The Cat Who Walked on Water

Arthur sat on the porch swing, his granddaughter perched beside him, both watching the afternoon light dance across the lake. The screen door banged, and a flash of orange fur bolted past—Mittens, the neighbor's tabby, hot on the trail of a dragonfly.

"You know," Arthur said, his voice gravelly with age, "that cat reminds me of Barnaby."

"Barnaby?" Sarah asked, swinging her legs.

"Your great-uncle's orange farm cat. Summer of 1952, I was twelve, visiting his place in Michigan. Barnaby was the most peculiar creature—afraid of nothing except, oddly enough, getting his paws wet."

Sarah laughed.

"No, really," Arthur continued, eyes twinkling. "We'd all go swimming in the pond, and Barnaby would pace along the bank, mewing something fierce, as if we'd lost our minds. Then one afternoon, my cousin Billy dared him—"I bet you won't step one paw in that water, you cowardly old cat." Well, Barnaby must've understood. Next thing we knew, this orange cat was marching into the pond like he owned it. Not swimming, mind you—walking, chin high, dignity intact, through three feet of water as if it were solid ground."

"He walked on water?" Sarah's eyes widened.

"On principle, mostly. But yes, right to the other side where Billy sat eating an orange. Barnaby stared until Billy shared a slice, then turned around and marched right back across the pond, orange segment in his mouth like a prize."

Sarah laughed so hard the porch swing swayed.

"Every day that summer, Barnaby made his water walk. He lived to be eighteen, and I swear, that cat taught me something important: Sometimes you just have to do the thing that scares you, even if you look ridiculous doing it." Arthur squeezed Sarah's hand. "And it helps to have someone cheer you on from the other side."

Mittens returned, orange tail twitching, having caught nothing but a good story's worth of memories.