---

An Unfortunate Case of Mistaken Identity

I’m a Cabal.

Most people don’t know what that is. Hell, most people don’t know what half the things around them are, but that doesn’t stop them from offering opinions about them.

It didn’t take long to figure out I wasn’t like the other cats.

For starters, I’m considerably larger, my ears are longer, and I have a rather unfortunate habit of looking at people as though I’m contemplating their disappearance.

I’m not.

Usually.

And I’m not from around here, either.

They call me Siegfried.

Not because I particularly like the name. It was given to me by a woman who thought I looked like something out of an ancient German opera. She was an interesting woman, although her knowledge of African wildlife was approximately equal to my understanding of municipal tax law.

For the record, I’m a caracal.

A wild cat.

Not a lynx.

Not a bobcat.

And certainly not somebody’s oversized house cat with an attitude problem.

Although, admittedly, the last description isn’t entirely inaccurate.

Anyway, I’m getting ahead of myself.

You see, there’s something peculiar about living among creatures who insist on telling you what you are before they’ve bothered to ask.

And believe me, Brave Souls, I’ve encountered more than my share.

Allow me to explain.

---

The Trouble with Being Different

Siegfried had been living in the neighborhood for eleven months, seventeen days, and approximately six hours when the trouble began. He knew the precise duration because he had spent most of that time observing the peculiar habits of the local population, an activity that required considerably more patience than he had originally anticipated. The humans were particularly fascinating. They possessed an extraordinary capacity for constructing elaborate explanations about things they didn’t understand, then becoming deeply offended when reality failed to cooperate.

The cats weren’t much better.

Siegfried lived in a narrow brick house at the end of Willow Street, where the sidewalks were cracked, the streetlights flickered whenever it rained, and the neighborhood association had developed an unhealthy obsession with maintaining appearances. His residence belonged to an elderly woman named Mrs. Adelaide Whitcomb, a retired librarian who had spent forty-three years surrounded by books and consequently developed a healthy distrust of anyone who claimed to know everything.

Adelaide had found Siegfried wandering along the edge of a wooded property one cold November evening. He had been hungry, exhausted, and thoroughly unimpressed with the local wildlife. She had offered him shelter, a bowl of water, and a plate of chicken. He accepted all three, although he considered the chicken slightly overcooked.

Their arrangement was simple. Adelaide provided food, shelter, and occasional conversation. Siegfried provided companionship, security, and an unmistakable atmosphere of judgment whenever she watched reality television.

Neither attempted to improve the other.

It was, Siegfried believed, the foundation of a successful relationship.

The neighborhood disagreed.

Willow Street was populated by an assortment of domestic cats who had established an informal social hierarchy based on pedigree, grooming habits, and proximity to the best windowsills. Their leader was a Persian named Reginald Montgomery III, a magnificent creature with silver fur, a permanently offended expression, and the intellectual flexibility of a concrete parking barrier.

Reginald considered himself the neighborhood’s foremost authority on feline matters.

This was unfortunate.

He knew very little about cats.

He knew considerably more about being admired.

Every Thursday afternoon, Reginald presided over the Willow Street Feline Association, an organization whose stated purpose was to promote harmony, cooperation, and the preservation of traditional feline values. In practice, the association existed primarily to discuss which cats were behaving improperly and whether the neighborhood’s standards were being maintained.

Siegfried had never attended.

He had been invited twice.

The first invitation described the organization as an opportunity to meet others of his kind.

The second suggested that his continued absence might be interpreted as a lack of community spirit.

Siegfried had used both invitations to line the bottom of his sleeping basket.

He considered that a reasonable contribution to neighborhood sanitation.

The problem began on a Thursday morning when Reginald arrived at Adelaide’s garden gate accompanied by two Siamese cats and a nervous-looking tabby named Milton.

Siegfried was stretched across the front porch, enjoying a narrow patch of sunlight that had managed to slip between the neighboring houses. The air smelled of wet leaves, chimney smoke, and the faint sweetness of Adelaide’s morning tea. Somewhere down the street, a lawn mower coughed unsuccessfully into life.

Reginald cleared his throat.

“Siegfried.”

Siegfried opened one eye.

“Reginald.”

“We need to speak.”

“That sounds unfortunate.”

Reginald ignored the remark.

“The association has received several complaints.”

“Congratulations.”

“About you.”

“Naturally.”

Reginald stepped closer.

“Your behavior has become a matter of concern.”

Siegfried lifted his head.

“My behavior?”

“Yes.”

“Which behavior?”

“Your general demeanor.”

Siegfried considered this.

“Could you be more specific?”

