Image courtesy of Inside Weather via Unsplashed
They appear at all hours. Not that I sleep. There’s the clawing, the purring, the acrid smell of ammonia. Only that passcode, the ole shave and a haircut, wrests me from the haze of dust and dander. I wouldn’t have it any other way.
My product gives me purpose. Some call me a dealer; I detest that label. It belittles, debases, my product. Dealers love to trade their product. Me? Well, it’s complicated. When a manilla envelope slides through the threshold, any acute thrill is muddled with grief. A tinge of regret. Goodbyes are a bummer.
The first cat in space was French; her name was Felicette.
Who’s lurking outside my apartment at 2:04AM? I don’t know. I don’t do names or references. “Renting or buying?” That’s it. If moved, I might do preferences (e.g., sex, color, temperament.) Then it’s, “Farewell, Penny. Hello, Mr. Franklin!”
I’m shameless. As if that wasn’t apparent already ha. My skin, this curdled milk veneer, desperately needs some Vitamin D. A crimson mold of acne grows over my wide forehead. All these rashes. Tattoos are my mask. An ink mural of candy bars, cigs, Pokemon, luxury brands, and yes, cats. Everything they denied me.
Ernest Hemingway’s first cat, Snow White, had 22 toes.
Was I born with a silver spoon or two? Sure, my rent might be free, but bills aren’t. Towers of tin cans to restock. Burlap bags of cat litter. Plush toys. Hence the mark-up. “Even non-profits must turn a profit,” Daddy used to quib. His foundation was just a front, though. I’m actually providing a service.
While my clients vary, nobody gets sticker shock. They have a need, I have a fix - who else is pushing pets south of 155th?! For some, I’m a vendor. (i.e., need a four-legged exterminator?) Others, the fighters, have their own rackets. Most are desperate. Lost, lonely souls. I can relate.
Many Muslims consider cats the quintessential pet; conversely, Medieval Christians associated them with witchcraft. They were burned alive.
You can call me a hoarder - I often lose count of my inventory ha - just not an addict! Is a gun nut an addict? A gear-head? I’m not like those whackos on TruTV, bottling my piss or shit. Those people have problems.
Betty, admittedly, remains a trigger. I mean, she had her reasons for being an OCB, Obsessive Compulsive Bitch. Allergies. Neuroses. Piff. Who doesn’t?! Don’t yuck my yum! Generational wealth without a flex? No car? No beach week? UGH!
Whatever. She’s dead.
It wasn’t just about stuff, mind you. Sketching was my passion. I could turn anything into an animal. Cats, especially. Furry fruit bowls and whiskered portraits.
Why cats? Biology, I guess? 35 million years of expert craftsmanship. A magical confluence of evolutionary streams: seductive struts, delicate curves, flirtatious flicks of the tail. A nonchalant killer just waiting to pounce. Forever untamed.
The Greeks didn’t have a cat constellation.
Buyer’s remorse sickens me. What’s the issue, Bozo? Gizmo’s lazy? Sabbie’s shy. What’d you expect? A castrated puppy? No refunds! Sorry, not sorry.
Just last week, some peevish juicehead accosted me. I sold his girlfriend a lemon, he claimed. Buster was sick. Buster died. Boo fucking hoo. That’s on you, Buzzhole! “Look around,” I sneered. “Nobody’s suffering here!” Well, he didn’t like that. Like a pitbull, he snarled and lounged for the chain lock! Somehow, I slammed the bolt in time. Welcome to the black list, Buzz!
Nikola Tesla credits many of his inventions to Macak, his black cat.
Generally speaking, I don’t like people. They don’t return the favor. Sex? Piff. Men are dull. Women are too catty. Anyways, I’m not lacking company - even if I can’t remember their names ha. I don’t have to force a smile, or laugh at a dull joke, or fake sympathy, or put on some act. I can just be.
The last person I actually liked was my art teacher, Mr. Canvassio. He wasn’t dull. He liked my portfolio. He saw potential, steering me toward New School. Daddy just scoffed at that one: “Where’s my R.O.I.?” That’s a developer for you.
Daddy didn’t kill my dream, though: the tech-bros deserve that (dis)honor. Their product made everyone an artist. Plug a few prompts into GEN.iE and POOF: you’re Van Fucking Gogh. Suddenly, I wasn’t special.
I’m over it. Really. It doesn’t matter. Soon, nothing will matter. When the tides rise. When Daddy’s Shit-tropolis is washed out. When the Catskills burn and the soil’s spent and there’s nowhere to run-
I’d like to run tonight.
They have me cornered. I kick. I claw. I try to check their advances, but they’re too strong. A flash flood of Prussian blue uniforms and laminated badges. So many arms, a sea monster of muscle smothers me as a social worker squeaks out a court order. I can’t listen - I’m screaming! They call on Daddy to mediate, but he’s cowering in the corner, his gin blossomed nose buried in his charcoal cardigan. You can’t hide shame, asshat!
