Cassie, Xena, and the Opera of Love

All stories start with a cat. Especially when that cat is named Cassie and knows all your secrets.

On my birthday, I sing opera. I don’t know Italian, so I improvise: « Cassie, my love. » Cassie replies: « Meow. » That « Meow » always means the same thing: « Human love is way too complicated, buddy. »

I tell Cassie: « Yeah, Cassie. I’m like Kafka—just a lonely writer. But life is beautiful. » Cassie jumps onto my lap, as if asking, « So why do you keep getting dumped, dude? »

Chapter 1: The Secrets Xena Buried

Xena—my childhood dog—buried all my secrets. My first love letters, the photos Phoebe hid, even Laura Pausini’s CD. Xena treated it like her mission, as if saying, « These secrets will make you stronger, pal. »

One winter night, Xena taught me that « love is about waiting. » But Cassie sees it differently. « Meow. » (« Love is just about hugging, buddy. »)

Chapter 2: Phoebe and Laura Pausini

Phoebe told me: « You’re too sensitive. » And she hid the story of a girl who just passed through my life. But Cassie knows everything. She spotted Laura Pausini’s « Strani Amori » CD hidden in the corner of my room.

I ask Cassie: « Cassie, does love even exist? » Cassie answers: « Meow. » (« Yeah, it does. You just notice it too late. »)

Chapter 3: Kafka, a Cat, and Meditation

I write like Kafka. But unlike him, I meditate with a cat. Cassie sits on my lap, licking my hand like she’s asking, « Are you even focusing right now, dude? »

I confess: « Cassie, I don’t know how to love. » Cassie replies: « Meow. » (« You know how. You’re just scared. »)

Chapter 4: Love Like a Diners Coffee

Love is like a diner coffee. Too much sugar, and it’s sickly sweet. Not enough, and it’s bitter. But sometimes, it’s perfect. Those are the moments when Cassie and I sit by the window, soaking up the sun, and I whisper, « This moment? This is love. »

Xena and Phoebe are far away now, but their love lingers in my heart like a Laura Pausini song. Cassie curls up beside me and says, « You’re lonely, buddy, but you’re loved. »

Epilogue: A Cat and a Writer

Now, every morning, I sing opera with Cassie. « Cassie, my love. » Cassie replies: « Meow. » And I smile, because love is complicated, but cats always know the truth.