Necessary Correction

It was six-thirty in the morning when the kitties of Alaraf stirred for Fajr.

Ruh, though still sore, was otherwise healthy in body and mind—but not in heart.

Duke Leto II had spent the early hours reading through a manuscript he had found folded behind the fourth wall of his office: a story with a grey cat in a marine uniform, bearing the title “POW War Veteran Sheikh.” He rolled it gently, then tapped the black cat snoring beneath his desk on the shoulder.

The cat burrowed deeper into the catbed and covered his face with his paws.

“Mew,” he muttered. “Am cat.”

A moment later, he found himself lifted under the forearms and placed upright, facing the only window in the room. Outside, it was still dark—streetlamps, passing cars, and the soft glow of charging electronics reflected in the glass.

“You are a Muslim,” Duke said.

“Mew meow,” replied the cat, unconvincingly.

“I know every non-shapeshifter cat that has existed in your life since 2020,” Duke continued, “and they all have one thing in common.”

The cat sighed. “They smacked me in the face at Fajr because that’s when I fed them.”

“Yes,” Duke said. “And you are debating metaphysics instead of praying.”

The cat straightened, defensive. “Purring is dhikr. And I have no desire to replicate the polytheism of those who worship idol-shaykhs or place human intercession between the laity and God.”

“You speak a great deal of fiqh for a cat claiming no Islamic context,” Duke replied.

“In real life,” the cat shot back, “you speak in bullet points. Alhamdulillah, this narrative is even coherent.”

The black-furred cat stretched, pretending not to feel the weight of a very specific guilt.

“Let’s try a diagnostic,” Duke said.

“…Fair,” replied the cat. “Proceed.”

“Sit upright. Weight on your hind legs.”

The cat complied.

“Paws together. Heart level.”

Duke stared. The cat obeyed.

“Fātiḥah.”

The cat recited—poorly pronounced but sincere.

“Shahādah.”

A pause. Then: “Lā ilāha illa Allāh, Muḥammadun Rasūl Allāh.”

“Bow.”

The cat bowed and rose again.

“Now,” Duke said, “pretend you have a headache and the ground is cold.”

The cat lowered his head between his paws.

“Sit.”

The cat sat.

Duke nodded.

“You are diagnosed with lazy aversion; the instinct to withdraw precisely when the situation requires the opposite. Injury does not call for less prayer. It calls for more.”

He gave the cat exactly two head pats.

Then he left to get coffee at Panera.

Caffeine is contraindicated for cats who refuse to be human, so he brought none back.

It was going to be a strange semester.

The cat remained where he was, miserable—but corrected.