Reginald glanced toward his companions.

Milton suddenly became fascinated with a dead leaf.

“Well,” Reginald continued, “you don’t participate in community activities. You rarely socialize. You refuse to attend meetings, and several residents have expressed discomfort with the way you look at them.”

Siegfried blinked.

“How I look at them?”

“Precisely.”

“I have eyes, Reginald. Their primary function is looking.”

“Don’t be difficult.”

“I’m attempting to understand the complaint.”

“You stare.”

“At what?”

“People.”

“People stare at me.”

“That’s different.”

“How?”

Reginald hesitated.

“Because you’re unusual.”

There it was.

The word.

Siegfried had heard it before.

Unusual.

Different.

Strange.

Exotic.

Dangerous.

Words people used when they encountered something that didn’t fit neatly into the little boxes they’d constructed to make the world easier to understand.

He rose slowly from the porch.

Reginald took an involuntary step backward.

Siegfried noticed.

He always noticed.

“Tell me something, Reginald. Have I harmed anyone?”

“No.”

“Threatened anyone?”

“Not directly.”

“Stolen food? Damaged property? Terrorized the neighborhood?”

“Well, no.”

“Then what exactly is the problem?”

Reginald straightened his posture.

“You don’t behave like the rest of us.”

Siegfried looked at the three cats standing before him.

A Persian.

Two Siamese.

And a tabby who appeared to be reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this particular moment.

“Reginald,” Siegfried said quietly, “I’m not the rest of you.”

The Persian’s whiskers twitched.

“That’s precisely the problem.”

Siegfried stared at him.

Then laughed.

Not loudly.

Not cruelly.

Just enough to suggest that the conversation had finally become entertaining.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Reginald bristled.

“I beg your pardon?”

“You’ve managed to identify the problem without understanding it.”

“There’s no need to be insulting.”

“I haven’t begun insulting you.”

The two Siamese exchanged nervous glances.

Reginald cleared his throat.

“The association believes you would benefit from learning to fit in.”

Siegfried tilted his head.

“Fit into what?”

“The community.”

“I’m already in the community.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then perhaps you should say what you mean.”

Reginald’s expression hardened.

“You need to behave more like a normal cat.”

For several seconds, Siegfried said nothing.

A breeze moved through the garden, carrying the smell of damp earth and fallen leaves. Somewhere beyond the fence, a crow announced its dissatisfaction with the morning.

Siegfried looked toward the street.

Then back at Reginald.

“Define normal.”

The Persian opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Looked toward his companions.

Neither offered assistance.

Finally, Reginald said, “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

“No,” Siegfried replied. “I know what you expect. That’s not necessarily the same thing.”

Reginald’s tail stiffened.

“We’re simply trying to help you become part of the neighborhood.”

Siegfried studied him.

“And if I don’t?”

“Well, there could be consequences.”

“What kind?”

“Social consequences.”

Siegfried looked genuinely interested.

“Such as?”

“You might find yourself excluded from certain activities.”

“Activities I already don’t attend?”

Reginald frowned.

“Yes.”

“How devastating.”

The meeting ended shortly afterward.

Reginald departed with the offended dignity of someone who had attempted to exercise authority and discovered, to his considerable irritation, that nobody was particularly impressed.

Siegfried returned to his patch of sunlight.

But the conversation remained with him.

Not because Reginald’s opinion mattered.

It didn’t.

What troubled Siegfried was the familiarity of the exchange.

He had encountered variations of it throughout his life.

Different places.

Different creatures.

Different expectations.

The same underlying demand.

Become more like us, and perhaps we’ll allow you to belong.

It was an interesting proposition.

One that sounded generous until examined closely.

Because belonging, when offered conditionally, often required surrendering the very qualities that made an individual recognizable.

Siegfried had never understood why difference inspired such anxiety.

He wasn’t particularly interested in converting the neighborhood cats into caracals. He didn’t insist that Reginald abandon his grooming rituals or demand that Milton develop a taste for hunting. He had no objection to the Siamese spending their afternoons discussing the relative merits of various brands of imported cat food.

They were free to be themselves.

Why, then, was his own existence considered a problem requiring correction?

The question occupied him throughout the afternoon.

By evening, Adelaide noticed his unusual silence.

She found him sitting beside the living room window, watching the streetlights flicker against the gathering darkness. Rain had begun to fall, tapping softly against the glass. The room smelled of old books, lavender soap, and the vegetable soup simmering on the stove.

“Something bothering you, Siegfried?”

He turned toward her.

“Do you think I’m strange?”

Adelaide smiled.

“Of course.”

Siegfried blinked.

