The Cat Who Sees

Glitch cinema presents,

THE CAT WHO SEES

Four friends sit around a table. The steak is perfect. Everyone agrees — the steak is perfect. Golden crust. Pink center. Juices pooling on the plate like a tiny delicious crime scene.

Marcus cuts another piece. Chews. Closes his eyes like he’s receiving a transmission from God.

“Okay,” he says. “You have to tell us. What’s the secret?”

David — the cook, the hero of the evening — leans back in his chair and grins. He’s been waiting for this. He’s been waiting all night.

“Alright,” David says. “But you have to promise to actually do it. Not just nod and then microwave a frozen steak next week.”

Everyone promises. Everyone lies. This is dinner parties.

“First — cast iron. Non-negotiable. You want that thing screaming hot. Smoking. Your smoke detector should be nervous.”

He pauses for effect.

“Take the steak out thirty minutes before. Room temperature. Pat it dry — and I mean dry. Paper towels. Both sides. You want zero moisture or you’re steaming, not searing.”

“Salt and pepper. Generous. Like you’re angry at it.”

He mimes aggressive seasoning. Everyone laughs.

“Three to four minutes each side. Don’t touch it. Don’t poke it. Don’t flip it early because you’re anxious. Trust the process.”

He reaches for his wine.

“Then — and this is the secret — butter. Garlic. Fresh thyme. You drop them in, tilt the pan, and spoon that butter over the steak like you’re baptizing it. One minute. Maybe two.”

“Rest it five minutes before cutting. The resting is everything. Cut too early and all the juice runs out. You’ve basically made steak soup.”

He sits back, satisfied.

“That’s it. That’s the whole secret.”

On the sofa, behind the dining table, a cat watches.

Her name is Mochi. She is eleven years old. She has seen things.

She watches the four humans eating. She watches them chewing, swallowing, complimenting, laughing. She watches the way they look at the meat like they made it. Like David conjured it from thin air with his cast iron and his thyme.

Mochi knows things.

Mochi decides to share.

She sends the first thought into the room. A gentle transmission. A whisper into the collective unconscious of the dinner party.

The steak was a cow.

Nothing happens. The humans keep eating. Marcus is talking about a podcast now.

Mochi tries again.

The cow had a mother. The mother licked her clean when she was born. The mother’s tongue was rough and warm and it was the first thing the cow ever felt.

Nothing. They’re laughing at something Marcus said. Apparently the podcast is funny.

The cow spent her first months in a field in Nebraska. A man named Jorge woke up at 4am every day to feed her. Jorge came here from Guatemala when he was nineteen. He sends money home to his mother every month. He has not seen her in seven years.

David is refilling wine glasses. Priya is checking her phone under the table.

Mochi continues.

The cow was loaded onto a truck by a man named Dmitri. Dmitri’s back hurts. It has hurt for three years. He cannot afford to see a doctor. He works twelve-hour shifts because his daughter wants to go to college and Dmitri believes she can become something he never was.

The truck drove four hundred miles. The driver’s name was Fatima. She is forty-seven. She has driven this route for twelve years. Her son asks why she’s always tired. She says because someone has to bring the food. He says he wishes she didn’t have to. She doesn’t have an answer. She just drives.

The cow arrived at a building she did not understand. A man named Tyrell was there. Tyrell doesn’t talk about his job at parties. When people ask what he does, he says “manufacturing.” He dreams about rivers sometimes. Clean rivers. He doesn’t know why.

The four humans are eating and talking.

Mochi’s thoughts keep arriving. Keep bouncing off the walls of their skulls like birds hitting windows.

The meat was packaged by a woman named Esperanza. She has worked in the packing plant for nine years. Minimum wage. Her fingers ache by noon. She wears three pairs of gloves because the room is always cold. The meat requires it. Her hands do not.

The meat was loaded onto another truck. Driven to the city. Unloaded by a man named Kwame at 5am. Kwame wanted to be an architect. He drew buildings in notebooks as a child. Now he lifts boxes. The notebooks are in a closet somewhere. He thinks about them sometimes.

