On any given day, a cat’s ears will swivel 180 degrees in one direction, then 180 degrees the opposite way. A full circle or even more, n full circles. They hear everything in a complete round too. As a result, various sounds encircle cats. No matter where they go, those sounds seem to have hands and feet, which grab on to the fine hairs sprouting from their ears. That’s why cats get startled by the slightest noise.

Cats hear things that humans can’t. Their ears turn this way and that, like a couple of little satellite dishes picking up signals from all directions. Without a single warning sign, they suddenly grow alert, every joint in their bodies tensing, especially in their necks, where it seems as if a few hundred mechanical parts have all been activated at once. Cat ears transmit the sounds they pick up throughout the entire body, triggering mechanisms from reflexes to dilated pupils.

Cat’s sensitivity to sound creates many opportunities for him to fritter away his time. He spends his days chasing after noises beyond human hearing, a great game for him. All alone in the flat, he sprints back and forth, tiring himself out so that he can barely catch his breath. But what is he actually after? Who is he playing with? There is no one to be seen. Are these mysterious uninvited guests his friends or enemies? Who even are they? I’m so curious about what these beings must look like and how they’re able to absorb so much of Cat’s attention, making him so pugnacious yet clownlike.

I’ve carried out secret investigations but didn’t turn up a single clue. The only evidence that these visitors even exist is that Cat will be sitting there, perfectly fine, then in an instant his demeanor changes completely. With baffling abruptness, he startles and twitches. As if peril has abruptly descended. Cat chases after something, trying to corner them, and they pursue him in return, similarly penning him in.

Cat’s ears are connected. Whenever I tell him to stop running and just be still for a moment, the words enter his left ear only to go straight through to his right, where they seep out, never to be seen again. Cat has never listened to a word I have to say, let alone taken one to heart. He scampers around the flat wildly no matter what I tell him. All I can do is comfort myself with the knowledge that he doesn’t understand my language.

Each of Cat’s ears contains a doorlike contraption that allows him to store all the noises he enjoys: opening a tin can, flushing the toilet, opening our door, and so on. Any of these sounds will bring him bounding happily over, lulling him into another spate of ecstasy. Cat files away all the noises he likes, a system of recordkeeping that makes sense only to him.

The wind is particularly beloved by Cat because it blows all kinds of sounds his way, some of which he enjoys; others he permits the wind to waft away again. A sort of regular flea market with treasures for him to rummage through. Cat is a picky customer, and he doesn’t always find a noise to his liking. Nonetheless, playful as he is, he always looks forward to the wind’s arrival.

On occasion, Cat will unpack the audio library in his ears and sample it for the wind, which spins in a circle, to say it has brought similar sounds this time too. Hearing this, Cat runs with the wind. The wind is faster, of course, and Cat has to sprint to keep up. It stashes Cat’s favorite sounds atop cans, on the toilet, in doorframes, and whenever Cat comes upon one he likes, he jumps and grabs hold of it, full of gratitude for the wind.

Cat’s joy spreads from his inner to outer ears, from where it can be passed on to the wind. Infected with this pleasure, the wind ferries it farther afield. Before it can get far, other winds will have tugged this happiness apart, dispersing it in all directions.

This arrangement suits Cat. One wind is much like another, just as it’s hard to tell between one joy and another. It’s all happiness.