Oxycontinworld

The Murdered
Cat

1

That cat, I meant to exterminate, but so long as it
doesn't find its way back to my house, I don't mind. I can't
control the cat population of the whole city. I pay taxes to
someone who is supposed to do that.
I got tired of tripping over stray cats every
time I tried to enter my home, because these pests, being
narcissists all, stand near the doorway in order to rub their
scent on you and claim you as their property. Narcissists,
from cats, to apes, to humans are self-worshipping
creatures with very easily challenged egos, who, when
offended can be identified by the narcissistic rage and
withdrawal. See, a cat will try to avoid conflict, not
wanting to ruin his hair that he's spent all day grooming,
but when pushed too hard, will go into a quick fire rage, in
seconds putting hundreds of scratches on the back of the
boot that lands accidentally on it's tale. Then it will quickly
withdraw to safety where it can continue its self-grooming
ways. Quick discharge of nervous energy, then withdrawal
and rest. Napoleon, Hitler, Osama bin Laden, same thing: suffering the insult of someone having accidentally stepped
on their shoe ten years ago, they lash out with
overpowering fury, then withdraw to a cave, an
underground cove, a private island, where they can sit back
admiring themselves and lick themselves to perfection.

2

I expected that the Cat-bagger would come to my
home with a net like on cartoons, scoop the critters up and
head to the violin string factory, but not exactly. What they
do is give you a trap to set up. The cat goes in and steps on
the triggering mechanism (they step on a rigged up piece of
aluminum, “triggering mechanism” may give the wrong
impression), the door closes; then you take the cat down to
the local Humane Society where they gas the little Hitler to
death.
The Humane Society had this ridiculous rule that
you couldn't put food in the trap. Instead you had to wait
till the cat just happens to walk into it and trigger the
release mechanism. This might have assuaged my
conscience some. If I had baited the trap, I would have to deal with having lured a fellow Earthian to his death with a
piece of meat.
Killing an ugly cat, I know, is a bit cliche, but you
don't have to be a rabid alcoholic genius with a brain tumor
to do it. It is done all the time, all over the world.
Cats are menaces, and ugly cats cannot be tolerated.
Genocide, the world over. My personal menace, my nieces
call him The Cat with the Big Head. For the other cats, they
gave names like Snowbell, Glass, Tinkerbell. This cat was
so schizoid he wouldn't take a potato chip from the hand of
a six year old girl so she could pet him. Pure black, yellow
eyes, incongruously healthy sheen on his coat. Very large,
very deep voice. It's nothing personal really. It's just a
matter of animal population control, eco-balance and
shit like that. In fact, this cat, the last of those I would
exterminate, I could rather relate to him. Not good with
people but with a certain kind of undeniable excellence.
Not only was he the healthiest and the largest, he was also
the last to fall for the trap. Tragic flaw I guess. Today he
sits relaxed and meditative in the bright metal trap, wearing
reflective sprinkles on his shiny coat. Sprinkles, falling
faintly upon the living and the dead, like in Joyce, I
suppose, only it's not really sprinkling over the whole
world or even the whole Tri-city area. Just here, just now.
The baritone purge of the rushing wind smudging grey over
the sky, the warm smell of rain, the power of nature, the
strike of lightning, the anticipation of Armageddon, the
eighth trumpet blast! The sublimity, ah! It's unfortunate
that it doesn't mean anything. A perfect moment like this I
would trade for $700 or a brand new television set.
"Get in." The period in that last sentence is the sound of the
car door shutting after I sling the caged beast into the
passenger seat. I zip through the old hood where I grew up,
pass the baseball field that used to be a whole universe to
me. Old men sit on the porch watching the sky: they know
the anticipation of destruction. At the basketball court, the
game is sped up. Someone must win before the rain gets
too heavy. It's a dance occasioned by the rain no one can
ignore. Crickets sing, frogs belch in the pond.
Children run up the small red clay hill in the park while the
sprinkles make their tennis shoes’ grip strong, before, when
the downpour comes, the hill will become a slimy and
slippery bell rigging with the strike of cracked heads and
screams of agony.
Suddenly I'm aware.
"Shit."
This happens sometimes. Panic attack. To me, it's
the world that has changed in an instant, transformed to a
land of spirits suffering yester-year's tragedies and a
trampled population running fearfully and uncontrollably
into new tragedies. A baby starves now in a crack-house: a
man hisses and looks at the wall for hours hoping the next
time he looses his breath, he will have the courage to just
die and be done with it. An elderly man, once vital and
popular, sits in an apartment alone, a fantasy world of dread
ensnaring him, convincing him that parasites feast on his
brain and will leave him in a state of infinite torture and
powerlessness unless he ends it all before more damage is
done. As I pull to the light on Forest and Floyd, a man
drudges raggedly on the side-walk. A rough black man,
sprouts of hard hair doting his face. I'm praying the light
turns green before he reaches the car. "It's green! Go! Go! Go! Go!"
I'm being chased by a man with a rusted knife to
jam in my fucking face and these idiots won't go! He
approaches. I roll the windows up and lock the doors. He
walks by without looking in my direction.
I can reason now that I have never known anyone to
have been stabbed by a stranger at a traffic light, especially
by the harmless crack-heads who scavenge on the east side
but sensibility is slow in coming at times like these. The
lights, the horns, the rain, the dangerous maneuvers, the
threatening sound bites coming from other cars: I got
his ass now! She ain't comin' back today. That shit is done
bro, done! It's why I hate driving. Luckily I can take the
right lane down Floyd, turn onto Pearson and I'm there, no
lane switching, no more traffic lights.

