How was it supposed to know? It was a cat.

A housecat. Black, shiny coat. Little pink nose, twitching as it sniffed the air. Bright, green eyes. Ears perked up, minding the sound of scurrying mice. Whiskers. It had whiskers. That was a given. It was a cat. "Hey, kitty." The man scratched under the cat's chin. It purred, and rubbed against the man's leg. It didn't like dogs. It liked birds. And mice. And chasing a ball of yarn had been fun. "I'm going out for a walk. I'll be right back." The man closed the door. The house grew quiet. The cat jumped onto the windowsill. There was a bird perched on a branch, just outside the glass. The bird was a robin. It had a red breast. It hopped back and forth, its head cocked to the side, watching the cat. The cat didn't want to scare away the bird. So it stayed very, very still. The bird watched it for a while. Then it cocked its head to the other side. It hopped around the branch, and went to a nearby leaf, and started eating the red bugs on it. The cat watched the bird eat the bugs. Out the window. On the branch. Inside, running down the center of the house, was a hallway. Off the hallway was a door. And behind that door was stairs. The stairs led deep into the earth. Deep, deep, deep. They went far down. So far down they went into the very mantle of the earth. Several miles. Down and down. They spiralled. They twisted. Back and forth, in wide, wide arcs. They circled deep into the molten core of the planet. There was a door at the bottom of the stairs. The door was made of lead. Behind the door was a room. The room had no windows. There was a single lightbulb in the center of the ceiling. It cast dim shadows. There was a cauldron in the center of the room. Bubbling. Brewing. There were witches around the cauldron. Making magic. Eating babies. The cat had never been down the stairs. It had never seen the room. And it had never seen the witches. But it had smelled them. It didn't like the smell. It was terrible. It smelled of death. It was the stench of burning flesh. And brimstone. Sulfur. The cat stayed away from the hallway. It liked to wander. Into the different rooms. The living room, the kitchen, the dining room. The library. The bookshelves towered high and tall. They went from the floor to the ceiling. There were old tomes. Leather bound and worn. Gold leaf embossed. It could smell the paper. Aged paper. It was a very, very old bookshelf. There was even a ladder. The ladder went along the bookshelf. A little cart hung beside it. It had two wheels. It moved along the length of the ladder. It went along the length of the bookshelf. The ladder itself was narrow. And tall. It was a sliding ladder. It slid back and forth. The cart went up and down. The cat had been on the ladder. It had been on the cart. A long time ago. When it had been little. It had been a kitten. And it had been brave. It had climbed up the ladder, rung by rung, and reached the highest shelves. And it had stood on the cart. It had balanced, and made sure not to fall off. And it had walked along the ladder, and peered at the old tomes. It couldn't read the embossed letters. But it could see the golden glitter. And it had wanted to bite them. It had wanted to destroy the shiny words. It had wanted to chew on them, and ruin them. But it had never bitten them. It had never even scratched at them. Because it had known better. It had known it should never touch the books. Because it wasn't supposed to. So it had kept its distance. And it had mewed loudly. Because it had been a kitten. And it had been brave, and loud, and proud. And it had explored the house. It had gone everywhere. It had been alone. It had been lonely. But it had been brave. "How was it supposed to know?" "What?" "How was it supposed to know? It was a cat." "What does it matter? It still has to pay the toll."

How was it supposed to know? It was a cat.

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