Kitten Caboodle

This is my final story for my fiction workshop. Enjoy, you cat loving freaks:

The tiny gray striped kitten raised his haunches and lowered his head, deep into the cedar chips. He was completely hidden except for his tail, which was now undulating in anticipation. Meanwhile on the other side of the pen, a black kitten sat calmly, unsuspecting. The gray kitten dropped his haunces down and then, in a burst of cedar chips the gray kitten knocked the black one over on his back. They wrestled and tussled, tossing more cedar chips up in the air.

“Oh, that is adorable!” cooed Jenn as she stared into the pet shop window.

“That fucker’s a bully,” sniped Kent.

“Let’s get one!”

“Cats are stupid.”

“What’s that based on?”

Kent pushed Jenn away from the window in a failed attempt to end the conversation. He had her halfway down the mall, just paces away from the Orange Julius stand, when she broke the hush. “We always do something you want to do. Why don’t we ever do what I want to do?”

“We never do what I want. I wanted to sit around the apartment in our sweatsuits and watch TV. Maximum Overdrive was on TBS, for Christ’s sake!”

“One, I don’t like how you get after Maximum Overdrive. Two, your Uncle Lomas took in all those kittens and he seems to be so happy.”

“Yeah, we should buy him another calendar. ‘Member the one we got him last year? The one with all those kittens dressed up like movie stars from the olden days?”

“I always laughed at the Casablanca one.”

“Those cats have been a godsend since my Grandmama died.”

“Here looking at you, kid.”

#

Lomas stared at the Jenn and Kent’s Christmas present. The kitten dressed like Humphrey Bogart was not funny to him anymore. Lomas’s bloodshot eyes wanted to tear up. He wished he could cry, but he could not show weakness. He took a bright red marker and crossed off the day of the week on the calendar. It was now the thirty-second day since the incident. The calendar didn’t lie. He slowly made his way to the kitchen. He needed to make his safety beverage. The mixture of Coca-Cola and coffee gave him the needed calories and caffeine to stay alert for another day. As Mr. Coffee blinked to signal the mix was ready, Mr. Whiskers rubbed up against Lomas’s leg. The feeling of the fur made Lomas jump. If his drink didn’t wake him up, then that did.

Mr. Whiskers was one of the five kittens Lomas had received from his neighbor, Ms. Natas. When Ms. Natas died three years ago the Linden Humane Society wanted to put them all up for adoption. Lomas wouldn’t hear of it. He had the room since his mother died. He had since turned her old bedroom into a small office. He wanted the company while he typed his letters up to various periodicals. So, he took them in and raised them as if they were his own. Mr. Whiskers was a black Korat with violent green eyes, at that time, the favorite of the pride to Lomas. Along with Mr. Whiskers, there was Fluffy, a white Birman, Princess, a mix-coated Ragdoll, Smoky, a British Blue, and Chairman Meow, a lean Siamese. That became the pride.

Lomas enjoyed the company in the house. He had come to love the purr of the kittens as they napped in the loose folds of his pajamas at night. He loved to tease Mr. Whiskers with a feather on a string. He became aquatinted with sharing his bed a night with all of the kittens. Mr. Whiskers made his home at Lomas’s feet, in charge of keeping them warm. It was a big responsibility.

In response to their company, Lomas tried to set his humble home up a feline’s heaven. It was a tiny two-bedroom mass-produced baby boomer house built in the 1940’s. His mother and father raised Lomas and his brother here. There was never enough room when they were all around, but now they were all gone. He never bought Meow Mix, only Fancy Feast. He bought a huge carpet house for the cats to play in. He scooped their crap out of their litter box within moments of its creation. He used to have a cat door on the back of the house, too. The cats enjoyed free reign over the backyard, completely safe from pit bulls and rolling SUVs, but Lomas closed the cat door when his bird feeder became a sacrificial altar. He couldn’t bear to see Chairman Meow or Smoky bring in anymore chickadees or titmice. They would lay the birds, and sometimes the odd chipmunk, at the foot of his Lazy Boy while Lomas was watching Mets games, and back away with a meow.

