⚡ Dale Explains Frankenstein Day to Not My Cat

Dale T. Doll had been waiting all morning for this.

Not My Cat had not.

This was not unusual.

“Today,” Dale announced, adjusting his coat and settling into his chair, “is Frankenstein Day.”

Not My Cat looked at him.

Dale waited.

The cat blinked.

“Yes,” Dale continued. “Very important. Very historic. Very Gothic.”

Not My Cat yawned.

“August 30th is Mary Shelley’s birthday. She was the woman who wrote Frankenstein.”

The cat continued staring at him.

“Not the monster.”

Dale paused.

“Although everyone calls the monster Frankenstein.”

He sighed.

“Technically, Frankenstein is the scientist.”

Not My Cat looked toward the window.

“I can tell you're fascinated.”

The cat turned his back.

---

Dale pulled a book from the shelf.

“Mary Shelley was only eighteen when she began writing the story. She was staying near Lake Geneva with Percy Shelley and Lord Byron during a very strange, gloomy summer.”

Not My Cat's ears moved slightly.

“Aha!”

Dale pointed triumphantly.

“You're interested.”

The cat began washing one paw.

“Fine.”

Dale opened the book.

“It was cold. Dark. Stormy. Everyone was indoors telling ghost stories. Byron challenged them to write their own.”

Dale lowered his voice.

“And Mary had a nightmare.”

Not My Cat stopped grooming.

“She imagined a scientist who discovered the secret of creating life.”

The cat looked at him.

“Yes.”

Dale nodded.

“That got your attention.”

---

“Victor Frankenstein wanted knowledge.”

Dale leaned forward.

“Not money. Not fame. Knowledge.”

He tapped the book.

“He wanted to understand the secret of life itself.”

Not My Cat stared at him.

“And he found it.”

Dale's expression became serious.

“That was the problem.”

The cat's tail flicked.

“You see, Not My Cat, there are some questions you should probably think about before you answer them.”

The cat blinked.

“Like whether you should eat the mysterious thing you found under the porch.”

The cat looked offended.

“That was a hypothetical example.”

---

Dale closed the book.

“The really interesting part is what happens afterward.”

Not My Cat settled onto the floor.

“The creature is alive. He can think. He learns to read. He understands loneliness. He wants companionship.”

Dale looked down at the cat.

“And nobody wants him.”

Not My Cat was silent.

“They see a monster.”

Dale nodded slowly.

“And eventually, he becomes one.”

The room seemed unusually quiet.

“That's the uncomfortable part of Frankenstein.”

Dale looked toward the window.

“Maybe the monster wasn't born a monster.”

Not My Cat sat perfectly still.

“Maybe he became one because everyone treated him like one.”

The cat stood up.

Dale sighed.

“Yes, I know. That's getting dangerously philosophical.”

---

Dale got up and walked to the bookshelf.

“You know, this question didn't end with Mary Shelley.”

He pulled out another book.

“People kept asking it.”

He looked at Not My Cat.

“What makes a person a person?”

The cat stared back.

“Is it the body?”

Silence.

“Is it intelligence?”

More silence.

“Memory?”

Nothing.

“Love?”

Not My Cat began walking toward his food bowl.

Dale pointed at him.

“You are avoiding the philosophical question.”

The cat continued walking.

“Coward.”

---

Dale smiled.

“That's why I like stories like Frankenstein.”

He sat back down.

“And why I like those old science-fiction stories where somebody wakes up and discovers they aren't what they thought they were.”

Not My Cat jumped onto the chair.

“Human. Machine. Monster. Ghost.”

Dale shrugged.

“Sometimes the boundaries get blurry.”

The cat curled up.

“And that's when things get interesting.”

Dale looked at the old Frankenstein illustration on the wall.

“Mary Shelley gave us a monster.”

He smiled.

“But she also gave us a question.”

Not My Cat opened one eye.

“What makes us human?”

The cat closed his eye again.

Dale nodded.

“Exactly.”

A moment passed.

Then Not My Cat spoke.

“Meow.”

Dale stared at him.

“I don't think that answers the question.”

Another meow.

Dale considered this.

“Although I suppose you could argue that a creature who demands food, sleeps sixteen hours a day, and refuses to explain himself is demonstrating a very authentic form of humanity.”

Not My Cat opened one eye.

Dale grinned.

“Happy Frankenstein Day.”

The cat went back to sleep.

⚡🐈