The meat was stocked on a shelf by a woman named Destiny. She is twenty-one. She works at the supermarket because she couldn’t afford to finish college. She smiles at customers because she is required to smile at customers. Her manager counts her smiles.

The meat was scanned at checkout by a man named Darren. Darren is sixty-one. He has been doing this for thirty years. He was told robots would replace him by now. The robots haven’t come. He isn’t sure if he’s relieved or insulted.

None of this arrives. None of it lands.

Here is why:

The human brain receives approximately eleven million bits of sensory information per second. It processes roughly fifty. Fifty out of eleven million. The rest is filtered, discarded, thrown into the void like junk mail from the universe.

There is a part of the brain called the thalamus. It sits deep in the center, like a bouncer at the door of consciousness. The thalamus decides what gets in and what gets kicked to the curb. It does not ask what is true. It asks what is useful. It asks what fits the story already being told.

And humans — oh, humans — they love their stories.

The brain does not see reality. The brain sees a version of reality. A highlights reel. A trailer edited for maximum engagement. The brain takes the eleven million bits and says: “Okay, but what about MY narrative? What about the story where I am the hero, where my opinions are correct, where everything I already believe is confirmed by the universe?”

The brain has a truth bias. The moment you hear something, you believe it — and then, only then, do you decide whether to un-believe it. Most people skip the second step.

The brain has a confirmation bias. It favors information that agrees with what it already thinks. It literally filters out the rest. Neurons fire to suppress contradictory input.

The brain has a negativity bias. It remembers threats better than gifts. It holds onto insults longer than compliments. It evolved to keep you alive, not to keep you accurate.

So when a cat on a sofa sends thoughts about cows and immigrants and checkout workers into a room full of humans eating steak —

The thoughts arrive at the door. The thalamus looks them up and down. The thalamus says: “Not on the list.”

The thoughts are turned away.

Meanwhile, inside each skull, there is a monkey.

A tiny circus monkey in a tiny red vest, holding two brass cymbals, and clapping them together as fast as it possibly can.

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG.

The monkey does not think. The monkey reacts. The monkey sees a stimulus and CLANG. The monkey hears an opinion and CLANG CLANG.

The monkey has never had an original thought in its life. The monkey just makes noise.

The monkey loves opinions. The monkey eats opinions for breakfast. The monkey doesn’t care if the opinions are true. The monkey cares if the opinions feel good. The monkey cares if the opinions make the human feel right and righteous and justified.

The monkey is very busy tonight.

“You know what drives me crazy?” Marcus says, reaching for more bread.

CLANG, says his monkey.

“These immigrants coming in and — I mean, look, I’m not saying anything bad, but — they’re taking jobs, right? And then people complain about the economy?”

CLANG CLANG.

Priya nods. “And have you tried to hire anyone lately? Nobody wants to work. Young people especially. They just want to sit at home and collect checks.”

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

“Back in my day,” says the other David — not the cook, the other one — “you showed up, you worked, you didn’t complain. Now everyone wants a four-day week and mental health days and — I mean, come on.”

CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG.

The monkeys are clapping together in perfect harmony. Finally, agreement. Finally, unity. Finally, four primates sharing one brain cell and feeling great about it.

On the sofa, Mochi blinks.

She has just watched four humans eat a meal made possible by:

A Guatemalan farmhand who hasn’t seen his mother in seven years. A Muslim woman who drives four hundred miles so her son can eat. A packing plant worker whose fingers ache by noon. A twenty-one-year-old who couldn’t finish college. A sixty-one-year-old who was supposed to be replaced by robots.

And now the four humans are complaining about immigrants. Complaining that nobody wants to work. Complaining about the very hands that brought the meat to their table.

Mochi does not judge. Cats do not judge. Cats observe.

“Okay,” says David the cook, standing up. “Before we move to dessert — should we say grace?”

Everyone nods. Everyone reaches for hands. The monkeys quiet down for a moment. Even monkeys respect ritual.

