by David Jester
“She did this on purpose,” I said.
“Of course she did.”
“You knew!?”
“Kieran, that’s what cats do. It’s her way of saying she loves us.”
“Remind me to pass that one on to Hallmark,” I said. “What’s wrong with a bouquet of flowers? I don’t like mice and I like them even less when they’re missing their heads.” Something occurred to me. “I didn’t see a head out there. Did you see a head out there?”
Lizzie retrieved the dustpan and brush. There was a muted expression on her face. She knew, but she didn’t want to say.
“She ate the head, didn’t she?”
She nodded. “I’m sorry.”
“Not nearly as much as the fucking mouse.”
“These things happen,” she continued. “I didn’t want to tell you before, but the other day I saw her eating a whole one.”
“Another mouse?”
“I hope so.”
“How many mice—What do you mean, ‘you hope so’?”
“Well, I couldn’t really see. It could have been a baby rabbit. Cats and rabbits in the wild, you know.”
“The wild? Baby rabbits?” I stuttered, my head shaking as though trying to avoid the images it was processing. “There is just so much wrong with that. I don’t know where to begin. I think I need to sit down.”
She shrugged. For a woman who cried for three weeks after watching Watership Down, she was very nonchalant about this. “It was probably a mouse. Don’t worry about it.”
I chose to believe her. I wasn’t sure I could live with the alternative. Next she’d be telling me that Ella had developed a taste for ducks.
“I’m sure it’s not the first mouse,” she said, “and it won’t be the last.”
“How many mice are out there?” I demanded. Having never seen one in my yard, I was now faced with the possibility that there were armies of them out there, hiding in the shadows and waiting for the right moment to pounce or to get eaten by a chubby feline.
“Well, there’s two less now.”
“That’s it—she’s not getting into the house again. We’re not letting her. I don’t want a murderer around my child, even if she is a cat.” At that point, Ella walked into the kitchen and sat down next to my feet. She was doing this on purpose.
“I think she wants to be fed,” Lizzie said.
“I think she’s had enough,” I told her.
I picked her up and, in my strictest voice I said, “That’s it, I’m putting you outside and you’re not coming back.”
Ella had been in and out of the house every day, and I had enjoyed her company, but I was determined. I made it to the patio door before she made a noise that I could have sworn was an apology, or at least that’s what I told myself. I gave her The Talk, making sure she understood that if she was going to kill and eat mice, she wasn’t to do it in or around the house.
I also briefed her on my interests, in case she ever decided to bring me a present again.
The presents didn’t stop. As well as headless, bodiless, and other limb-less mice, she also left a few butchered birds on our doorstep. I warned her time and time again, but nothing I said stuck, and she continued to kill defenseless animals. The only other option was to lock her in the house—that would stop her from roaming the yard freely at night and from reducing the animal population of the entire county. Our next-door neighbor had recently bought two very cute little rabbits and I had images of waking up one morning to find them dead at my front door—Pebbles with a puncture wound to the neck, Fluffy’s white fur dyed crimson red. That was an image that neither I nor the neighbor’s children would be able to live with.
Lizzie was right about Ben. He did seem to like her. I wasn’t sure that she felt the same way, as she seemed to spend half the time running away from him and half the time hiding. But Ben thought she was playing, and it was fun to watch his little pudgy legs waddle around the house and listen to his random screams as he found her, lost her, and chased after her. If not for Ben, and if not for the fact that she was a sweet cat, her “presents” would have been enough for me to kick her out of the house and stop her from entering again.
Instead, locking her in seemed like the best idea. Lizzie was against it, though. She said it was barbaric.
“Animals should be allowed to run free,” she argued.
“I agree,” I told her, looking rather smug. “And that’s exactly why I’m doing it.” I was convinced that I was doing my bit for the world, that I was saving all the poor little birds and mice and thus preserving the ecosystem of our home. As far as I was concerned, this made up for not recycling, something I’d never been able to get a grip on. Some bins are for one plastic, but not another, some are for paper, some are for cardboard; I get an impending sense of doom every time I drink a bottle of water, knowing that when I finish it, I’ll have a conundrum on my hands.
It would also make up for the time I accidentally decimated our neighbor’s flower bed and exacerbated their child’s asthma. The box of weed killer didn’t say anything about not using it on a windy day.
It seemed that whenever I tried to do something good, I always managed to do something bad, or to make life incredibly difficult for myself. When I gave some of my old books to the local school, I didn’t realize that Matthew had crossed out all of the archaic curse words in one of them and replaced them with something modern before using his doodling skills to turn an illustrated edition of Great Expectations into the Kama Sutra. When I helped an old lady cross the road, I ended up being roped into a full day of shopping with her. I spent several hours holding her bag as she tried on cardigans before being labeled as a con man by her son when I walked her home.
I was confident this was going to be different, though. I was confident that nothing could go wrong. I had already accounted for some potential pitfalls. I had bought a litter box in case the cat decided to display her contempt in a symbolic form, I had bought a scratching post to save the furniture, and I had a two-month supply of cat food, none of which contained mice, rabbit, or poultry. I was fully prepared to turn this wild outdoor cat into a tame indoor cat that would be a great replacement for Mickey for both Ben and me.
