I wrote a story about cats, but this is not that story. The other story had cats dying, crawling over each other and mewing. There were clichéd descriptions and it was very sad. I read it and I felt sad. Afterwards I changed the cats to pigeons and instead of killing them, I had them solve a series of equations so that they could advance safely through a labyrinth made of bookcases. I read the story and I felt better.

            I didn’t know what to do with the pigeons when they were done solving equations and working their way through the labyrinth. I felt like I couldn’t just leave them there. They had to do something.

            I took the pigeons to my grandmother’s house and we had tea. She doesn’t have straws, so they had a hard time drinking it. When one of them got into her liquor cabinet, she asked us to leave.

            I took the pigeons underwater. They had scuba suits and jet packs so they’d be fast enough to get away from sharks. I would feel bad if I put them in the water and they got eaten.

            Then I took them to the club and it was 80’s dance night. Pigeons don’t dance and they sat in the corner looking pissed and bored so I took them home. They smelled like cigarette smoke, so I gave them each a bath in my kitchen sink.

            I was tired, so I tucked them into my bed and read them the story about the dying cats. They thought it was very sad too and they cried and asked why I let all those cats die. I told them I wasn’t sure. I told them goodnight and left a nightlight on so they could see.

            I slept on my couch, but they kept waking me up for another bedtime story, but the only story I had was the one about the dead cats. We want another story, they told me. When I wouldn’t tell them another story, they left and that is all I can do with pigeons.