Tag: cats

Death Cat

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The Deathcat wanders the nursing home hallways, poking his head into each doorway and sniffing the air.
He jumps up on a bed and curls against an old woman with tubes in her mouth, nose, and arms.
He knows that this woman will die.
Across the hall, another old woman points and laughs.
“Deathcat strikes again!” she cackles. “Have a nice trip, Sadie!”
The nurses have had to put up with her for over two years.
But not anymore.
They wait for her to fall asleep, and then sprinkle catnip on her bed.
Deathcat sniffs the air, following the scent.

The Orange Hair

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While I’m at work, the cat sleeps on my pillow all day.
I know this, because his long orange hair is all over the pillow when I get home.
I brush it off, roll up the clumps, and put them in the trash.
I go through this every day, going to work and coming back to find that my pillow had been shed on.
Beats having cat piss or cat shit on the pillow, right?
So I called an exorcist.
You see, the cat died three years ago, and as much as I miss him, I want this to stop.

The Useless

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After all of Roger’s hair fell out, he threw out his combs, brushes, shampoos, and hair gels.
He didn’t need them anymore.
However, he kept his hairdryer, since sometimes he liked to give himself a blast of heat.
And he liked to scare the crap out of the cat with it.
Sneaking up on a cat isn’t easy to do, but over the years Mister Whiskers had become somewhat deaf.
Roger even had an extension cord for the hairdryer.
As Roger pointed the device at the cat, it rolled over and exposed its fuzzy belly.
Roger sighed and pet it.

Fuzzy Cheese

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Robert’s in his eighties, so you can’t blame him for having his share of “senior moments.”
The other day, he was carrying around a small wheel of moldy cheese, petting it and calling it “Mister Whiskers.”
Seems he was remembering an orange cat from his from his childhood, he forgot to put on his glasses, and the hairy hunk of Cheddar just got his broken imagination going again.
Still, it’s not as bad as when he tried to French the stove or hump the dishwasher.
We’d put him in a rest home, but we’re a little worried about the appliances.

Money can’t buy you time

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Today was a very expensive day.
Nardo was sick this past weekend, and had a few problems with the litterbox, then didn’t eat for a day.
I got him to the vet today.
He needed to go in anyway, being an older cat. You’re supposed to take them in every six months.
They looked him over, took some blood, and said he’s probably fine. Just something he ate.
Yeah, I spent a lot for a tummyache, but then I look at the shelf where Piper, Edloe, and Frisky are.
Boxes of ashes.
Once they’re gone, money can’t buy more time.

Gift Basket

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My wife is making the cats a gift basket.
The gifts include treats, new collars, and catnip.
A few toys, too. As if they don’t have enough toys already.
There’s also a lot of colored tissue paper that the cats will like to play around in.
Despite the fact that the basket is on a high shelf, the kitten’s managed to find a way up there and inside the basket.
Based on how much of a pest she is to the other two cats, I don’t think she’s trying to say she’s a gift to them.
We need more catnip.

Catquake

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I am sitting on a sofa, next to a sleeping cat.
He is purring in his sleep.
I watch his whiskers twitch, his toes wriggle.
He is dreaming.
What is he dreaming of? Walking through grass? Laying in the sun?
He’s twitching more. Maybe he’s running?
If he told me, I’d keep his secret.
But he never does.
A secret never told is a secret kept.
His fur ripples, his paws padding the air.
His whole body is writhing, orange stripes like waves.
And then, he wakes up with a meow.
Licks a paw, and drifts off to sleep again.

Halloween and Black Cats

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This is my first Halloween owning a black cat.
Two of them, actually.
They’re indoor-outdoor cats, and they don’t like being cooped up.
But letting them out on Halloween, well, I’ve heard stories.
Bad stories.
Teenagers killing them and mutilating them and setting them on fire and leaving the corpses on doorsteps.
No, I’d rather that not happen to these cats.
So, they’re staying inside.
The orange cat, well, he can go outside all he wants.
The black cats look out the window and whine. On the other side, the orange cat flicks his tail proudly and goes off hunting.

Training

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Fur glides under his fingers. With every stroke of his hand, he feels the deep purring.
Muscles tense, skin twitches and ripples.
Over the years, the cat and the human teach each other what delights them.
A nip here, a warning there.
Bargaining.
In time, they have struck a balance, a routine.
But with enough variations to keep from becoming dull.
And then, tragedy. Loneliness.
One without the other. All that was between them is lost.
Cries of mourning, wandering from room to room.
A hand reaches down to stroke the fur.
Not the same.
But he can be trained.

The Shadowcat

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Three rings in the wizard’s nose.
A glass eye, solid blue.
No hair at all. Not even eyebrows.
He tells me of the legedary Shadowcat, a spirit in his library.
Only he can touch the books. If someone else enters the library, the Shadowcat strikes.
Instant death.
“Never go in there,” he says.
I nod.
“Can you make a Greyhawk Slinger?” he asks.
“Sure,” I say.
“You’re hired,” he says, and I am now the butler to the most powerful archmage in the land.
He hands me a book. “Mind putting this back in the library?”
I laugh.
He smiles.