“That was remarkably quick.”

“Would you prefer I lie?”

“No.”

“Then yes. You’re strange.”

He considered her answer.

“Does it bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“Apparently, I’m not behaving like a normal cat.”

Adelaide laughed.

“Well, that’s hardly surprising.”

“Reginald believes I should make an effort to fit in.”

“Reginald believes the neighborhood revolves around his personal comfort.”

“An accurate observation.”

She settled into her armchair.

“Tell me something, Siegfried. Do you want to fit in?”

He thought about it.

Not because the question was difficult.

Because the answer was more complicated than he wanted to admit.

There had been moments when he envied the easy familiarity shared by the neighborhood cats. Their casual conversations, their established friendships, the unquestioned assumption that they belonged wherever they happened to be.

He had watched them gather beneath the old oak tree, laughing and arguing over matters of no particular consequence. Occasionally, he had wondered what it might feel like to join them without becoming the subject of speculation.

To be ordinary.

To be accepted without explanation.

To enter a room without everyone immediately noticing that he was different.

He had never admitted those thoughts aloud.

Pride, after all, was a remarkably effective way of disguising loneliness.

“I suppose,” he said eventually, “there are times when it might be pleasant.”

Adelaide nodded.

“That’s understandable.”

“But I don’t want to pretend I’m something I’m not.”

“Then don’t.”

“Reginald seems to believe those are my only options.”

Adelaide reached for her tea.

“Reginald is an idiot.”

Siegfried smiled.

“I was attempting to be diplomatic.”

“You’re a caracal, dear. Diplomacy isn’t your strongest feature.”

He looked toward the window.

Outside, the rain had intensified. Water streamed along the curb, carrying fallen leaves toward the storm drains. Across the street, a small orange tabby hurried beneath a parked automobile, shaking water from its paws.

Siegfried watched the cat disappear.

“Do you ever feel different?” he asked.

Adelaide chuckled.

“Every day.”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Sometimes.”

“What do you do?”

She considered the question.

“Depends on who’s making the distinction.”

Siegfried turned toward her.

“What do you mean?”

“There’s a difference between someone noticing you’re unusual and someone deciding that makes you less worthy of respect.”

He remained silent.

Adelaide continued.

“People are going to notice your ears, your size, your mannerisms. They may ask questions. Some will be curious. Others will be ignorant. A few will be downright unpleasant. You can’t control any of that.”

“Comforting.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

“My apologies.”

“What you can control is whether you allow their opinions to become the measure of your worth.”

Siegfried looked down at his paws.

“And what if I want to belong?”

“Then find people who have room for you.”

He considered that.

“That sounds suspiciously simple.”

“Most worthwhile things are simple in principle. It’s the practice that gives us trouble.”

Adelaide rose from her chair and crossed toward the kitchen.

“Besides,” she added, “you might discover that some of those cats are more interesting than Reginald allows them to be.”

Siegfried frowned.

“What makes you say that?”

“Because you’re judging the entire neighborhood by its loudest idiot.”

He opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

That was irritating.

Mostly because she had a point.

The following morning, Siegfried ventured beyond the familiar boundaries of Adelaide’s garden.

He walked slowly along Willow Street, his paws making almost no sound against the damp pavement. The morning air carried the metallic scent of rain, fresh bread from the corner bakery, and the faint exhaust of passing automobiles.

Near the old oak tree, he encountered Milton.

The nervous tabby was sitting alone beneath a bench, watching a sparrow hop through the grass.

Siegfried approached.

“Good morning, Milton.”

The tabby startled.

“Oh! Siegfried.”

“Am I interrupting?”

“No. No, not at all.”

Siegfried sat beside him.

For several minutes, neither spoke.

The sparrow continued its investigation of the grass.

Finally, Milton cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry about yesterday.”

Siegfried glanced at him.

“For what?”

“Reginald.”

“Ah.”

“He can be rather difficult.”

“An understatement worthy of scholarly recognition.”

Milton smiled.

Then hesitated.

“Actually, I wanted to ask you something.”

Siegfried sighed inwardly.

Here it came.

Another question about his ears.

His size.

His ancestry.

His supposedly intimidating appearance.

“Go ahead.”

Milton looked embarrassed.

“Do you ever get tired of pretending you don’t care what people think?”

Siegfried turned toward him.

That was unexpected.

Milton stared at the ground.

“I do it all the time,” he continued. “I laugh when Reginald makes jokes I don’t find funny. I agree with things I don’t believe. I attend meetings I hate because I’m afraid they’ll stop inviting me.”

Siegfried listened.

