I found my cat in the microwave. Again. You’d think she’d know better by now, but no. When I’m not looking, she uses the unit as her personal workout space: The revolving plate is a treadmill of sorts, her stretch toward the vents a form of pilates, and her nudging at the closed door a decent approximation of isometrics. I’d like say that my cat is quite bright, maybe even a genius, except … she can’t get out. I shouldn’t have named her Houdini.

Or maybe she just likes it there, in the microwave. It’s her good fortune that I don’t use it often. (And her even better fortune that she’s not in it when I do.) When she feels like it (that’s how cats are, they do something only when they feel like it), she stares at me through the plastic window. I stare right back. Neither wants to flinch first. Flinchies, that what we called it in grade school. But then, suddenly, the tension abates, and we just stand there, face to face, not knowing who is supposed to do what next. If I’m slow in opening the door, she begins to writhe and slither across the rotating plate. Frankly, it’s somewhat suggestive.

She leaves letters in her box. Yes, letters. In her litter. Where she gets the time to write, I’ll never know. And I don’t even ask how she does it. I just assume she keeps pen and paper in the microwave.

I found one the other day, while scouring through her litter box. It was a freshly posted item. I took it to the kitchen to steam it open. This would be a delicate procedure, since Houdini was sleeping (again) in the microwave. (There’s actually a great view of the kitchen from inside it.) I pretended I was making tea. I filled the kettle and let the water come to a boil. With my back to the microwave, I held the envelope over the steam. If Houdini knew anything about making tea, she would know that I was going about this all wrong. But I was lucky — she doesn’t drink tea.

I took the letter, now opened, to my desk in the other room. I drew the shades, turned on the lamp, and reached for my magnifying glass. (Her writing has always been quite small, even dainty, you might say.)

I wish I could tell you what was in that letter. I really do. All I can say is that it was extraordinary. It was personal, and it was touching, and it was simply extraordinary.

Moments like that are so rare, and I just wanted to share one with you.