(Continued from last week)
That cat was going to learn the error of its ways. Today. I didn’t care if I found a hammer, a belt, or a double-barreled shotgun. I was going to put my hands on something that would get through that cat’s crushable skull.
Rubber-soled moccasins.
That would do nicely.
Picking up one of Mike’s moccasins by the toe, and wagging the heavy heel with anticipation, I entered the lion’s den. And closed the door. There would be no escape.
Knowing full well that the cat was under the bed, and that it was quite confident in its safety, I took great pleasure in throwing first the mattress, then the box spring, to the opposite wall. One of the most beautiful sights I’d ever seen in my life was the raw, naked fear that shot out of that cat’s eyes when rude light slammed down on him in his darkened hideaway. He froze with shock, and I took my opportunity.
I beat him.
I beat him.
And I beat him.
And it was goooood.
I brought the full force of my arm down upon that cat again and again and again, each time connecting that heavy ruber heel onto the thin fur shield around those tender cat guts. When the beast got its muscles together enough to dart out of sight behind the discarded mattress, I didn’t waste one moment in throwing it aside and kissing the cat with that lovely weapon again and again. The cat hissed at me. It bared its teeth at me. It squealed at me.
In fear!
My eyes were wide with bloodlust, and I don’t recall if I blinked the entire time I was in the arena with that cat. It was the most fun I had had in years. I wanted it dead, quite literally, and I didn’t care what the consequences were. I wanted to spread that cat’s skull to the walls. This would be my statement to cats around the world to steer clear. Or else.
When I started to breathe again, and eventually blink, the cat had hidden himself for the fourth or fifth time, and I decided to leave. It is the only reason that animal lived to see the next sunrise.
I did not clean up a thing in that room, with good reason. Over the months, I had repeatedly told Mike that his cat’s attacks were getting beyond the line of irritating, and entering the region of unacceptable. He immediately took action, and ignored me. So they would both learn their respective lessons with this one messy room. I closed the door, dressed my wound, and left. I stayed away for several hours.
When I returned, Mike was in the living room. His bedroom door was ajar, and the contents had been straightened up.
“Was there a problem with the cat today?” he asked me with genuine uncertainty.
“You have two roommates, Mike,” I said without apology. “One of them pays rent. Don’t forget that.”
We never spoke of the incident after that moment. I’m not sure what effect, if any, the incident had on Mike. I can tell you what effect it had on Puss. He stayed away from me. He left a room when I entered it. In short, he learned his place, and who wore the moccasin in the family. Or so I thought.
About a year later, Mike was sent by his company to spend the summer working in Guam and Hawaii. He actually asked me to “look after” the spawn of Satan. I accepted without glee or anger. I knew I would have the power to keep the cat alive or let him die, and I trusted that he would know that, too.
He did not.
Mike hadn’t been gone 24 hours, and the hairy suicide candidate performed his famous run-by nipping. He dove for the safety of Mike’s empty room, and I slammed the door. I knew then and there how things would be run in the apartment.
I didn’t see Puss for more than 20 seconds a day for the entire summer. Every afternoon when I came home from work, I’d chase him into the bedroom (which was fairly easy, since he ran at the sight of me!), and shut him in. Every morning when I left for work, I’d open the door. I put his food, water and litter in the bedroom, where he could go to them by day, and live with them by night. The food and water were filled as needed, and the litter was replaced regularly. I considered that more than fulfilling my promise. I considered it more than the cat deserved. What it deserved was to have my thumbs placed at the base of its skull, where they would press until they reached brain. But cooler heads prevailed unfortunately, and I got to spend the summer in peace and solitude.
Just before Mike’s return, which was scheduled a week or so after Labor Day, I got word that I had been hired by a firm in a suburb of Chicago, which meant that I would be moving from Michigan, where I’d spent my life since the age of one. Mike’s cousin lived a few miles away from us, and I arranged with her to watch the cat between my departure and Mike’s arrival. When Mike called to see how things were going, I told him the news.
As the years passed, I saw Mike and his now-wife Mary, and eventually, their son Joseph, on occasion. Each time I visited, Puss made an appearance. It would come out to see who was visiting, make eye contact with me, and go back to whatever spot he’d come from.
This was fine with me. It gave me joy to know that the sounds of heavy rubber heels echoed somewhere in that cat’s brain each time he laid eyes on me. I imagined that I was a constant visitor in Puss’s feline nightmares, chasing him through eternal hallways with one gigantic moccasin.
At some point in recent years, Mike told me that either the cat had died, or was dying. I don’t recall, as I try not to waste my time and energy on my enemies. Still, whenever the cat dies, I’d really like to know where he’s buried.
There’s something I must do on his grave.
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