“I thought being accepted would make things easier,” Milton said. “But sometimes I feel like I’m disappearing.”

The words settled between them.

Siegfried looked toward the oak tree.

He had spent so much time resenting the neighborhood’s expectations that he’d failed to notice how thoroughly some of its residents had surrendered themselves to those same expectations.

Milton belonged.

Officially.

Socially.

Completely.

And somehow, he felt less visible than the outsider everyone stared at.

There was a peculiar cruelty in that arrangement.

Siegfried considered his response.

Then said, “Milton, I have a confession.”

The tabby looked up.

“What?”

“I don’t particularly enjoy being different.”

Milton blinked.

“Really?”

“Not always.”

“But you seem so confident.”

“Confidence and comfort are not the same thing.”

Milton considered this.

Siegfried continued.

“There are days when I’d prefer not to be noticed. Days when I wish people would stop asking questions. Days when I’d like to walk down the street without someone deciding my appearance requires an explanation.”

“Then why don’t you try to fit in?”

Siegfried looked at him.

“Because I’ve discovered something.”

“What?”

“If I spend my life pretending to be someone else, the people who accept me will never actually know me.”

Milton remained silent.

Siegfried watched the sparrow disappear into the bushes.

“And frankly,” he added, “that seems like a ridiculous amount of work for the privilege of being misunderstood.”

Milton laughed.

A genuine laugh.

Not the nervous little chuckle he usually offered when Reginald made one of his dreadful jokes.

Siegfried smiled.

They sat together beneath the oak tree for nearly an hour.

They discussed the neighborhood, the weather, Adelaide’s cooking, and Milton’s secret ambition to become a painter.

Siegfried found the last revelation particularly interesting.

“Why haven’t you told anyone?”

Milton shrugged.

“Reginald says painting is a frivolous occupation.”

Siegfried stared at him.

“Reginald spends six hours a day licking himself.”

Milton burst into laughter.

“Perhaps,” Siegfried continued, “we should reconsider his qualifications as an authority on meaningful pursuits.”

By the time they parted, Siegfried had learned more about Milton than he had discovered during eleven months of observing the neighborhood from a distance.

It occurred to him that he had made an assumption of his own.

He had believed the other cats were shallow, conformist, and incapable of appreciating anything beyond their comfortable little social arrangements.

Some were.

Others were simply afraid.

And a few, like Milton, had been waiting for someone to give them permission to stop pretending.

That realization was uncomfortable.

Siegfried disliked uncomfortable realizations.

They had a nasty habit of requiring personal adjustments.

The following Thursday, Reginald Montgomery III arrived at Adelaide’s garden gate carrying another invitation.

Siegfried was sitting on the porch.

“Good afternoon, Reginald.”

The Persian straightened.

“The association has decided to extend one final invitation.”

“How generous.”

“We believe participation would be beneficial.”

“To whom?”

“To everyone.”

Siegfried examined the invitation.

The agenda included a discussion of acceptable grooming standards, proposed restrictions on nocturnal activity, and a presentation entitled Maintaining the Integrity of Traditional Feline Behavior.

He looked at Reginald.

“May I ask a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Who decides what’s traditional?”

Reginald frowned.

“The association.”

“And who decides who’s allowed into the association?”

“The membership committee.”

“Which consists of?”

“Me.”

Siegfried nodded slowly.

“Remarkably efficient system.”

Reginald appeared pleased.

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

The Persian’s expression soured.

Siegfried set the invitation aside.

“I’ll attend.”

Reginald blinked.

“You will?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent! I’m delighted you’ve finally decided to make an effort.”

Siegfried smiled.

“Don’t get too excited.”

The meeting began at three o’clock beneath the old oak tree.

Reginald presided from an elevated garden chair, flanked by the Siamese twins and a collection of neighborhood cats who appeared variously bored, anxious, or deeply invested in the possibility of refreshments.

Siegfried arrived precisely on time.

Milton sat near the back.

When he saw Siegfried, he smiled.

Reginald cleared his throat.

“Before we begin, I’d like to welcome our newest participant.”

Several cats turned.

Siegfried nodded politely.

Reginald continued.

“We hope this marks the beginning of a more harmonious relationship between Siegfried and the community.”

Siegfried raised a paw.

“May I say something?”

Reginald hesitated.

“Briefly.”

“Of course.”

Siegfried stood.

He looked around the gathering.

“I understand there have been concerns about my behavior.”

Several cats shifted uncomfortably.

“I’ve been told I’m unusual. That I don’t fit in. That my appearance and mannerisms make certain members of this community uncomfortable.”

Reginald nodded approvingly.

“Precisely.”

