The invitation arrived in the paws of a tuxedo-wearing sphynx cat who stared into Klein's soul until he accepted the gold-embossed envelope. The paper was slightly warm and smelled faintly of sardines and secrets.
Esteemed Mr. Moretti,
You are cordially invited to a culinary evening of refinement and revelation.
Dress code: semi-formal.
Species: feline.
Please arrive at precisely sunset. The doorman will handle your transformation.
— The Whiskered Supper Society
Klein blinked. "Species?"
The cat nodded, licked a paw, and gestured vaguely at a nearby shadow.
Said shadow opened like a door.
A cat-shaped figure made of moonlight and cat fur stepped out.
"Name?" it asked.
"Klein Moretti?"
"Meow or no meow?"
"...I—meow?"
Approved. The figure booped him lightly on the forehead.
And that's how Klein found himself adjusting to four paws, a tail, and the sudden urge to knock things off ledges for no reason.
---
There were a few things Klein Moretti never expected to do in life.
Turning into a cat to enter an exclusive supper club hosted on a rooftop garden at midnight? That was not even on the list.
He was still adjusting to the fur. Everything itched. His tail had an attitude. He was 90% legs.
"Do I have to meow to order?" Klein asked, staring at the velvet-lined menu held by a tuxedoed tabby named Monsieur Whiskerfield.
The cat didn't respond verbally, but his silence felt judgmental.
"This is speciesism," Klein muttered, adjusting his cravat—yes, the cats had insisted on cravats—and tried to ignore how natural walking on four legs was beginning to feel.
The rooftop of Building 47¾ was transformed into a fine-dining dreamscape.
The rooftop was lit by hanging lanterns made from old gramophones, soft music played from a string quartet of hairless sphynxes, and the moon looked like it, too, had RSVP'd in style. A long table stretched through flower beds and overgrown vines, crowded with felines in eveningwear adorned with fishbones—one with a monocle, another with a pocket watch that didn't tick.
Hmm...and the smell of catnip perfume?
Klein, now in the sleek black fur of a slightly disoriented tomcat, was escorted to a long banquet table set for a dozen.
He was seated between a one-eyed Siamese war veteran who claimed to have eaten Napoleon's ghost, and a Maine Coon philosopher with a monocle who spoke exclusively in fish-based metaphors.
At the head sat a regal Maine Coon with a napkin tucked in his collar and wisdom in his whiskers.
"Welcome," he said with the gravitas of a furry godfather. "You may call me Lord Whiskerford the Third."
Klein, still adjusting to tail dynamics, bowed awkwardly. "Um. Meow."
The room rumbled with polite purring, an approving hum that seemed to fill the air.
The evening began with the rhythmic sound of scratching paws and the soft chorus of contented meows.
"Tonight's theme is: Eternal Appetites," purred Duchess Muffington, a Persian with pearls woven into her fur.
"That sounds extremely cursed," Klein whispered to no one, "which means it's probably delicious."
Course One: Existential Tuna Tartare
Raw, delicate, and kissed with a whisper of salt that seemed to draw out every deep personal inadequacy. The tuna melted on his tiny tongue, its texture soft yet sharp, like an unsolved puzzle that hinted at an empty space in his cat soul. Klein took one bite and remembered three different lives where he had been a librarian, a starfish, and briefly a mime.
Course Two: Prawn Tempura of Unanswered Questions
Crisp, golden, It was as if the prawn had been battered in questions rather than flour, leaving Klein wondering whether he had really mailed that letter in 1322. (Had he been alive in 1322?)
Course Three: Milk Foam of Divine Regret
The foam was velvety, cool, and impossibly smooth, with the subtle sweetness of memories that could never quite be relived. Each sip was both comforting and bittersweet, like a moment of clarity after a long, aimless search. It lingered on the tongue, a delicate reminder of missed opportunities, leaving behind a taste that was both soothing and melancholic, as if it were a sip of what could have been.
Klein frowned slightly, his whiskers twitching. This tastes like the kind of regret you can't undo, like forgetting whether or not you locked the door... then realizing you don't have a door in the first place.
By Course Five, Klein was quietly weeping, licking at his saucer like a cat who'd lost its sense of self, and debating whether or not this counted as a religious experience.
---
Lord Whiskerford watched him carefully.
"You dine well for a human-turned-cat."
"I... meow—no, I try," Klein said, expertly flicking phantom milk from his whiskers with the kind of ease that suggested this wasn't his first feline transformation.
"You passed the Appetizer Gauntlet, the Sorbet of Lost Days, and the Fish of Philosophical Dissonance," Whiskerford intoned. "You may now take the last trial to join our ranks."
The final dish arrived on a golden tray: a single macaron that looked like a miniature galaxy.
Klein squinted. Was that… his own face swirling in the icing?
"You must eat it," intoned Duchess Muffington. "And see the you that could have been."
Klein stared at it. Then at the ceiling. Then at his tiny reflection again.
"Okay, no offense," he said, "but I feel like I've already done this with tea. Does every magical foodstuff here induce existential review?"
The Maine Coon philosopher with a monocle licked a paw and nodded. "It's haute cuisine."
He popped the macaron into his mouth.
There was a crunch like thunder and stars, and a brief sensation of being held by the universe like a disappointed aunt.
And then—just as quickly—it passed.
He blinked. His tail curled and he contently purred.
"Huh. I think that one healed my back pain."
"You're welcome," said the crowned cat with regal grace. "You are now an honorary member of the Whiskered Supper Society. We convene on alternate Thursdays."
A collar floated toward him—gold-plated, elegant, and inscribed with:
He Who Yelps in the Night
Klein eyed it warily. "I'm not sure I want to wear this."
"You already are," purred a sleek Siamese. "In spirit."
He hesitated. "And if I... miss a meeting?"
"We send the ghosts of uneaten dishes to haunt your pantry," the crowned cat intoned.
Klein nodded solemnly. "Understood."
---
Klein awoke in his apartment.
Back to being human.
Deprived of a tail.
Faintly scented like existential fish.
A tiny monocle rested on his pillow, next to a saucer of tea he absolutely didn't remember making. On the wall: a new stamp on his celestial loyalty card.
1 Rooftop Supper Attended.
8 More Until Enlightenment + Complimentary Anchovy Biscotti.
He blinked at the card, then at the monocle.
I'm starting to think I need a better job and hobby... or a more consistent grasp on reality.
Mentally, he wrote down his review:
"Ambience: surreal and scented with philosophical fish.
Courses: elegant with a side of dread and an occasional tuft of cat fur.
Fellow diners: fuzzy, judgmental, possibly divine, with great fashion sense.
Would transform again, meow~ 10/10."
Then he noticed the note on the floor near his door.
A napkin, folded precisely and tied with silver thread.
Inside: a bone-white envelope, sealed in violet wax.
The handwriting was familiar.
Signed:
Azik Eggers
---
Next Chapter: Klein receives an invitation from Mr. Azik.
The destination? A cemetery picnic at midnight, featuring grilled soul fragments and candied memories.
Will Klein finally get answers to his many questions?
Will he be offered a crypt-side job?
Will the sandwiches bite back?
Find out next time in The Fool's Gourmet Tour!