Cat Murder, by Mick Shaffer

I’ve got you now, you son of a bitch.  Yes, I know you’re a cat and that the “bitch” term—when taken literally—would be more accurately applied to a canine … or a stewardess.  But I don’t know the name for a female cat, and I’m pretty sure said name does not also serve as a derogatory term for people/beings one hates.  If mama cats were called “whores,” you can bet I would be calling you a “son of a whore” right now.  But they’re not.  Although, that would be pretty sweet.

Anyway, stop distracting me with your evil, yet clever, cat mind.  I won’t give in to your adroit ways this time.  After all, you should know what this is.

This is your death soliloquy.

Yes, I know a soliloquy is never directed to any of the other characters in the room.  But guess what.  You have no character.  You are a cat.

What’s more is that you don’t understand English.  If you did understand English, you would have scurried down the stairs when I told you to, “Get out the f*@^ing way, Romeo.”  I even dropped the “of” from the sentence like rappers do to make you better understand and because that extra syllable is just too exhausting to push out.  But you didn’t move.  And I tripped over you.  And the box of Gideon Bibles I was carrying to hand out to the homeless at the soup kitchen got spilled.  So, no, you don’t understand English.

Thus, this is me talking to myself.  Soliloquy style.

Yeah, Romeo, nobody else is here.  The kids are placing bets at the neighborhood cockfighting game.  Their shirts are off.  The wife—your protector, your guardian—is running concessions at the demolition derby.  And those things last forever.  Bummer.  She’s the only one who could and would save you.

After all, she purchased you with her first ever teacher paycheck back in 1998.  There are so many other things she could have bought with that money: Collective Soul CDs, two memberships to Columbia House, Dr. Marten’s.  I loved Dr. Marten’s, Romeo.  I didn’t love cats.

But she bought you.  And you became my nemesis.  Was it not clear?  Several times I tried to pee on you when I was drunk.  I punted you once.  I only declawed your front paws so that a) you couldn’t do any damage to furniture, but also b) so that those back claws would always serve as a reminder of what could have been.

You’re Persian so I obviously never trusted you after 9/11.

But I gave you plenty of chances.  I often let you finish my milk after the cereal was gone because a person slurping sugary, lukewarm milk from a bowl is one of the 17 most disgusting things in the world.  But you returned the favor by puking it up on the floor like the bulimic diva that you are.

So, here we are face-to-snout 12 years later.  Twelve years?  My God, how old is that in cat years?  64?  You could keel over of natural cat causes at any moment.  You probably have a colony of worms infesting that fat cat body of yours as we (I) speak and I know we haven’t checked your urinary tract since the Clinton administration.

But I’m not going to wait for your cat god to take you.  I’m going to do it myself.  Why else do you think I’ve cornered you here on the kitchen counter between the banana rack and the toaster?  It’s no coincidence this is the highest counter in the house.  I know you’re not going to jump down … because the floor is slick!  THE FLOOR IS SLICK!

You see, you once had such great hops.  I would brag to all my friends that I had the Michael Jordan of cats.  I wanted to enter you in cat contests.  But there are no jumping cat contests.  There are only fancy cat contests.  You are not fancy.  You have leaves and your own shit stuck to your coat at all times.

That is why I am going to kill you.  Of course, that is not the only reason I’m going to kill you.  I’m going to kill you because you bite me in my sleep, because you piss in the dryer, because you only drink out of the sink.

What kind of pompous pussy only drinks from the sink?  Even asshole humans drink from containers.  And since you can’t jump anymore, we must lift you up to the sink.  Your stupid cat mind has probably reasoned that you are our master.  Do you know that every one of our faucets continuously drips because we have to run a thin stream of water from them six times a day?  What kind of message of conservation would I be sending to my kids if I didn’t end your life right now?

All that’s stopping me is figuring out a way.  I’ve thought about disproving the “cats always land on their feet” theory once and for all.  That’s right, buddy, there’s an attic window.  I believe you’ve defecated up there.

I’ve thought about a cat-astrophe with the mini-blinds.

I’ve even thought about sending you to Korea.  Yes, Romeo, I said the “K” word!  THE K WORD!

Whatever happens, I will definitely shave your hair beforehand and then smoke it after you are gone.

I’m going to send you to cat hell with Lucy-fur.  Do you know what that was?  That was cat humor, Romeo.  You probably didn’t get it.

Just like you didn’t get the fact that you’re neutered!  YOU’RE NEUTERED!  Yet every time I come downstairs in the middle of the night you are humping the stuffing out of the kids’ stick horse.  Do you know they call that horse Mr. Jeffy?  That makes you gay.

How’s that for a deathbed revelation.  You are gay, Romeo.  Was there ever any doubt with that name?  Romeo.  You’re gayer than Garfield.

Didn’t Romeo kill himself?  Now there’s an idea.  Sledgehammers fall from work benches all the time.  And you love the garage.  Weed killers can take down household pets … especially when sprayed in the sink.

I’m going to set you up like you set up Sophie.  Remember Sophie?  Our lovable—maybe slightly retarded—but overall awesome Basset Hound we shipped off after the shortest human in your kingdom was born.  Yeah, I know that was your shit in the nursery because it was small and gray and full of litter pebbles that you sometimes eat … because I forget to feed you … on purpose.

But it got blamed on Sophie.  Now Sophie is gone, and you are still here.  But not for long.

I’m pacing now.  This is what the bad guy always does before he attempts to kill the good guy.  I have pointed out your flaws and I have divulged my plan.  But this is different.  I’m the good guy here.  You’re the bad guy.  Hell, you’re not even a guy.  You are just bad.  And you are going to die.  You probably don’t even know the difference between life and death.

This won’t even be a murder.  It will just be an incognizant transformation from one life to the next.  You won’t feel a thing.  Ok, maybe you’ll feel some stuff.  Probably pain.  For only a little bit, though.

So I’m just going to move a little closer here.  And then take my hands and pretend to pet you.  And then place them around your neck.  And then … that’s the garage door, isn’t it?  She’s home, isn’t she?

Shit.

Well, you live to see another day.  Well played, sir, well played.  But you haven’t seen the last of me, Romeo.  You better keep one eye open, ya know, when you’re sleeping 16 hours out of the day.  I’ll be back!  And I’ll be back with a vengeance!  Your time will come, Romeo, your time will come!

Muahahahahaha!  MUAHAHAHAHAHA!

Hey, honey, how was your day?

For more from Mick, click some of the fun buttons below…

Past work on FlipCollective.com.
To follow him on Twitter.