“Smile,” the photographer said in the same high-pitched tone people use when speaking to babies.

I stared at him, unflinching. After milliseconds of boredom, I licked my paw. My silver fur sparkled under the harsh studio lights.

“Geoffrey.” The photographer rang a bell above his head.

I winced, the sound drilling into my eardrums.

His head popped up from behind the pedestalled camera. “Why the glum face, huh? Look at your parents, the excitement on their faces. Let’s capture some of that magic.”

I glanced at my parent’s portraits, leaning against the wall beside me. Their groomed fur, each ear perked. Beautiful felines. But someone had dressed them in the most hideous Victorian outfits. Animals in clothes. How fucking ludicrous. Anger burned in their eyes, my mother’s especially.

“Give me that same feline smile.” Humans had an uncanny ability to misinterpret everything. 

I hissed, whiskers twitching.

“Yes, Geoffrey!” he exclaimed. The shutter of the camera exploded in bursts. “Give me more of that passion.”

I growled, pawing the air.

“You’re a natural Figaro.” At that, my jaw dropped. Figaro was the most handsome cat I’d ever seen. He burst onto the scene with his unmistakable tuxedo coat as Geppetto’s pet in Pinocchio. The way he pranced about and curled his tail had my eyes popping with hearts.

“Hey, now,” the photographer said. “Why the long face?”