3

"Get out."
I had parked, gotten out, grabbed the cage from the
passenger seat and slammed the door so fast and
impulsively that the car is still bouncing back and forth:
shaky, jumpy, like scaredy cat. The little white brick building has the smell of many government-run facilities,
that is, the smell of a public bathroom. The light drizzle is
now a light rain. Senses glaring, I glide effortlessly into a
white room drenched in that ugly yellow artificial light. A
ripple-faced, middle-aged white woman with a tomboyish
look sits behind her desk. I sling the cage atop the counter.
"Look at you! You're a healthy little fella." She
says, poking at the cage with a finger.
"Is this your cat?" she asks.
"No."
"Did you set the trap up yourself?"
"Yes."
"Are you over 18?"
"Yes."
“Over 21?”
“No.”
"Have you had the trap longer than two weeks?"
"No."
"Has the cat been in the trap longer than 18 hours?"
“No.”
Pause.
"Did you bait the trap?"
"No."
The last question was the trick question. If I had
answered any question incorrectly, I would have been stuck
with the cat. It's not exactly legal to let the cat go on your
property, or to let the cat go in the woods. The only legal
course of action is actually to go get the cat registered as
your own.
She gives me the required forms to fill out. I
complete them and return them to her.
"It's ok Mr. Prince." "Huh?"
"The way we gas 'em up, they don't know what hit
'em. It's mostly painless."
Damn it bothers me when people assume shit they
don't know! What about me makes this bitch think I'm
afraid to kill a cat! I've killed seven already. I'm a freakin'
man. A 220 lb black man, muscular, with veins poppin'
outta my fuckin' neck! If it wasn't illegal, I would have just
bashed the cats' heads in with a shovel, would have saved
me a lot of time. Death is nothing. WE are all going to
die; shed tears about that if you want something to cry
about.
"Oh, no. I don't care about that. Not my cat," I
assure her.
"I'm just saying, if it was bothering you, it might
make you feel better to know that the death is painless.
People don't like black cats so his chances of being adopted
are nil. He will certainly be put to death."
He shall certainly be put to death. He shall
CERTAINLY be put to death! If a woman shall sleep with
a man who is not her husband, she shall certainly be put to
death. If a man should lie down with another man, they
shall certainly be put to death. Why won't she give it a
rest!
"You're right. I've had a change of heart. I'm gonna
go get this one registered. He's the last one in the
neighborhood anyway. Having just one should be no
problem," I say impulsively, surprising myself.
"OK. Bye."
I got nothing to prove to her, but, I can take care of
this one myself. Down the road there is a dirt path through
the woods that leads to the creek where we fish sometimes. I'm gonna take ole Big Head down there and bash his head
in with a rock and toss him into the creek.
The trek to commit murder has the feel of a prison
escape. I'm running, cutting through the damp, warm
atmosphere, down the dirt road, wheels kicking up rubble,
tears of rain on the windshield. Big Head can sense my
agitation; he is annoyed, not afraid. The smug
condescension of the narcissist. Stop getting' all nervous
before you murder me. Get yourself together. You aren't
scared are you?
Big Head would look just perfect on a golden
throne wearing the imperial crown and robe of jewels and
Tyrian purple. Me--nervous, unstable, unsure: I would be
immediately recognized as an imposter. I can imagine my
terror when, after my presentation before the elders in gold
and purple they quickly charge: He is not the king but an
imposter! Seize him! Take him to the dungeon! Big Head
is then enthroned, smug and cool, but with righteous
indignation proclaims: That commoner attempted to