What I hadn’t prepared for, however, was that this one good-natured act would create a full-scale neighborhood war.
It began with a knock on the door, several actually. I don’t know how many times exactly since I was asleep at the time, but when I opened my eyes, the impatient imbecile at the door had finally discovered the doorbell and was now hanging on it. It was a short and sharp ring, and that short and sharp noise was being repeated over and over.
Ella was on my chest, licking and pawing at my face, her subtle way of telling me to wake up and feed her. She had quickly grown accustomed to being an indoor cat, discovering the joys of being waited on paw and foot and becoming even more amply proportioned as a result.
“Do you not hear that?” I asked Ella, wondering when she was going to start pulling her weight and answering the door. Although I understood just how big of an ask that was—she had a lot of weight to pull.
As soon as she saw my eyes and my mouth open, she determined I was awake and she moved to wait by the open bedroom door. It was just after ten and Lizzie had already gone to work at her part-time job, the same one she had been working when I first met her. It was Saturday, and she only worked a few hours, but she wouldn’t be back until later in the afternoon.
The doorbell was still ringing by the time I got up and dressed. I assumed the worst. What, aside from an emergency, could possibly compel someone to hang on my door at ten on a Saturday morning? I understand that not everyone sees ten as early, and for much of the week I would agree with them, but on Saturday, my day of rest, waking me up at ten in the morning was akin to taking a dump on my pillow.
I checked in on Ben before doing anything else. I had a two-way radio in my bedroom so that every cry, cough, and gurgle would be heard, but I was a heavy sleeper. And a
s I looked at his pudgy little face, and struggled to hear his breathing over the sound of the doorbell, I was thankful that he was, as well.
As I raced down stairs, twice stopping myself from falling ass-over-tit and creating another emergency, the questions raced through my sluggish mind.
Is my mother okay?
Is my father okay?
Has Sharon finally killed Matthew?
Is it a random caller seeking help after being shot?
Do I watch too many movies?
I hit the hallway running, shot a glance toward the front door, and was amazed to discover no one there. I stood there in silence for a moment, wondering if I had imagined everything. Maybe I had lost my mind. Lizzie had always said I was skating on thin ice in that department.
Then I saw a little head peek up and stare through the glass. I saw little beady eyes glimmer in the light as they saw me standing there. And all the while, the bell continued to ring.
Feeling less rushed, but still very keen to know just what the hell was going on, I ripped open the door. Standing before me, with large-rimmed spectacles, greasy hair, and a face that even a mother would struggle to love, was a small boy, aged no more than ten. He looked up at me, squinting. I looked at his hand, which was still outstretched, holding the bell.
“I’m sorry, did I interrupt something?” I asked.
He finally let go and put his hands by his side. He then paused to look me up and down before nudging his spectacles back onto the bridge of his nose.
“Do you know what time it is?” I asked him.
“Ten,” he said simply.
I nodded.
You’re not as stupid as you look.
“Do you know what day it is?” I asked, feeling that my point wasn’t being made.
“It’s Saturday,” he said.
“Hmm. I don’t think you unders—”
“Have you seen my cat?” he asked, cutting me off.
“Your cat?” I said. “Have I seen your cat?”
“Yes, have you seen my—”
“No I haven’t,” I butted in, enjoying myself.
How do you like it?
A thought occurred to me. “What does she look like?”
He went on to explain Ella to a T. He also called her fat, which was no way to boost her self-esteem.
“You hung on my doorbell and nearly knocked down my door—at ten on a Saturday morning, may I add—to ask me if I’d seen your cat?”
He nodded. “The neighbors said she stays here now.” He pointed to the next-door neighbors’ backyard, separated from ours by a short fence.
“What do they know?” I said. “Don’t listen to them. For all I know, they could have been the ones feeding her the mice.”
The little ugly kid looked confused. “Excuse me?”
“Never mind.”
“So, have you seen my cat?”
“I don’t know, where did you leave her?”
He seemed genuinely stumped by that one. “I want my cat back,” he said eventually, looking annoyed.
“I don’t have her.”
“Don’t lie.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me. You’re lying, and if you don’t give me my cat back, I’ll set my dad on you.”
I laughed at that. “Look, kid, I don’t have your cat. Now go away and don’t ring this bell ever again.”
“I’m not going until you give me my cat back,” he said.
“Look, I don’t have—” At that point, with impeccable timing, Ella strolled up alongside me and sat down, calmly watching the heated conversation as she cleaned herself. She was still hungry, but seemed satisfied to sate her hunger on neighborhood hostilities for now.
“That’s her!”
“Her?” I chuckled, giving myself time to think of an excuse. “That’s not a cat.”
Clearly I didn’t chuckle enough.