David clears his throat.

“Thank you, God, for this food. Thank you for bringing us together. Thank you for the blessings in our lives. Amen.”

“Amen,” everyone says.

They squeeze hands. They smile. They feel grateful. They feel connected to something larger.

On the sofa, Mochi watches.

They did not thank the cow. They did not thank Jorge or Dmitri or Fatima or Tyrell or Esperanza or Kwame or Destiny or Darren. They did not thank the earth that grew the garlic or the hands that picked it. They did not thank the tree that became the table or the worker who assembled it or the truck that delivered it or the diesel that moved the truck or the refinery that made the diesel or the engineers who built the refinery or the —

They thanked God.

The abstraction. The shortcut. The summary of summaries.

This is not a criticism. Mochi does not criticize. Mochi understands.

Humans cannot hold the whole chain. No brain can. Eleven million bits and only fifty get through. If you tried to feel the full weight of every connection, every hand, every life that touched your dinner — you would collapse. You would weep into your steak. You would never eat again.

So humans do what humans do. They simplify. They filter. They create a story where the steak came from a store, the store came from somewhere, the somewhere came from God, thank you God, amen, pass the wine.

The monkeys clap.

The thalamus filters.

The story stays intact.

But here is what Mochi knows — what cats have always known, sitting on sofas, watching humans eat:

The chain does not disappear because you cannot see it. The cow is still the cow. Jorge is still sending money to Guatemala. Destiny is still smiling because her manager counts her smiles. Darren is still waiting for the robots that never came.

They exist whether you thank them or not.

They carry you whether you know it or not.

Your steak is not yours. Your steak is a collaboration of a thousand lives, a million choices, a supply chain of hands and trucks and freezers and heartbreak and 4am alarm clocks.

You are eating the world. Every bite.

Mochi yawns.

She has sent her thoughts. They did not land. This is fine. She did not expect them to land. She has been doing this for eleven years. She will do it for three more.

Cats are patient.

One day, someone at a dinner table will pause mid-bite and feel it — the cow, the mother, the field, the hands, the chain — and they will set down their fork and sit in the enormity of it. Just for a moment. Just long enough to crack the story open.

And in that crack, something will get through.

For now, the humans move to dessert.

It’s tiramisu. Marcus made it. He is explaining his secret — the espresso has to be strong, the mascarpone has to be room temperature, you cannot rush the ladyfingers.

On the sofa, Mochi closes her eyes.

Somewhere, a dairy cow is being milked by a man who wanted to be a musician.

Somewhere, coffee beans are being sorted by hands that will never taste the espresso.

Somewhere, a chicken is laying the eggs that will become the custard that will become the cream that will become the compliment Marcus receives.

Thank you, God.

Thank you for this food.

Amen.

CLANG CLANG CLANG.

Priya walks over to the sofa with a small piece of steak on a napkin. She crouches down. She places it in front of Mochi.

“Here you go, baby,” she says. “Say thank you.”

Mochi looks at the meat. Mochi looks at Priya. Mochi looks at the meat again.

Then — slowly, deliberately — Mochi raises one paw and “SLAPS Priya across the face”. Hard. The sound echoes.

Everyone at the table turns.

Priya’s mouth falls open. Her cheek stings. The cat just slapped her. The cat just actually slapped her.

She laughs — too loud, too quick — the laugh of someone trying to hide that a cat just humiliated her in front of her friends.

Mochi blinks.

Mochi looks at Priya. Mochi looks at the steak.

Thank you, God. All is One.

Meaow

Then she eats. Because a cat is still a cat. And delicious is still delicious.

Priya, still touching her cheek, stares at Mochi. Something stirs in her.

CLANG CLANG.

Stupid cat!

Mochi ignores her. Mochi is eating. The steak is tasty. This is the truth of the moment.

And the thousand hands become your hands. And your hands become theirs. And the seer and the seen dissolve into seeing. And something ancient — older than the monkey, older than the mind — breathes through you. And for a moment — just a moment — Everything breathes as One.

Meaow