Occasionally, Cat is liquid, formless, flowing in all directions, able to slip through cracks much smaller than his body. Most of the time, he manages to configure himself into the shape of a cat. What is his actual form? We might never know. I’ve never met anyone who’s concerned about this phenomenon—most people only care about having a cat that conforms to the shape they expect. A cat’s true form isn’t important to them.

I keep discovering new cat shapes. There are so many of them, and they are so unstable, that even if I were to set out to record them, I wouldn’t necessarily capture every one. Luckily my task is just to mind Cat, not to research him, so it doesn’t matter if I miss some of his variations. When I do see him take on a structure I haven’t encountered before, I take the opportunity to witness this wondrous sight.

Not long ago, for instance, I learned that Cat is a spring.

I’d bought a new printer, and Husband helped me install it, spending ages poring over the instructions. Finally, we heard a beep, which confirmed that the printer was connected. Impatiently, I slid a stack of white paper into its tray and watched as each sheet was sucked into the machine, emerging covered densely in black words.

As the printer worked, its whirr whirr whirr attracted Cat, who had never seen a printer in his life. This rigid, squarish fellow intrigued him. He ambled over, thought about sniffing at it, but then cautiously circled behind me instead from where he could safely observe this newly arrived monster and determine if it was safe.

The second document began printing, whirr whirr whirr, and Cat took a step forward, peering closely, only to take fright and retreat several feet back.

He didn’t dare approach again, but crouched where he was with panic all over his face.

I wanted to help Cat understand that there was nothing to be scared of, no need to hide. I picked up a few of the printed pages and brought them over to him, hoping he’d sniff at them and see that they weren’t frightening at all. Instead, my simple action inadvertently pushed one of Cat’s buttons.

In an instant, Cat leaped half a meter into the air, all four limbs leaving the ground at the same time, like a spring suddenly released from pressure, reaching such a height at such a speed that I could only marvel at it. Coming back to earth, as soon as his paws were firmly on the floor, he scrabbled backward an even greater distance. I hastily reached out to pet and soothe him, but that only made him recoil farther back. At this point, I could no longer hold back the laughter welling up inside me.

It’s rare to catch sight of a cat-spring in action, and I’d never witnessed Cat losing his cool to this extent, boinging so high and so far. I formed the mental image of a springing cat: externally resembling a cat but actually composed of coil after coil encased in flesh.

Now, when I see Cat sitting quietly in one place, I believe he’s storing up potential energy, charging the spring like a battery, so it’s ready for use when he needs it.

Cat-springs are a rare sight, and you don’t feel their coils when petting them. Only when a cat gets a fright does this power activate, thrusting itself out of peril. Every cat’s body has a hidden button, a long-buried secret that transforms it from cat to cat-spring. No one knows where this button is located except for the cats themselves. Cats may normally seem soft and malleable, capable of being kneaded into all kinds of shapes—who could have imagined they would contain such a mechanism as well?