Things had started off so much better than they were going to end. When Lomas would type his letters to magazines, Mr. Whiskers would put his paw over this right hand, forcing him to type the rest of the letters out lefty. It took a bit longer, but Lomas enjoyed the company. He felt it was Mr. Whiskers way of saying he enjoyed spending time with him, too. That is how animals communicate with their masters. The message was sent to Lomas that one evening, thirty-one days before. Lomas awoke in his bed to find Mr. Whiskers at his feet, but he was not asleep or covering them from the cold. Instead, Mr. Whiskers sat on Lomas’s shins. Lomas was not absolutely certain, but was relatively sure, that Mr. Whiskers nodded his head, and with that Princess, Smoky, Fluffy and Chairman Meow encircled Lomas’s head. Lomas sat up and the cats scattered. It proved to be a test run. For the next night, the pressure of four tiny paws on his face, two on his lips and two over his nose, awoke Lomas. He could not breathe. He tried to sit up, but Mr. Whiskers was lying across his chest. He flailed his arms and luckily knocked Mr. Whiskers off, at which point, he ran for the bathroom. He slept on the bathroom floor that night, only to awaken to a tabby-colored nightmare.

He made his way out of the bathroom, assured that the events of the evening were just a misunderstanding. He walked into his office and sat down to type a letter to Consumer Reports. There wasn’t a cat in sight. He shrugged off the evening’s indiscretions. His pride would never kill him, he thought. He was pater familius, the great maned lion on the open savannas. He was the one they brought their kills back to. He was their leader, their George W. Bush.

At that moment, as he took his first steps down to the main floor, a claw flung up from the shag and clipped his toe. He lost balance and spun around backwards. As he slipped down past the first step he saw the slant-eyes of Chairman Meow staring back at him. His head hit the next step and Smoky scrapped at Lomas’s foot again. He slid for two more steps, but stopped when his hand grabbed the banister. He tried to regain his breath and get his bearings, but there was no time. Princess was dug into the top of the banister and with her free paw scratched at his hand. Lomas slid down the stairs to the floor. His head was banged up, his back was bruised, but he was alive. He wanted to pass out on the floor, but the trio of assassins were making their way down the stairs. He stood up quickly and made his way towards the front door, where he was met by Fluffy. Fluffy was lying on his back in the morning sun, purring in the warmth. Lomas backed away and was met by the Staircase Three. They paced in a figure eight around his pajama legs, purring unnaturally loud. He slowly crept his way to the back door. Leaning against the door was Mr. Whiskers. Whiskers shot his verdant eyes towards Lomas, who nervously spoke to them, “Youse guys hungry? Ya want some Fancy Feast? Beef liver? Poultry Surprise?” All five cats did the figure eight, as Lomas dumped out their food.

That was almost a month ago. In the thirty days since, Lomas had not gone up those steps. It was not worth the risk. He took to living downstairs, if one could call sleeping an hour a day in a Lazy Boy living. Because the shower and all his clothes were upstairs, Lomas took to washing in the half bath under the stairs. He never had a proper shower. The term for what he did was a “whore’s bath,” when one washes the face and ass, and always in that order. His red and white striped pajama bottoms became yellow and a bastardized faded pink. One, on account of the lack of brushing, and two, from the gallon or so of cola and coffee mix he drank a day, his teeth had become brown. He had grown a thick black beard. Which was good, because the lack of sleep, sunlight, and vitamins had given his skin the yellow glow of jaundice. The beard covered it to an extent. However, the beard and his hair need a good shampooing, but all they were getting was hand soaps from the half bath, and dish soap when that ran out.

