us a brief moment, will you both? Keep those seabirds under your diligent watch. Rueful creatures, they are.”
We meet at the tip of the jetty, surrounded on three sides by open water. The gulls caw while foamy water crashes against the stone jetty. A droplet of water touches my fur; I start to lick at it.
“Tyche.”
A name borrowed from the goddess of good fortune and luck. How fitting.
“I too have heard such murmurs. For the past few months, I’ve been pondering this. I have an uneasy feeling that we’ve been lied to.”
He scratches his ear. His gaze seems to look straight through me.
“What makes you so certain, Beauford? How could one of our core tenets be entirely fabricated?”
“Do you remember Mr. Whiskers?”
“Of course I do. One of our founders. He promised once he passed, he would find us again in his next life. We’re just waiting for him to return—”
“And why hasn’t he?”
“As we’ve said, he must have lost his way. This neighborhood can be—”
“Nonsense. Mr. Whiskers spent his whole life here. There is no getting lost. I’m starting to believe there may be nothing after this life. And your humans’ words have further reinforced this notion.”
My mind feels like it’s unraveling. A sharp sting strikes at my temple.
“No… Why haven’t you told me sooner? If that’s true, then what have I been doing all this time? Have I wasted my life, simply lying around and eating through the years?”
My tail flicks erratically as I continue.
“I… could’ve done so much more. I could’ve traveled farther down the beach, to places none of us have explored. I could’ve gotten to know you all better. I could’ve finally caught that flashing dot. I could’ve—”
“Don’t wallow in the could-haves. I don’t know the answer, but the time is yours to spend, and you still have plenty of it. Do with it what you will.”
“But how can you be so sure? There must be a way to prove—”
Beauford has already turned away, heading back toward the others.
“I can’t prove anything, Tyche. But I know one thing is true. Spend your time wisely.”
***
For the first time I can’t sleep.
Shouldn’t I be doing something? Why burn through hours of the day when there is little time to waste? Are the birds accounted for? Has the flashing dot been chased? Are there mice in the kitchen?
In the late hours of the night I search for the flashing dot that frequently eludes me. Now is the time to catch it for good.
After hours of failed attempts, I inspect for mice. Now is the time to eradicate them—to rid the house of those pests for good.
Once I finish my mouse duty, now is the time to rid the grounds of birds. Their flocks loiter in the yard where the family plays. I must clear it before sunrise. But as I go out through the small flap cut into the bottom of the back door, the sun begins to peek its head over the horizon.
Has night given way to morning? Already?
My eyelids grow heavy, but I force them open. There is no longer time to rest while this life slips away.
There’s much to do. I must hurry.
But the weight of my eyelids prevails, pulling me into a dark slumber. I wake without realizing what I’ve done—what mistake I’ve just made.
How many hours lost? Eight… maybe nine?
Wally comes tumbling down the stairs, rushing to the TV. I’ve watched him sit in that same place many times before, staring at the screen for hours on end. The boy spends his time as if he has nine lives of his own. He prances about the backyard, strolls the beach in search of rocks, plays with a friend or two.
But he accomplishes nothing.
What a waste. Does he not know that time is finite?
I formulate my daily itinerary in my head:
● Hour 1: Head to the coast and venture beyond the jetty, where untouched lands have yet to be discovered.
● Hours 2-4: Engage the seabirds, ensuring they remain sky-bound. Where they belong.
● Hour 5: Search beneath the dining room table for abandoned provisions.
● Hours 6-7: Ensure the perimeter of the house is safe from feral cats.
● Hours 8-10: Patrol the neighborhood. Stop at Beauford’s residence to organize the next meeting.
● Hours—
As I continue to prepare my checklist and head toward the door, I hear the boy call out to me.
“Here, kitty, kitty!”
I cannot waste more time, but his body now blocks my escape. I look up to see Wally’s gray face. He manages a strained smile and reaches a hand toward my head.
At first I back away, eyeing a path around him, but now he sits down, fully guarding my only exit. He pats his open lap. I continue to refuse.
Then his hand finds my head, stroking gently. The feeling is hard to shake. I would be a liar to say his lap does not call to me…
Maybe a few minutes will suffice. Just enough to—
A sudden shift wakes me.
Wakes me?
How long have I been asleep? I look over to the clock and see it’s been another hour. Another hour lost! I’ll have to make up for that tomorrow.
I look over to see what woke me. Wally lies by my side, peacefully asleep, turning onto his left side, one frail hand guarding his stomach. One eye opens just enough to find me. His hand weakly tugs me back toward him.