I shut the door without saying anything else, watching through the glass panel as the ugly kid’s face twisted into something even uglier. He pointed a grubby little finger at me and, for the second time, warned me that he would “set his dad on me,” a childish and empty threat that I responded to with the sophistication and maturity that it deserved, sticking my finger up at him and making a nuh-nuh-na-na-nuh sound.
I gave Ella her food and made breakfast for myself. It was only when the coffee kicked in and the fatigue departed that I realized what I had done: I had argued with a ten-year-old boy and then stolen his cat. The thought was enough to make me choke on my toast, but once I had forced it down, another thought occurred to me: So what? What kind of polluted, disrespectful, and screwed-up kid would hang on a stranger’s doorbell on a Saturday morning? And for that matter, what kind of disrespectful, messed-up parents would let him?
I told myself that if the father came round, I would give him the talking-to that he needed, that I would teach him just how to be a father. I would tell him that you couldn’t simply have children and then leave them to fend for themselves, that you actually had to look after them, to mold their minds and to teach them the ways of the world. I would tell him that you had to know where they were every minute of the day, because if you didn’t then they could be under the wheels of a truck, locked up in some pervert’s basement, or worse, they could be banging on my fucking door at ten o’clock on a Saturday morning.
I felt good about my lecture, about what I was going to tell the worthless father about his delinquent child if he did show up, but then I remembered that I had a child of my own and had completely forgotten about him. Swallowing my pride, and trying to look nonchalant in front of the cat, I took Ben out of his crib and carried him downstairs before plonking him in front of the television and giving him a toy to chew on.
That was parenting, and I was bloody good at it. My kid wouldn’t be an ugly little deviant like that shit from across the road. God knew what sort of horrors they got up to in that house, god knew what they must have done to spawn such a feckless, ugly little deviant.
“Despicable,” I said to myself, before switching on a recording of The Walking Dead when I realized the Cartoon Network was showing re-runs again.
The father of the greasy little kid with the oversized glasses and the undersized brain was much more respectful when it came to knocking on doors, but less so when it came to everything else. I thought it was the postman at first and got my hopes up that I had a package. I hadn’t ordered anything, but I occasionally buy random crap when drunk that I forget about, making for a pleasant surprise a few days later.
The person who stood at my door did have something for me, but it wasn’t a package. He looked as stereotypically thuggish as a stereotypical thug could look. He had a shaved head and a thick-set jaw, complete with several small scars. He was rather large and wore a tank top to show off the fact, but although he clearly thought of himself as some kind of bodybuilder, his muscles had sagged many years ago. He probably had a six-pack at some point, but now he looked six months pregnant.
“Did you steal my cat?” That was the first thing he asked me. My first instinct was to suggest that he might have eaten it, but I quickly fought that one.
“No,” I told him, keeping it short and sweet, knowing that my mouth had a tendency to create problems for the rest of my body.
“My kid said he saw it in your house.”
“Your kid was wrong.”
“Are you calling my kid a liar?” he snapped, taking an aggressive step forward.
Of all the things I was thinking to call his kid, liar was at the bottom of the list, but I didn’t elaborate the rest. “I’m just saying,” I said, as innocently as I could. “Your cat isn’t here.”
I’m pretty sure that Ella would have used this opportunity to plonk herself alongside me if I hadn’t locked her in the living room.
“I don’t like you,” he said, staring at me for some time.
I stared right back. “Ditto.”
I enjoyed that, although proba
bly a little too much. He seemed to be accepting of my lies and turned to walk away, but I felt a little giddy at what I perceived to be a victory, and I got a little carried away with myself. “And tell that kid of yours to stay away.”
He turned around and stormed right back up to my door.
“What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
“My kid was just looking for his cat.”
“Your kid has no manners. Maybe he should search for them before he bothers looking for his cat.”
He lifted a finger and pressed it into my chest, prodding me. “Do you have a problem with me and my family?”
“That depends,” I said. I was annoyed, and his finger poking me in the chest didn’t help matters. I felt the words coming out of my mouth. In hindsight, I would have stopped myself from saying them, but in the heat of the moment, nothing could have stopped me. “Are all of your family inbred, annoying little fuckwits?”
He hadn’t expected me to say that and his shock was my get-out clause. Sensing that he was about to attack, I took a step back and slammed the door in his face. He was so close that the handle caught him on the hip and the frame of the door slapped him on the nose. I watched through the glass as he stumbled backward with holy hell spilling out of his mouth, then I locked the door. I wasn’t a fighter and I wasn’t a big fan of confrontation, even though my mouth seemed to love it.
“I’m going to fucking kill you!” he yelled at the door.
I wholeheartedly believed that he would do just that. And I probably deserved it. A rational person might have apologized or even backed away, but I gave him a cheeky little wave instead.
“You’re dead!” he screamed, before spitting at his feet.
I was happy to see him leave and walk back to his house on the other side of the road. I rushed upstairs to get a better view, craning my neck to see out the window. My happiness faded when I saw him talking to his next-door neighbors, and when, before long, several others gathered on the front lawn. I had no idea what they were saying, but with the way they were pointing and thrusting, along with the less-than-neighborly looks on their faces, I had a feeling it was about me.