The two palm trees at the edge of his San Gabriel backyard rose in front of Noah like giant soldiers swaying slightly in the breeze. The blank white canvas on the wooden easel beckoned.

Noah studied the trees and developed his plan. He would do a modern interpretation. Irregular brown boxes stacked to represent the trunks with flailing women’s arms as palm fronds. It would sell at the Rose Bowl Flea Market for sure.

He picked up his paint brush.

“We’re not buying the canned cat food anymore.”

Noah turned to find his wife, Emily, standing at the back door of their tiny California bungalow, hair mussed from sleeping, hands on hips, clearly pissed off.

“Honey, I’m painting right now.” He kept his voice friendly.

“I can see you’re painting. You’re always painting. But we are having this discussion. Now.”

Maybe a distraction would work. “Hey, don’t you need to get to work? I mean, those Kindergarteners don’t wait for anyone!”

“That stupid canned cat food is $1.25 a can,” she said. “We can’t afford it. When are you going to understand this?”

It looked like they were going to have a talk about the canned cat food. For the thousandth time. “But Smokey is our baby . . .” Noah began.

“Smokey is not our baby,” Emily said. “He’s a rescue cat who would be lucky to eat perfectly decent dry cat food.” She gestured to Noah’s box of acrylic paint tubes. “Look, I’m not asking how much all this paint costs us but . . .”

Noah’s chest constricted. Was she actually going to question his passion in life? His truest love? His reason for being on this earth? Would he have to make a choice between his freedom to paint and making the cat happy?

“Let’s be honest with each other, Noah, please. Follow me.” Emily walked into their living room where his completed canvases were stacked in every corner, twenty deep.

She gestured around the room. “When is the last time you sold one? Six months?”

Noah looked down at the scuffed floor, silent. Shame is what our boy felt because he knew it was longer than six months.

“You’ve done portraits. You’ve done landscapes. You’ve done modern. They’re beautiful, Noah, they are, but they’re not selling.”

Please. Stop. Talking.

She couldn’t read his thoughts. “When you buy Smokey that expensive cat food and you’re not bringing any money in, we have to discuss it. You get that, don’t you?” She adopted the same patient tone she used with her students. “Darling, I don’t want to upset you. Please look at me.”

Noah swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“You know we’re barely making it,” she said. “I know we’re newly married, just starting out, but second-year teachers don’t make much and we’ve only got, like, eight hundred dollars in our savings account.”

Noah was startled. They had that much money?

They spoke at the same time:

She said: “Maybe you could get an emergency teacher’s credential.”

He said: “Maybe we could give away the cat.”

They stared at each other. Again, they spoke at the same time:

She said: “You know we’re not giving away our cat.”

He said: “You know school’s not for me.”

It was the cat who broke the silence. Smokey wove between Emily’s legs, purring and looking up at Noah as if to say: we’re a happy family, don’t blow it.

After Emily left for work, Noah opened up the last can of moist and chunky cat food. He spooned it out, covering a small piece of foil from end-to-end, which he lay down on the living room floor.

“Sorry bud.” He stroked Smokey’s back, which arched in response. “You’re not going to see this kind of tasty grub for a while. So enjoy.”

Smokey hissed at the food, turning his back at the offering and walking away, his tail swishing rapidly with strong kitty emotions.

Noah’s mouth opened in shock. Smokey had never refused any kind of food offering. Never. Could the cat have understood what Emily had said? Worse, the unforgivable thing he had said? Did they have a cat genius living under their roof?

Noah followed Smokey into the bedroom. The cat sat in the middle of the room, licking one paw in meditative concentration.

“Look, Smokey.” Noah got down on his knees in front of the animal. “I didn’t mean it. What I said in front of Emily. You’re like my best friend, you know.” Tears prickled. “I need you, dude.”

Smokey didn’t look up from his grooming. Noah could have sworn that the cat rolled his yellow eyes.

“I’m going right now to the store to get you some dry food, how does that sound?” His voice was bright and cheery, like he was offering a lollipop to a reluctant preschooler at the dental office.

 

Noah was back in thirty minutes. In his arms was a bright yellow bag with a picture of a smiling ocelot on the front.

He found an antique china bowl above the sink and filled it with the dry cat food: grain-free, high protein, organic, designed for maximum taste by a leading chef.

Smokey ran over to the bowl, bent his head, and started eating.

An hour later, Noah posted his first video of a series titled Genius Cat Eats. Two days later, Noah posted five more videos: Genius Cat Sleeps, Genius Cat Uses the Litterbox, Genius Cat Watches Birds, Genius Cat Grooms Self, and Genius Cat In a Stare Down.

Within two weeks, Noah’s videos were trending with millions of views. Emily could not believe the comments that poured in, the messages nearly lost in all the hearts, happy faces, and hands held in prayer.

Thank you, Mr. Noah, for helping me to slow down and enjoy my life, maybe for the first time. Bless you.

Noah, your videos are brilliant in their reality and earthiness, evoking Fellini. Count me a fan!

The last video, truly spiritual poetry in action.

The first job offer came in almost immediately. But it was the third offer that turned Noah’s head. Would Mr. Noah be interested in serving as an Assistant Producer on a Discovery Channel Series on cats and their feral relatives? The job came with more money than Noah or Emily had ever imagined seeing in their lifetimes. If it went well, there was more work for him at Discovery Channel.

Sometimes, when Noah was alone, it bothered him that the world had missed the true point of his Genius Cat series. Smokey was a true genius, he knew it, not just some metaphor to be used by everyone and their cousin to feel better about themselves.

Emily reminded him that they had never seen Smokey show that kind of awareness again. But Noah always had the same rejoinder. “We were fighting about him, remember? Look around.” Emily did, at their new three-story house with the wood floors, fireplaces, and stacks of gourmet canned cat food on every level. “These days,” Noah said, “what does he have to worry about?”

But when Emily saw Smokey later that afternoon, his furry face turned in her direction, one eye dropped in a slow wink. Emily jerked. “Smokey?”

He strolled past her. There was no response from him … or was there? She could hear a low rumbling. A purr probably, but if she was being completely honest with herself, it was more chuckle than purr.