He’s back to sleep.
Perhaps… the schedule can wait. Just an hour more.
***
Today is another meeting, but I choose to spend my time with Wally. Over the past few months, he’s learned to treat me better. He no longer grabs at my tail. Instead, he softly runs his hand down my back.
His lap has become a favorite of mine.
I can accept the fact that he mishandles my treeets. His hands shake as he bends over to feed them to me. A flush colors his cheeks, standing out against the rest of his damp, pale face.
On occasion, he’ll sneak them to me when the adults aren’t looking. He’ll reach for my container and drop a few extra into my bowl before taking his own.
We take our treeets together.
***
In time, my hunger has subsided. I’ve developed an odd limp in one hind leg, and my vision has gone hazy in both eyes. Instead of jumping into Wally’s lap, he must lift me. The walk to my meeting spot feels longer now and far more taxing.
Even treeets don’t appeal to me as they once did. Are they worth the effort?
But not everything that comes with age is bad. Wally has become more than an acquaintance. Dare I say, a friend.
He’s lost that insufferable energy. He allows me the comfort of a warm lap when I’m weary from my travels.
I seem to comfort him as well. It’s a mutual exchange.
Ever since the large truck took him away, with sirens blaring and lights flickering, Wally hasn’t returned quite the same.
His body isn’t the only thing that’s changed. He’s fragile, pale, and skinny—reminiscent of Gordo—but he’s quieter too. More thoughtful. More aware.
His room stays empty for longer stretches, and when he returns, a strong, sharp citrus scent stings my nose. The same scent that clings to his father.
When he’s gone, I look for him. I lie in his bed and wait for his return. When he arrives, it’s always the same: a quick retreat beneath the sheets, away from the light. He still allows me to stay. I find space beside him even when he has no strength to lift me himself.
I lie by his side. I sense it helps. Even if only a little.
The parents say one word often enough that I’ve learned it has claws.
Cancer.
It scratches at bedroom doors before entering; it draws tears from the mother’s eyes; it hollows the soul of the father.
Wally doesn’t seem to fear the word the way they do. His smile remains brighter than ever, perhaps even more so now.
As I paw beneath the door, trying to get inside the bedroom, I hear fragments of a conversation. “He doesn’t have much longer, Liza. I’ve tried… I’ve consulted the other doctors. The medications aren’t helping, and the procedure only delayed it. It’s spreading. The next operation may be the last—”
“Don’t!” I hear a smack. “Don’t say it. He’ll be okay. You’ll save him.” Then comes the familiar sound of crying. “You will. You’ll… you’ll do it.”
I yell and jump for the door handle. Just out of reach. After a couple more futile attempts, the door opens and I’m finally allowed inside.
Something on the ground must have caught the father’s attention, as he can’t look away from his feet.
“You’ll… you’ll do it. I know you can,” the mother repeats. “Right? You’ll save him. I know you will.”
His eyes remain locked to the ground. Tears form a thin streak that runs from his lashes to his chin.
Now I understand.
Wally’s time is short.
I must do something at once.
Perhaps they’re wrong. Maybe I do have nine lives. Could I… spare a few?
I find Wally in his room, his back against the wall, slumped upright in bed. Sheets cocoon him. A handheld device chirps as he focuses on its screen. The light engulfs his face in the dark room, his thumbs wildly moving in each direction.
Rubbing against his legs, could that work? Will one of my lives transfer that way?
I look up, nothing has changed.
How about licking?
He swats me away as I go for his hands. They’re as fragile as ever.
What if I were to lie with him for the entire night this time? Maybe life takes longer to transfer.
But after a full night resting on his chest, feeling the shallow, uneven rise and fall of his ribs, I wake to find him unchanged.
Nothing. Useless. Am I doing something wrong?
I even brought him a dead bird I caught this morning.
But why must his life be cut short when I’ve yet to see him accomplish anything? Does he not know his time is near? Must I be the one to tell him?
Or, does he know something I don’t…
I must get answers for Wally. I’ll discuss this with the others.
***
Beauford is already speaking to Cheeto and Gordo as I approach.
“Sorry for my late arrival,” I say. “I was—”
“Do not concern yourself. Your time is yours to spend.” Beauford looks back to the others. “What was it you were saying, Cheeto?”