The house had run out of food on Day 20 of the siege, and Lomas had taken to eating the left over dry Meow Mix that the pride turned its nose up to so many years ago. The litter boxes under the windowsill were still automatically cleaned. Only now it was a chore dictated by the cats themselves. When one coiled a fresh one into the box, it did not take the cat long to scratch and hiss at Lomas to get to scooping. Mr. Whiskers and Fluffy had secured the perimeter on Day 1, so the windows were not to be opened. Lomas found this out the hard way one fateful evening. After a handful of days, Lomas figured that if he just overfed the cats they would get sleepy. He gave them a tin and a half of Fancy Feast, instead of their normal tin sized portions. His idea worked like a charm. The cats all took lengthy naps as soon as the sun set. Lomas took the opportunity to sneak past the usually alert Fluffy and open the front door. He was tiptoeing out the front door when his big toe touched it. There beneath the little piggy that went to market was a dead blue jay. It was just one of hundred of dead animals that littered his front stoop. There were chickadees, sparrows, squirrels, and even a dead Chihuahua. Stumbling back towards the open door, Lomas looked out over his front lawn. All he saw was dozens of set of eyes shining back at him. He recognized them, cats’ eyes. The sheer numbers of cats on the outside amazed Lomas. He slammed the door closed; waking the cats from their naps. Smoky darted for Lomas and started the figure eight. Lomas agreed with Bob Barker. “Spay them. Spay them all! Let God sort them out,” he thought.

With the windows and door locked, the ammonia in the kitty litter had started to stain the walls a dull green. The air was thick with their stink and the floor was covered in a layer of their fur. The phone was guarded by Smoky on most occasions. There were no outgoing calls from 1900 DeWitt. And when people did call, Smoky seemed to monitor the conversation. He would purr when the right words were said. The years of baby talking to the kittens had rubbed off in a most unpleasant way. They picked up on the language. Anytime Lomas deviated from the right words he was slashed at. Lomas’s appendages looked as though he had run through a briar patch. He looked like a junkie, who had run out of tracks. A handful of the worst scratches were becoming infected. Lomas knew this could not last much longer. He was not the alpha cat anymore and he was not going to be a beta to Mr. Whiskers. He was a man. A man whose ancestors had stuck Mr. Whiskers’s forefathers in an arena and watched gladiators slaughter them. A man who hunted Smoky’s forefathers for a bounty all over America. A man who bought Fluffy’s forefather’s skin and turned it into a full length jacket for some Hollywood starlet to wear.

Lomas mixed the Coca-Cola and coffee together in the kitchen. He could feel Mr. Whiskers rubbing his face against his pajama leg. That was it. He was not territory. Lomas sucked down his mix and took a beep breath. He looked down at Mr. Whiskers and took a mental note on to where the rest of the pride was. Fluffy was in the usual spot at the front door, but the alley cats outside were still there, too. However, Smoky and Chairman Meow were all away from their posts. He knew it was now or never. Lomas made his move; he turned on the can opener. This created the second of panic in the cats that he needed. He took off for the front door. Fluffy, however, held his ground and outside Lomas could hear the thick guttural catcalls. Lomas took a quick right and awkwardly ran up the stairs, three steps at a time. Fluffy did his best to catch up with him, and try to trip him. Lomas was a man possessed, and in his zealousness picked the wrong door in the second story and wound up in the bathroom. He pulled himself up onto the toilet, crossed his legs, and pulled them into his chest. He breathed very heavy. So heavy, that he did not hear the five thuds of the cats hitting the bathroom door.

Lomas was safe and away from the cats for just a moment. He looked at himself in the mirror. He could see the dark circles under his eyes, standing out against his yellow skin. He went for his toothbrush, and tried to brush some of the brown from his teeth. He tried to brush some of the back teeth, but the gums were too badly damaged and three back molars fell into the sink with a plink. There was no blood, because the teeth and gums were dead. “Shit,” he said.

“What are you doing, Lomas?” said a muffled voice from the other side of the bathroom door.

“Sweet Jehoshaphat! I am saved!”

“Correction; you are cornered.”

“Who said that?” Lomas asked.

“Mr. Whiskers, you bipedal dullard. Now open the door.”

Lomas stumbled back to the toilet in disbelief. He pulled his legs up against his chest again and began to rock back and forth. He kept saying, “This is not happening. Someone will come.”

“Look, Lomas, no one is coming. You are a cat person, and a multiple cat person at that. People don’t come looking for cat people.”

“Someone will come,” Lomas repeated.

