Cat often emits a gurgling rumble, like a little round kettle filled with water. Whenever I put my hand on his belly and rub it a few times, something quite miraculous happens.

Cat begins to boil water with a purr purr purr, as if my hand has turned on the gas, causing flames to leap in Cat’s belly, heating the waterskin. In just a couple of seconds, the water boils and roils, filling with bubbles that rise to the surface.

With the water boiled, Cat shuts his eyes and drifts off into sleep, and the low rumble transitions to faint snoring. That’s why he needs so much water inside him, to then emerge from the corner of his mouth as drool.

Rather than let all this scalding water go to waste, it’s best to pour it out and make yourself a drink, say coffee. It tastes just like normal, but the thing to remember is you’ll need to relocate to a room temporarily unoccupied by Cat in order to enjoy it alone. Cat is very sensitive to smells, you see, and the faintest whiff of anything good to eat or drink will make him run in circles, pestering you endlessly.

Cat never boils water when he’s by himself—that would be a waste. After all, he wouldn’t be drinking it, he only drinks the water I pour him. Cat prefers running water and comes sprinting over whenever he hears gurgling from the faucet, stretching out his tongue to lap from it, flik flik flik, much more satisfying than drinking from a bowl.

The water that fills Cat’s belly is for me: not just to boil and drink but also to warm my feet. I lower them into the basin of hot liquid, and little bubbles begin rising around my soles, the belches that Cat hasn’t yet had a chance to let out. Actually, the water isn’t essential—just putting my feet onto Cat’s belly is enough to feel his warmth, and before too long, I’m all toasty.

Cat’s belly never needs a refill, and the water never depletes or varies in quality. No matter what, it will never get used up. Dispense some, and the water level rises up to where it originally was a moment later. Cat’s insides are like an ancient well whose depths contain an inexhaustible supply of water.

Cat water boiling differs from a regular kettle, with steam escaping through the spout. With a cat, their bellies rise and fall rhythmically, as if something is squirming inside. Press your ear to Cat’s side, and you’ll clearly catch an unbroken rumble churning away. No wonder there’s a ceaseless supply of water: he’s sneakily installed a pump in there.

When the pump gets going, there’s a splish splosh in Cat’s belly as water gushes in and begins boiling, purr purr purr. Husband had a fright the first time he heard this noise—he thought Cat was angry about something and was about to attack him. He actually dropped Cat and ran away. Watching this, I burst out laughing, then gently informed Husband that the gurgling sound meant Cat was at his most comfortable and happiest.

Still a little wary, Husband brought his ear closer and listened, and sure enough, Cat even generously rolled over to expose his pure-white belly. Husband gently stroked it, and Cat began rumbling again. A thermos whose exterior is thirty-odd degrees, holding boiling water, never bubbling over or damaging the container through its heat.