A fable I wrote a while back..
There once was a cat who could not meow. He tried everything to bring forth his voice; caviar, tuna juice, and catnip. He caught a few birds and burned their tailfeathers like incense, flossed with the whiskers of a chipmunk, and balanced on his hindpaws with a water bowl on his head. Nothing worked, and he ended up on the floor, dripping wet. He tried to meow in this position, but all that he could do was cough. So the cat came up with what he thought would be a better idea.
He thought that, because he could not meow, he must not be a cat. What else could he be? He wondered if, perhaps, he were a dog. He thought that he would see for a day if he really was a dog. So on Monday, Cat got out of bed and, rather than stretching and yawning, ran attentively to his food bowl. He ate dog food, which he thought was rather disgusting. He chased squirrels, although he actually caught one or two when he chased them up a tree, and he refrained from licking himself. He rolled in the mud, drooled, and ran about recklessly. Eventually, he went to the butcher's to beg for food. When he got to the door, he sat at attention, tongue hanging out, and tried to bark. The noise that came out, however, was not a bark, although more of a mix between a squeak and a hiccup. After a few more squeaks, Cat finally managed to catch the butcher's attention. The butcher came to the door, laughed at the cat, and shooed him, saying that he only had enough food for the stray dogs around. The cat wandered off looking dejected, and was noticed by a few of the local mutts. They got on his tail, and although he tried to stay cool as he walked and explain rationally that he was also a dog, they only began to walk faster and faster. Finally, when they were out of the town and crossing a grassy field, the cat could not take it any longer. He turned around, hissed, scratched one of the dogs across the muzzle, and tore up a tree. As he sat atop the tree, waiting for the anxious dogs below to become impatient and leave, he wondered what else he could be. He ran over all of the animals he knew, and his mind stopped at the fox. He very well could be a fox; he was fast-moving, fairly sly, and he could catch small animals as he pleased.
So the next morning, after the dogs had gone, he leapt down from the tree much as he thought a fox would. And throughout the day, he did fox things. He slyly snuck up on his prey, buried the leftovers and ate it later, and was curled up in his newly-dug (and quite faulty) burrow when he heard something. He popped his little kitty head out of the burrow, and as he did, he saw what was approaching. It was a few men riding on horses, with hunting dogs ahead of them. The hunting dogs spotted the cat, disoriented and thinking that he was a fox, and began to run towards him. The cat, quite afraid, followed his instincts and tore off on all fours. The hounds followed him, barking madly. Cat dashed up a tree, hoping that he was hidden. The hunting party ran on, dogs barking, hunters armed. The cat fell asleep after considering how he would spend the next day.
The cat woke up on Wednesday morning when there was still dew on the lady slippers and the sun was barely peeking over the horizon. He knew what he had been doing wrong; he had never looked like he was supposed to. Anyway, he was now pretty sure what he was, and it would not be hard to change his coloring to suit his true breed. He rolled in the remains of a campfire from an abandoned camp site, turning himself soot black. He fluffed his tail some and then took a white lily, smearing the pollen down his back. Perfect; he looked almost exactly like all skunks did. Only a skunk could have told the difference. So he shoved over logs, digging up grubs and munching on them. He waddled about, hid under someone's porch, and stole a few food remains out of a compost bin. He was doing great, wandering through yards, and he knew that he really was a skunk. He did not have to make any sort of impossible noise, and the bugs were not all that bad. What he did not know was that, inside the houses, the owners of the lawns that the cat was crossing were calling animal control. When a couple of animal control officers showed up, the cat was really afraid. He made a mad dash for a tree and had nearly gotten himself halfway up when a net came down on him. It brought him to the ground quite painfully, and as it did he let out a long and pained meow. The animal control officers blinked as the ash and pollen were wiped from the cat by the net's ropes, revealing his striped grey fur underneath. They released him with their apologies, and he ran off feeling absolutely terrible about himself.
He spent all of Thursday just walking about, kicking stones and crunching twigs. Finally, he curled up to go to sleep, and he heard a voice. It was the voice of the wise old owl who had overheard the whole ordeal, and he had something important to say to the cat. He asked the cat what was the matter, and the cat told him all about how he could not meow so he could not be a cat. The owl shifted somewhat, and asked the cat if he had not heard himself meow when the animal control officers had been after him. The cat thought about it for a moment, and he agreed in awe that he had. The owl went back into his hole in the tree and the cat lay thinking for a while until he drifted off to sleep.
The next day being Friday, the cat spent the day doing all sorts of things that cats do. He clawed a few trees, ate canned tuna, chased a few chipmunks and robins. He purred and rubbed the butcher's legs, who willingly threw him some scraps. He outran a few of the city's mutts, and got to know a couple of the local stray cats, particularily a female marmalade with white paws like movie star boots. He thanked the owl that evening, and went to bed happy and full of warm milk.