He scowls at Beauford, then turns his tail toward the rest of us. “There is no use in me attending these meetings any longer, with such blasphemous talk against the nine lives doctrine. I’ll find like-minded, rational felines who have some sense left in them. You’ve gone over the edge—all of you. And when you realize the mistake you’ve made, don’t expect me to—”
Gordo interjects. “One life is plenty. Enough to be hungry. Enough to suffer. Why would you want more? What good comes from prolonging this?”
We all look at Gordo, whose delicate rib cage is more pronounced than ever. He’s ill, trembling, on his last two good legs.
Beauford looks at me. “You’ve come at a bad time, Tyche. Gordo and I have come to the conclusion that we cannot cling to mere theories any longer. I worry that what we discussed a while back may be true. I don’t believe we have much longer.”
My paws sink further into the sand. I can’t seem to find proper footing.
“Maybe if I spent more time living rather than theorizing, I could’ve—”
I stop Beauford before he can finish. “Nonsense. As you told me, make the most of the time you do have.”
He laughs. “I’m an old feline, Tyche. You’ve grown older too. Turns out searching all your life for an answer isn’t as rewarding as I once thought.”
But I didn’t come here to discuss our own fates.
Wally.
“Even if we only have one life, at least we were fortunate enough to grow old. But Wally—the boy I live with—doesn’t have that same chance. He’s dying. What can I do? How can I help him?”
Beauford looks away toward the water, where gulls circle a fish carcass.
For once, he has nothing to say.
I look at Gordo, who is now lying in the sun, flies swarming around his eyes. Too weak to pay them any mind.
The waves creep higher onto the shore, a storm brews over the darkened waters in the distance.
Cheeto’s paw prints disappear beneath the incoming tide. He’s already walked too far away for me to see him.
Time moves forward, and all I can do is watch.
I look back over to the house where Wally is sitting, waiting for me on the patio. I can barely make out his strained voice over the crashing waves.
“Here… kitty… kitty.”
And I join him.
For the days that follow, I don’t return to the shore. My legs can’t make the journey anymore.
The seabirds go unchallenged. I can’t keep up with them like I used to. There are plenty of birds on the television, and Wally is there beside me.
The neighborhood moves on without my constant patrol. My time is better spent napping… even if those stray cats make it to our porch.
For once, none of it bothers me.
***
I wake to the familiar warmth of Wally. He’s managed to wrap me in a blanket.
I can hear the wretched dogs barking, noisy birds chirping and flapping their wings, and fellow felines panicking.
“How do we escape?” one of them asks another. “The walls of the vet are nearly impenetrable—”
Vet?
As I turn my head, I see the same entrance, the same woman at the front with her crooked teeth and villainous smile, the waiting room packed with enough animals to resemble a zoo, awaiting their own horrid appointments.
I want to struggle, to resist going back into those bright white rooms, but my body has little fight left. I can simply wait here in the warmth, with Wally to look after me.
I can trust him.
He brings me back, the parents close behind, to a room unlike any I’ve seen before. The same human responsible for my suffering awaits me, along with a pair of young women who have laid out a sheet for me on a long, silver table.
I’m placed right at the center.
I see the look in their eyes. Sadness. Sympathy. The same look that Wally’s parents wear when he returns from his own vet visits.
I take too long to realize what this is.
I’m not here for a checkup.
A slight prick in my leg. The needle stings as it slides in, but within seconds, I feel an odd sense of relief. Maybe these humans know how to handle a needle, unlike the others.
I thank them, though even now I’m not sure they understand me as I understand them.
I think back to my first visit here, when Wally’s family brought me in for a checkup. Back then, I thought I had all the time in the world—and an endless stream of visits to this miserable place.
Then I spent what remained of it worrying there wouldn’t be enough time at all.
What’s the rush?
Wally watches me through tears gathering in his eyes.
“Wally, I must tell you something. Before sleep takes hold of me.”
That gets his attention. He leans closer.
“Your father may be right. I’m not sure I have nine lives. I’m sorry… I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”
Does he understand? He appears to listen closely.
“I thought sleeping was a waste of time. I thought sitting with you, watching the television, was a waste of time. Even a moment’s break was a waste. But I was wrong.”
My shallow breaths make it difficult to get the words out.
“That time wasn’t wasted. I got to spend it with you.”
I feel his bony fingers move gently along my back, as though he might break me if he pressed any harder.
My eyes grow heavy. It must be time for rest.
I’ll see you soon.
Though—I hope not too soon.
Goodnight, Wall—
K.F. Black is a fiction writer whose work explores psychological realism and grief, with an emphasis on the interior struggles of his characters. He lives in the United States with his wife and, when not writing, can be found laboring through piano practice or playing chess.
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