Ophelia on Objectology: A Fantasy
Ophelia is about my age, but GMO cat-people age so gracefully that she looks kittenish in bedroom light, and her greatest charm, besides long furry legs, is the wisdom of her years. Ophelia suggests that I blog these memoirs on 21st century Earth, and she ought to know, being a time traveler. She’s extra-dimensional far too much for my comfort, but when she does intersect my spacetime, we meet Thursday afternoons in her laboratory-boudoir. "Your friend Sax creeps me out," Ophelia said last Thursday, biting my big toe. "It's nothing personal, Banjo. He thinks too rutting much like a cat. I know he doesn't look it." “He is a brilliant detective.” “And lucky to have you around." "How's that?" "It's about limits, baby. Cats are smarter than humans. That goes without saying, but even we have our limits. Sometimes we need a little of that human trait. . . . I won't call it stupidity." "Kind of you." ...