To Thy Country Be True, My Pet

“Philip, what’s it mean to be a citizen?”

The last droplets of rain plopped down onto the roof with an audible splatter. Phillip and Max sat on their back porch, looking out over the wet lawn. “I don’t know, Max.”

“Do you think I’m a good citizen, Phil?” Max looked up at Phil, and Philip looked down at Max. “I don’t think much at all about you,” said Philip, shaking his head and resting it on the porch railing, “I don’t see the use in it.” Max looked down at his feet, small and grey, wondering what his companion meant. “I think good citizens look out for each other, and try to be nice, and follow the rules, and do something called ‘taxes.’” His angular face now stared out at the lawn, glistening in the morning sun. “I think good citizens do those things. I do those things.” Philip scoffed, as was his way, and said “You don’t do taxes, you don’t even know what they are.” The larger, surlier companion rolled over onto his other side. Max turned around to look at him. “What are taxes, then, Phil?”

“They’re sort of like tricks. Very annoying tricks, and if you don’t do them everyone gets mad.” Max’s large green eyes widened. “Would they arrest me, for being a bad citizen? Or—or would they do something worse? Send me somewhere else? What’s that word called…”

“Deportation. But don’t worry, the government would never deport you,” said Philip, “you’re a cat.”