Ryan Lee Price
I wanted to call her Arnold, but she wouldnt have any part of that. I often thought, if maybe I had insisted, things would have turned out much different.
But they didnt.
Early one morning, I awoke with a start and found myself standing in the hallway, dazed and disoriented. Apparently I was sleep-walking again, and just how long I had been standing there was a mystery to me, but there I was, staring at a photograph of my cat that hangs near the bathroom door. Behind me I heard the flip-flop of the cat door in the laundry room and the soft pitter-patter of four little paws belonging to my pet cat, appropriately named Cat, of course.
I cracked the sleep from my eyes to see two green orbits trotting toward my legs like a ghost creeping in the night, and soon, her shadowy form appeared through the cold stillness of the hallway. She wound her sleek body in and out of my legs and purred a slow steady resonance like the sound of a hedge trimmer far off in the distance. She must have wanted something, because she never came in at night; maybe her food dish was empty or a tougher cat had drifted into the neighborhood looking for trouble.
"Hey there, Cat," I mumbled hoarsely in the silent, midnight din, and
scratched the top of her head in small circles until her purring seemed
to reach a frenzied climax. "What do you say about a midnight snack?"
My eyes still hadnt adjusted to the darkness, so I felt my way down
the smooth walls of the hallway. A small light suddenly filled the
kitchen, and I followed it like a beacon.
Cat had found her way into the refrigerator again. She can hang from
the top shelf and, with her dexterous hind legs, shove food out onto the
floor to inspect their contents and catch a dinner at the same time. As
I walked around the corner, I saw Cat strain diligently, smashing a
mustard jar onto the kitchen floor. I groaned, recalling the last time I
had to re-tile the floor because of the stains.
In front of her lay a broken pickle jar, a shattered Italian olive jar,
a large destroyed bottle of cranberry juice (slowly seeping into the
porous terra-cotta) and last but not least, the crushed mustard jar,
which she chose to indulge in first. I sat down and got comfortable. Cat
would learn her lesson this time, and it was going to be interesting.
Before lapping up the industrial-heated, super-strength mustardI got
in a little shop in Mexico that was been fermenting in the back of my
fridge for seven yearsshe looked up at me with satisfaction in her
round, almost innocent, little eyes.
Cat lowered her small noggin, and as she did so, out popped her soft
pink tongue. I couldnt hold back a grin of knowledge, and when Cat
lapped up a mouthful of the yellow fire, her head spun around like a
pinwheel, the hair on her tail stood at attention and her eyes watered
like Niagara Falls itself. In glee, I watched the great mouser scream
around the house with a desolate howling cadence, like a wailing banshee
from Gaelic folklore. The four-alarm fire dripping from her drooling
mouth made her scream like a bottle rocket through the house.
I followed her trail of maddened destruction, and she led me around
various rooms and closets, trying to escape the wrath of spices and
heat. Over a multitude of tables and with a finalé across the piano
(that Liberace would have been proud of), she ended up back on the
kitchen floor, lying on her stomach with her legs protruding out like a
tortoise in the deserts sun. Her yellow, mustard-stained tongue drooped
out, as she panted and moaned. A relieved look fell over her mugexcept
that her eyes had rolled back into her headand I could tell something
wicked was transforming in her mind.
Grabbing either side of her body, I jostled her to and fro, and a
menacing growl reverberated low and deep within her throat, like a
taunted tiger.
"Whats the matter, cat got your tongue?" I giggled, picking her up by
her back feet and dangling her upside-down. She unleashed a terrible
moaning bellow, like a stuck pig, so for my safety, I set her back down.
Before quietly ducking out of the kitchen, I really knew I was in
trouble. Her eyes became windows into her soul, red like a dragons
blood and as evil as Satans soul. She was crouching low, fiercely
looking for her prey. Her ears were folded back flat on her head, and
she was ready to assault something ... like me.
I ran!
Halfway down the hallway, I heard her coming. With all the fiery death
and destruction of cat hell, her blood-red eyes, lit with hate and
revenge, screamed toward me.
I yelled out for help like a little baby, as she buried her razors into
my leg. Cutting through the skin, her pearly whites struck blood like
one strikes oil. Her arrow-headed talons dug ditches and reservoirs of
blood across my shin, and she let loose, stepping back with satisfaction
at what she had accomplished. Her aggressive incursion on my leg was not
an act I took lightly, and through a barrage of four-letter words, I
suggested Cat question her existence in the future.
Blood dripped from her teeth as she laughed. You know the way those
tabbies laugh after theyve just converted your limb into spaghetti
sauce (the kind with the big chunks of tomato in it)? They smirk ... and
that smirk turns into a smile ... and that smile breaks out into an
all-out howl of demonic laughter. And then evil sets in, like pudding.