assassinate me, your rightful King! Executioner, take forth
your stocks, your shackles, your grindstone and various
instruments of torture and make a precedent of this
mongrel! I would not stand righteous and defiant but
dissolve into a puddle of black putty, in a desperate panic,
silent sobs of terror for the impending torture; no way to
stop it, no way to prepare mentally for it. If the situation
were reversed with me on the throne and Big Head being
led away, he might say: Do as you will with me, I will never
break. You fools! You have enthroned an IMPOTENT
PRINCE. He would laugh while being lead away, between
joyous squeals shouting: Impotent! Impotent! The
Impotent Prince! "Well Big Head, you're gonna lose this time."
Close to the edge, down by the river. Right next to
the wood plank, I snatch the creature from his cell, numb to
the scratches on my hand and hold him down by the neck
on the ground. I grab a granite stone and bash his head.
The rock skids and slips into the creek. The King is killed,
blood oozing from his mouth. I toss him into the creek and
get into the car.
My regret is immediate. I just killed an innocent cat
for no real reason. He was no powerful king, just a poor,
frightened creature, who had managed somehow, despite
his poverty, to find enough food to survive and thrive on.
Oh well, it's no tragedy. It's over. Cats die all the time.
Heck, people die all the time.
I crank the car, sitting there, waiting for some
timely truth to arrive. Big Head, victorious, jumps into the
window and lands in the passenger seat. Wet and injured,
but victorious. I willingly go to the dungeon: I am the
imposter. The rush is gone, acceptance sets in. I pull off
with my new master.
Whether you win or lose, the close of the battle is
often reassuring. I know where. I stand. I pull off en route
to the cafe for coffee. In the bathroom, I can freshen up.
The sun has flattened into a red line on the horizon,
peeking through the trees. The rain is a sprinkle again.
Suddenly the cat is doing laps around the inside of
the car at light speed, putting scratches all over my face
before a false step sends him out of the window onto the
road where in the mirror, I can see him run over by a car.
This is slightly amusing. Kept his cool for so long, but
couldn't avoid the narcissistic rage, his tragic flaw revealed.
I win. My capacity for panic had passed already, even
getting my face scratched up and watching the cat killed
did not particularly excite me. I walk into the cafe,
victorious. Michelle is waiting. She needs help with an
essay. I love her, that's clear to me now. I'll tell her,
immediately, before another panic hits and I shrink into a
disconnected reservoir of ineffective knowledge, knowing
nothing of love and affection, ordering subjects and verbs
into their proper positions.
When she looks up and sees me, I can see her
confidence fail as her eyebrows jump with excitement then
retreat under her brown-framed glasses, embarrassed to
have shown the intensity of her interest: her dreams of love
and affection postponed to talk about organization,
structure, and content. She won't need her confidence
today.
"Michelle, I love you." I say this not in the maudlin
'love is death' sense, but happy and jubilant, like I had
beaten her to a joke that was on the tip of her tongue.
"I love you too," she says, in the same way as she
grasps my hands. We smile and look into each other's eyes,
laughing at how hard it had been to say something so
obvious.
She curdles my hands, "Honey, you look like you've
been fighting with a lion.”
"No, it was just a stray cat, and I won. So imagine
what the cat looks like."
We laugh the victorious laugh of the self-assured
Cat King being lead away to the dungeon.

The End

by DF Seldon
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