Up until yesterday, he was a cat. A soft, fluffy, grey and white striped cat. You couldn’t argue his catness. Undoubtedly a cat. An obnoxious cat, yes, but a cat nonetheless. A cat who sometimes acted like a dog, or a goat, or a small, rude human, but definitely a cat.

Yesterday afternoon I came home from grocery shopping and he was sitting on the sofa like usual, his legs tucked underneath him, staring at me with a mixture of boredom and amusement. Except this time, he was, quite clearly, not a cat.

My sister later asked me how I knew it was him, and why I didn’t scream when I found a not-cat inside my apartment. I told her I could just tell. He was sitting in his usual spot on the couch, resting his elbow on the red pillow just like he always did, and he got up and stretched just like he always did, and he came over to me and rubbed against me and asked for food, just like he always did. I almost fell over when he pushed his (no longer furry) shoulder against my face, but I set down the groceries, walked to the cabinet and got out a can of his food.

Before, when he was a cat, he would always stand up on his hind legs and try to reach the can while I scraped it into his bowl up on the counter. Now he was taller than me, so he kept putting his not-paws in the way and getting whitefish and tuna all over them. I scolded him, and he made the same face he always did, the why-are-you-scolding-me-what-did-I-do? Face.

I set the bowl on the ground and he ate it even faster than usual. He used his not-paws this time, which he didn’t usually do, but I guess it was harder for him to reach the bowl with his face.

I rinsed out the can and put it in the recycling bin. Then I started to unpack the groceries.

He finished eating before I finished the groceries, and, as he always did, he tried to “help” me. Now that he was six feet tall and had thumbs, he was even more annoying than when he was small and furry and grey.

I took a can of beans out of the bag and he snatched it out of my hands. I stared at him as he lifted the beans, made direct eye contact with me, then dropped them. They burst open, leaking beige sludge and chickpeas all over the clean white tiles.

“Hey!” I said.

“Heyyyyy!” he replied.

“You’re such an asshole!”

“Meeeehhhhh,” he whined, and slunk off towards my room.

I picked up the broken can and tossed it in the sink. Then I scooped up the beans in three handfuls, dropped them in the compost, and started wiping the floor with a rag.

It was while I was doing this, on my knees, chickpea juice still dripping from my fingers, that it occurred to me that I don’t think cats are really supposed to stop being cats.