Cat-astrophe

Posted on October 22, 2007 in Cats Santiago Fire

There’s a ~slight~ odor that reminds you of the times Daddy put meat on flames in the summer. But this is indoors. Has he decided to make a tasty chicken or fish in the kitchen instead of on the deck? Then the little black box sings. Daddy picks it up. Yabbers. Goes to the room where they stare at those white boxes for hours at a time. Stares at one of the boxes for a minute or two. Then opens the closet. Now this is getting interesting because you don’t get to see the inside of this very often. What’s he got there? Why is he grabbing those two big, cream-colored boxes, the ones that smell of cats? He takes them out to the front room and suddenly grabs your sister, crams her in one. Then he tries to grab you.

You run up the stairs, round the couch twice and then back down, under the dining room table. He started off shouting at you, but then his voice turned quiet so you knew something was up and it has to do with getting you inside the other box. Then his hands come down, grab the scruff on the back of your neck, and try to force you into the other open box. But you’re going to fix him. Without so much as a scratch or a bite, you push yourself out of his grip, shake free of his hands. Then you disappear. He goes upstairs seeking you while you dissolve into the room with the white boxes at which they like to stare.

Outside, he is closing doors. He closes the bathroom, the bedroom, and the office door. You can hear him open each again in turn, fumble around looking for you. Ah, you have him. He has no idea where you are. You crouch beneath the tiny green chair that smells of generations of cats, confident that you have eluded him. The door to the room opens. You can hear your sister squeaking plaintively. What is he doing? Is he taking you to the Evil One with the Needle? You stay put. If you don’t move…

There’s the slightest flap of the fabric, your hiding place rises up around you, and you are exposed. Dash. Down the hall. Up the stairs with him in hot pursuit. You draw your tail behind the box of CDs and VCRs beneath the television set, hoping that he will not discern your retreat. But he pushes the box back, denying you space. You dash out and go round and round the couch again, down the stairs and into the bathroom, which is the only door he has left open.

Now he has one of his jackets in hand, one that wreaks of his sweat. He tries to net you in this and you nearly evade it. But one of the throws catches you. He wraps you up inside for all of a second. Ah, but you are the most nimble of cats and you are out of it in seconds. You hear the door close behind you as he stomps after you. It’s back up the stairs and around the couch some more times. Then comes the fatal decision. First you make a feint of going down the stairs but in reality you go around the couch. He bears down on you while you take a breather on a small tongue that sticks out from the loft. You break his grip and do the same routine except this time you go down the stairs. He’s out of breath. You stop. Then he pounces and shoves you into the box, snaps the door shut. You are caught and for the rest of the afternoon you whine pathetically while he drags things out of corners and shoves clothes into suitcases. Mommy comes home and she does nothing to free you from this unexpected captivity.

They even have the nerve to leave you for a few hours. Late in the evening, they take the cages into the room where they stare at the white boxes, lay out your food and your water, and free you. Now you’re stuck here watching them in their strange infatuation. Your sister, Fiona, has forgiven these louts but you’ve crawled under the desk and you’re not going to show them the least affection. They have sinned against you for no reason. You will not come out.

Except your sister throws up and you rush out to devour the pieces before she can eat them herself.