After a long day of acting, it was hard to calm down.
PittyPat and Quincy flopped onto a sleeping pad. I paced along the windows, checking top and bottom for cameras. I strode the four walls of the room, looking into each dark corner where a camera might hide. In the room’s center, I flipped over sleeping pads, looked under MamaGrace’s chaise lounge and Mr. Danny’s chair, and finally sat with my head twisting back and forth, searching. My tail twitched and my ears twitched. “Are there any cameras here?” I asked.
Quincy and PittyPat stared at me.
“No cameras,” Quincy said. “Are you okay?”
“No cameras,” PittyPat said. “Come, sit with us.”
I breathed deeply. Maybe I could relax.
I was trying so-o-o-o hard to be Top Kitten so DaddyAlbert could come home.
No cameras. Finally.
I hated being onstage all the time. Acting was still fun, except when it didn’t end. Acting every day, all day long—I was tired.
Quincy flopped down on his back, letting his legs stick straight up.
“Teach me that,” PittyPat said. She flopped down on her back. But her legs were folded up, relaxed. She looked at Quincy and straightened her legs. “Like that?”
She crossed her front legs. “What about this?”
She stretched her legs on one side but relaxed them on the other side. “Or what about this?”
I didn’t want to pose upside down.
I didn’t want to meow like a tiger.
I didn’t want to meow like an elephant.
I just wanted to be me.
But the camera ruled our lives.
“Smile for the camera,” the Director said.
“Action!” the Director said.
The problem was that I watched the camera.
You’ve heard it said: “It’s easy to take a dog’s picture. He doesn’t pose. He doesn’t know the camera is there.”
Some days, I just wanted to be a dog.