Cat’s belly bulges roundly, like those hydrogen balloons they sell outside the mall, the ones that float in midair: bulbous Mickey Mouses, Donald Ducks, SpongeBob SquarePantses, and so on. Cat swells too. Tie a thin string to him, and you loft him into the sky. As a prank, I could tug his tail to let out all the air, at which point he’d start coursing whooooosh through space, swooping crazily this way and that until he came back to earth as a feeble sack of skin. Deflated Cat would flop limply on the ground, immobilized, two dimensions instead of three, unable to stand or walk, no longer as proud and dashing as before. He’d stare at me with those pleading eyes, flashing an SOS. I often imagine this scenario and keep fleshing it out. It always puts a wicked smile on my face. To think I could bring him that low!

After a while, I’d grab a handful of dry cat food and bring it to his mouth, let him gulp it down. That’s not enough, so I follow it up with another until Cat’s belly is full, and he’s assumed his usual roundness. Having been inflated with cat food, Cat’s belly is now cushioned with a thick layer of fat, which drags him downward, a burden of flesh he must carry around, afflicting him with the disease of laziness. Now he lounges on the floor, unmoving, belly sprawling like melting butter.

But no, Husband says that would be a waste of cat food. He comes up with a more economical method of reinflating Cat: simply blowing into him like a balloon. He already looks like one, after all, so why not treat him like one?

So I open my mouth wide and blow at Cat’s tail. He begins swelling, expanding to the size of a ball. Now he is a hollow cat. He feels the same to the touch: the same smooth fur, the same taut belly, firm when I press on it, like an inflatable raft.

Weirdly, no matter how enormously round Cat gets, he can still easily squeeze into the narrowest spaces. Our bed is no more than four inches off the ground, and he can slide right in there—it’s his favorite spot for an afternoon nap. He has a special technique: First, he pushes his head inside, leaving his rump in the air. Next, he farts, expelling all the extra air that would get in his way. This leaves him shriveled and flat as a board, so he can flop forward inch by inch. Before too long, his entire self is underneath the bed, nestled beneath the headboard.

There, he can doze in peace. In this confined space, no human is going to find or disturb him. If I want a glimpse of Cat at these moments, I have to press my whole body to the floor. As for playing with him, that has to wait till he wakes up of his own accord.

When he’s finally had enough sleep and deigns to show himself, he emerges from beneath the bedside cabinet and stretches lazily. Taking a deep breath—no need for human inflation—he restores himself to his usual bulging self, the same size as before. While he’s distracted, I tug at his tail and let the air back out. With a piercing shriek, he goes flying, zipping around till he’s emptied out once more. Dragging his empty skin sac behind him, he collapses on the ground and looks at me again with those pleading eyes, waiting for me to replenish him once more.