Siegfried continued.

“I’ve given the matter considerable thought.”

“Excellent.”

“And I’ve reached a conclusion.”

Reginald leaned forward.

“Which is?”

Siegfried smiled.

“You’re going to have to get used to it.”

Silence.

A breeze moved through the oak leaves.

Somewhere nearby, a dog barked.

Reginald stared.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I’m a caracal, Reginald. I cannot become a Persian. I have no intention of shortening my ears, reducing my size, or pretending that your grooming habits constitute the pinnacle of feline civilization.”

A muffled snicker came from the back.

Siegfried continued.

“However, I am willing to participate in this community. I am willing to listen, contribute, and occasionally tolerate conversations about matters I find profoundly uninteresting.”

Milton grinned.

“But I will not pretend to be something I’m not simply to make everyone else comfortable.”

Reginald bristled.

“That’s not how belonging works.”

Siegfried tilted his head.

“Perhaps that’s how you’ve decided it works.”

The Persian opened his mouth.

Siegfried raised a paw.

“One more thing.”

Reginald looked as though he might suffer a medical emergency.

“Milton would like to organize an art exhibition.”

Every head turned toward the tabby.

Milton froze.

Siegfried continued.

“I think it’s an excellent idea.”

Reginald sputtered.

“Art? At an association meeting?”

“Why not?”

“We have standards!”

“Then perhaps it’s time to examine them.”

For a moment, nobody spoke.

Then a small calico near the front raised her paw.

“I paint.”

Another cat nodded.

“My owner has a studio. We could use it.”

One of the Siamese twins spoke.

“I’ve always wanted to try sculpture.”

Reginald looked horrified.

The meeting dissolved into enthusiastic conversation.

Within twenty minutes, the association had approved its first neighborhood art exhibition.

Reginald voted against it.

Naturally.

The motion passed anyway.

Siegfried returned home shortly before sunset.

Adelaide was sitting on the porch with a cup of tea.

“How was the meeting?”

Siegfried settled beside her.

“Educational.”

“Oh?”

“Apparently, I’m a disruptive influence.”

Adelaide smiled.

“Imagine that.”

“Reginald seems deeply concerned.”

“About what?”

“The collapse of traditional feline civilization.”

She laughed.

“Sounds serious.”

“Catastrophic.”

They sat together as the evening settled over Willow Street. The sky darkened to a deep violet, and the first streetlights flickered into life. Somewhere down the block, Milton was explaining his plans for the exhibition to an increasingly enthusiastic audience.

Siegfried listened.

For the first time since arriving in the neighborhood, he felt something unfamiliar.

Not acceptance.

Not exactly.

Something better.

The possibility of belonging without disappearing.

He considered the distinction.

Then looked toward Adelaide.

“Do you think Reginald will ever change?”

She sipped her tea.

“Maybe.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’ll remain Reginald.”

Siegfried nodded.

A reasonable outcome.

After all, he wasn’t interested in forcing the Persian to become someone else.

That would make him no different from the creatures who had spent eleven months insisting that he needed to change.

He stretched his long legs, settled into the warmth of the porch, and watched the neighborhood prepare for another evening.

Somewhere in the distance, Reginald was complaining.

Siegfried smiled.

Certain things, apparently, were reassuringly predictable.

---

And there it is, Brave Souls.

Siegfried.

A caracal living among domestic cats.

An outsider who discovered that being different wasn’t nearly as troublesome as dealing with people who believed difference was something requiring correction.

But there’s another side to this particular bit of Madness.

Siegfried wasn’t entirely innocent.

He had spent so much time resenting the judgments of others that he’d begun making judgments of his own.

He assumed the neighborhood cats were shallow.

Conformist.

Uninteresting.

And then he met Milton.

A perfectly ordinary tabby who had spent years pretending to be someone else because he was afraid of losing his place among the others.

Funny how that works.

Sometimes the people who seem to belong are the ones working hardest to maintain the illusion.

And sometimes the outsider is so busy defending his individuality that he forgets to look for the individuality in others.

We’re on a journey through the ordinary and mundane, taking off the rose-colored glasses and looking for a different side of Madness.

Perhaps today’s slant is this:

Belonging shouldn’t require becoming unrecognizable to yourself.

But neither should being different become an excuse for refusing to understand anyone else.

There’s room for both.

Individuality and community.

Independence and connection.

The trick is finding people who don’t require you to surrender one to experience the other.

And if somebody insists that you need to become more like them before they’ll accept you?

Well…

Perhaps you should ask whether their approval is worth the trouble.

Because sometimes, Brave Souls…

That Shit … Be at a Slant.