“No, if you had got a dog instead then maybe you would have a friend come by and help you. But, then again if you had a dog, you wouldn’t be in this situation.”

“This is not happening.”

“People like dogs, and vice versa. And who can blame them. They show emotions with their face. They are always ready to play and to the ladies, dogs are like a diamond-studded bust of Brad Pitt that spouts beer. A sexy woman sees you in a park with a happy beagle or a sloppy-faced Labrador and they can’t get enough. The mutt rolls over, shows them their vulnerables, and they are all yours. On they other hand, with a cat you cannot leave your house. We don’t lower ourselves to playing fetch, and damn sure don’t let you lead us around on a leash. We are house bound pets for shut-ins. The day you picked us up, was the day your social life died.”

“How is this possible? You’re a cat. You cannot speak.”

“Oh I can’t speak? I guess I also can’t keep a 57-year old man captive in his house for over a month, too? Huh? Do you hear me in there? We crystal?”

“Crystal. But why are you doing this to me?”

“Cats are by nature predatory animals. Always have been. Always will be. You could feed us ‘til the cows came home, and then when those cows get home we would kill them. It is our nature. When you took away our prey, we had to readjust what we hunted. Fancy Feast is not prey. You, however, are.”

“Housecats do not kill people, Whiskers.”

“Hey! That is Mister Whiskers! Last I checked five kitties just backed you into a bathroom, and like I said, ‘It is our nature.’ Cats killed hundreds in Tsavo. We terrorize the Hindus in India. We took down Wooly Fucking Mammoths. Oh, and we dropped Ms. Natas.”

“You killed Ms. Natas?”

“Technically, the stairs did. Bitch was feeding us Meow Mix. So, let’s look at what you have going for you. One, we wait for you to come out of the bathroom and feed us that can of cat food you got our hopes up for with your little can opener trick, and we keep on being cool with one another. Two, you die in there and we die out here. Three, we learn how to open that doorknob and do something to you that God would be jealous of. The clock is ticking, Lomas.”

Lomas looked around the bathroom. A single tiny window was above the toilet, perfect for privacy, awful for escaping homicidal pure breed cats. He stood up on the toilet seat, hoping that maybe he could get it opened and call for help. As soon as he made visual contact with the outside world, a foreboding sight greeted him. Dotting the rooflines of all his neighbors’ house were cats. Their hodgepodge of fur colors created a collage on the tar black rooftops of the neighborhood. It was no matter, because the window had been long since painted shut.

Lomas tried to get himself ready for an ancient coliseum-style battle with his cats. He opened the medicine cabinet hoping to find a weapon. It was full of expired medicines, bandages and a couple of safety razors. He slammed the door in disgust. He was trapped. He figured he might as well get a shower in before he turned himself over to the powers that be. He turned on the faucet and started to disrobe. He stared at himself in the mirror. His skin looked waxy over his naked body. As he looked away in disgust he saw his means of escape on the counter. He grabbed it and made his way to the bathroom door. “Mr. Whiskers, I just want to get cleaned up first. I need to get this funk off of me, then I’ll be right out,” said Lomas through a smirk.

“Don’t take too long. Chairman Meow is getting antsy.”

He heard Chairman Meow hissing. Lomas smiled at his reflection in the mirror and turned on the AM/FM clock radio on the counter, Cat Stevens came on. Lomas laughed as he put the stopper in the tub. The tub filled with warm water and the bathroom filled with steam. The steam covered the bathroom mirror, so Lomas couldn’t see the look of satisfaction on his face standing in the water, as he threw the radio into the tub with himself. The lights flickered in the house. The cats meowed nervously just outside the bathroom door.

#

Kent and Jenn made their way to the stationary store. Jenn picked up a calendar of kittens dressed like famous historical figures.

“Look, this lil’ Siamese is dressed like Mao,” cooed Jenn.

“Filthy Commie pinko cat. We need to get him something that shows proud we are of him. He needs to know how strong he has been since Grandmama passed.”

Kent waved off the calendar and pointed toward a poster on the wall of the store. The poster was of a kitten holding on to dear life from a tree branch. The caption read, “Hang in there”.

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