"Why you little ...! Ill get you!" I yelled out, dancing around on one
foot. "Youll see, you little rodent!" I screamed again. "Ill make you
see what the inside of a wood chipper looks like!"
She nonchalantly threw her tail into the air and trotted into the
living room.
In the bathroom, I sat on the counter with my foot in the sink and
talked to my reflection.
"You cant let a little cat push you around. Stand up to her ... show
her youre a man ... well, a human at least. Dont let a little pussy
cat from the third world of the animal kingdom overcome the power of a
human!"
In the confusion, I had mistaken the hydrogen peroxide with the rubbing
alcohol and doused a generous portion onto my leg. I screamed out as if
a thousand needles pricked at the flesh on my leg.
In the living room, Cat was patiently curled up on the couch. She
smiled slightly, as my screams of pain drifted into the room.
"War is afoot," I said through my teeth, stealthily limping out into
the hallway with the determination of an angry mob. The blue and purple
discoloration of my skin fanned out like a dead peacock basking in the
bloody rays of the red sun, and my face burned with the wrath of Ares,
as I leaped from my hiding place behind a table.
"Ah-ha!" I bellowed with a joyous giggle. "Caught you off guard, you
no-good flea motel!"
Her reaction was slim. I expected her to run out of the room like a
scaredy-cat should, so the foot chase I had counted on could begin,
driving her through the kitty door so I could lock it and get some
sleep. Instead, she peacefully strolled over to the wall between us,
crouched down in the assumed position and urinated across the rug in
front of me! Over the coffee table and up the back of the couch she
streamed, and I cringed.
"Two can play at that!" I scoffed and followed her lead by leaving my
own mark, similar and parallel to hers.
The battle lines were drawn. My move.
"Okay, little cat ... come here." Grabbing her by the tail and lifting
her off of her haunches, she whined.
"Why are you such an evil little tabby?" I sneered in Cats face,
petting her backwards until her fur knotted.
Cat snarled.
"Okay then, I think you go up here until you behave yourself." I placed
her wiry body on a blade of the electric ceiling fan and hit the switch.
A pitiful cry escaped her lips as Cat spun around on high speed for
seven or eight turns before flying off into a tangent and onto the
floor.
"She landed on her feet!" I mumbled to myself. "Well, well see about
that." I charged again, but this time she was too sprightly, bouncing
away to count her remaining lives.
A moment later, I lost her. She was gone, but a good idea suddenly came
to me.
"Where are you?" I held up a fist full of high-potency cat-nip, a
months worth of dazed bliss for Cat ... and a match.
"Ill burn it, if you dont come out." I called out into the room, lit
the match and held it under the cat-nip, singing a few strands.
"Remember those cat-nip-induced naps in the window sill? Gone! Im
cutting you off, forever!"
A pitiful cry escaped from the mantle, but before I could reach her,
she had climbed up the bricks, like in the refrigerator, and shoved a
rather large vase onto my head.
I woke up a few minutes later.
It was still quite dark out, and my eyes stung. I wiped the blood from
my forehead and picked out a few fragments of vase. As I did so, I
became fiercely insane. To let one tiny kitten be dominant over me was
much too much. I stormed off in search of her to finally put an end to
the madness, an end to the insanity. A light meow in the distant night
sparked fire into my eyes.
I crashed into the dining room, ready for action, violently throwing on
the light. I stopped short, and my mouth dropped to the floor! I turned
to run, but the door slammed shut behind me, and I was trapped! There
was no place to go and nowhere to hide.
Every cat in a five-mile vicinity was summoned by my little Marquis de
Siamese. Black ones, yellow ones, orange ones, white ones, red, blue,
purple and green ones. All breeds, all creeds, great and small, tough
and small were there in my dining room. Hanging from the curtains,
swinging from the chandelier and sharpening their claws on my chairs,
they were waiting for the bugle call.
Then it sounded.
All I saw was teeth and claws and eyes ... big green and blue eyes,
glowing like the moon. I couldnt breathe from the dust and fleas
jumping and swirling around me, and despite my struggling, the cats
surrounded me and held me down on the ground. There must have been
hundreds and hundreds of felines, pinning me to the floor!
The second, third and fourth waves piled on top of me, and my world
slowly stepped into the obscure bowels and catacombs of the
unconsciousness. The screams and cries of the warriors on their mighty
freedom crusade faded into nothingness.
I awoke suddenly with a start, screaming in terror at the picture of my
cat that hangs on the wall near the bathroom. "It was just a dream," I
breathed, gulping down my thumping heart.
Behind me, I heard the flip-flop of the cat door in the laundry room,
and I looked down at Cat, her green eyes filling the darkness of the
room.
A small devilish grin streaked across her face as she stood there, and
behind her, I heard the flip-flop of the cat door, again ... and again
... and again. Soon the room was so full, they spilled out in the
hallway toward me.
By then, it was too late to run.