The Egyptians didn’t worship cats, but rather considered them vessels of the great beyond, honored with mummification.
Rehab is mild mummification. Restraints, leather and chemical. Cuffs and ketamine. The wards file my nails and cut my dreads. I’m given a hot bath. A spa day in hell. While not relaxing, at least I sleep. Sedated, I dream of cats. Of my final purpose. Of the great panther. Of the Field of Reeds.
The drugs nerf my muscles. Numb, my mouth gapes open. A trickle of droll pools on my teal gown. Meanwhile, a tempest rages inside: a caged tiger, thrashing about until its fury dissolves into suffocating guilt. I’ve abandoned them!
My case manager refuses to disclose my lost tribe. I’m not fooled: they’re dead.
A group of cats is called a clowder.
Daddy’s my first visitor. My only visitor. He apologizes. He admits to being selfish, allowing his glacier blue eyes to melt, somewhat. He should’ve stuck up for me, he laments, sneezing into his dyed beard. He should’ve let me go to New School and bought me that Mercedes and booked that cruise and so on. No mention of Betty, but I lap up his apologies, his pathetic pleas. “I’ll get you out soon!”
I just need to bide my time. Play along.
Period One: Therapy.
I’ve beaten this game before. Bashful smirk. Insert traumatic memories (e.g., Mom’s disappearance, Betty’s witching hour, etc.). Slow ascent to that behavioral breakthrough. So simple, it’s like faking an orgasm. My therapist, a steely giraffe with needle-like fingers, is reserved. Cagey. Still, a sly smirk and an excited penscratch imply progress. Hope.
In Russia, black cats are considered lucky.
Period Two: Group Therapy.
I concede: I underestimated this level, this sad circle of folding chairs. A varsity swimmer lost her foot to a drunk driver. An emaciated tweaker miscarried, twice. Everyone found solace in vice: liquor bottles, syringes, sex. These girls are genuine. Unlike me.
So what’s my curse? My disease? Neglect, I guess? A crazy cat lady aged 21. Woe is me, right?
They should hate me. Yuppy cunt! Uptown brat! They don’t. Instead, they listen, actually listen. Fuzzy, disrupted memories of Mom. Betty boxing me out. Those preppy brats who I envied. The jerseys that I chased. My futile dreams. Depression. That slow, narcotic slide into nihilism. They know it well.
These hot tears are honest.
To protect their crops, Vikings offered milk to their feline god, Freyja.
Daddy honors his word, and I’m discharged in weeks (instead of months.) Something about an injunction. Strings were pulled, no doubt. I should be relieved. I should be excited. I should get back to…
My guts are twisted. I should tell the others. I don’t want to come off as if I’m abandoning them - they’ve had lifetimes of that ha - and I know that this could be another trigger and I could compromise their therapy and I-
They’ll understand. Every case is different. I’m different.
My apartment is almost ready, Daddy assures me inside his silver Jag. It’s being ionized. Renovations. Then I can go back. Just like before. “We’ll make it square,” he repeats coldly, clasping my twitching knee. He never shifts his frosty gaze from the road.
Castoff again, adrift in the manicured suburbs. So much…space is nauseating. Yet, my room is exactly how I left it: pink blackout curtains, zoological wallpaper, farmstead of Beanie Babies, corkboard littered with concert tickets and blurry Polaroids. The floral bed sheets even smell the same. Lavender.
I’d be resting if not for Daddy. He’s raging at his staff. Something about a permit. Everyone’s on edge. One day at a time, right?
Nostalgia’s a cheap fix. Tattered scrapbooks and unblemished yearbooks. I was a cute kid, I realize. Dirty blonde pigtails. Freckles. Just sad. Like a stunted tree. Bored, I Googled Mr. Canvassio: he’s still at Saint Rita’s - where else ha. Still sketching too, I bet. “It’s rewarding in itself,” he once told me. “It keeps me grounded.”
That’s how I approach my own sketches these days. Scenes from rehab, like my padded room or the velvet chaise longue. These will amount to nothing, but it’s a useful distraction. A liferaft.
Right now I’m trying to sketch the girls. I got halfway through a YouTube tutorial before diving in, starting with their heads. Faint lines and ovals. I dotted some beady eyes, keeping the mouths petite. Mindlessly, I moved to the ears. These began as modest triangles before becoming more pointed. Somehow the eyes ballooned into full moons. Dashes flanked the noses like…whiskers. I might’ve gotten carried away with the shading ha. Fuzzy figures. Sighing in pained relief, I rested my dull pencil. There they are: my tribe. My clowder.
END
Excellent! Loved it!