The Cat Can Draw and so Can’t I

The cat finished its last pencil strokes just as the gun went off. The man slumped over his desk, and the gun fell from his hand. Surprisingly, there was very little blood. The cat walked over and sniffed the man curiously, then sniffed his last art piece.

It was a drawing of a landscape, a pretty one—derivative. A newspaper article lay near the drawing discussing the man’s last exhibition. The cat couldn’t read, and it had no idea what a newspaper was.

It walked back to its own drawing. The drawing was an expertly-rendered portrait of the man. Masterful strokes, a bold, expressionist piece. Wild shading under his eyes pointing to long, sleepless nights of perfecting and fussing and wailing…

The cat heard sirens wailing. It squatted down and defecated on the portrait, then walked towards the door. The man lay unmoving.

(Photo credit: Photo by naomi tamar on Unsplash.)