Normally

Part 1

Do you know what you normally think about when you’re petting a cat? Nothing–it’s one of the magical things about the little sociopathic beasts. When they require your attention and demand to be touched, all other priorities are rescinded. Even as their sharp claws knead into your flesh, as they circle about before settling in on either your lap or chest, you endure because you know they can’t help it. Each microbloodletting pushes the day’s challenges away–the argument you were fermenting in your head for your unreasonable boss that you know you were never going to get the chance to level at them, and the homicidal urges from the commute home, and your rumination on that rude retiree in line along with the perfect cutting quip you thought of moments later that you wish had been your clever retort at the time–all flit away like airless balloons.

Replacement worries are drowned out by the loud rumble that begins to emanate from the warm, soft bundle before you. The staccato beats of its purring, that drops an octave as they lie down and relax into a marathon scratching session, punches rapid fire holes into any surfacing thought. The mesmerizing rumbling permeates your body like the base tones of a concert or the finely tuned engine of an idling motorbike. Abandon all hope, thoughts that would enter here.

Their grasp on your attention is maintained as it cranes its head to catch your meandering digits in a specific spot, whether it be under the chin, the side of their face, or the ever demanding ear. They lean hard into moving fingers until it feels like you're about to scratch the last vestiges of annoying brain matter from both their head and yours. You chuckle when their back leg starts to twitch in time to your vigorous knuckling. You stop and they shake their head releasing a plumb of dislodged fuzz. You barely get the chance to wipe your face and nose clean before their petite, finely textured, damp nose nudges at your wayward hand.

You settle into the deep tissue facial massage stage of the petfest. You marvel at the contrast between the impossibly acute, hard angles of the skull underneath to the velvet smooth fur, like the inside of rabbit lined gloves, that never loses its softness or fineness. Your touch is so attuned that the direction the hair grows can be felt in the oscillation between a yielding field of points akin to the tip of an expensive paint brush and the smooth silkiness as your fingertips pull in the other direction. Their eyes are closed and you could swear they were smiling as you firmly run your hands over their punk rock mussed forehead and neaten out the evidence of a decadent rampage through their luxurious hair. You gaze, vacuous, as they quietly begin to snore. You’re vaguely aware that your butt has gone numb–normally.

Part 2

Your mind is frantic: Did I wait too long? Did I not wait long enough? I’m not qualified to make this kind of decision. I don’t even know what’s best for me. What if it’s curable? Could I afford it? Money should never be a factor in a decision like this, but it is. You want to smack the syringe out of the veterinarian’s hand. You’re compulsively scratching your companion behind the ear as they lie on their back in your arms. Its purr now sounds like a dove missing its mate.

“Okay,” the veterinarian says in a soft, calm voice. “First we’re going to inject the anesthesia.” You watch the needle pierce the tiny, circular, pink, rubber cap of the catheter. She squeezes the milky contents of the syringe into the tubing. As it hits the cat’s bloodstream, it twitches, but that’s as much struggle as they have left in them.

You can no longer hear them purring. All you can hear is your own pulse rage and racing. Your vision blurs. Your eyes feel like you’ve been in an over-chlorinated pool too long. A heavy ball of barbed wire scrapes up and down your throat in time to the heaving rhythm of your chest.

“You’re very brave.” The vet doesn’t want dramatics. “Normally owners don’t stay. It makes a big difference for the animal.”

Your mind goes spinning in a different

Non-Fiction Eric Funk

Livermore, California, USA