The Fucking Cat Sarah Grim • Fiction
Today, my roommate’s exasperatingly evil cat, Malum, escaped and ran into ongoing traffic. I, the humble and hopelessly involved observer, had to run after the thing, without cat-like reflexes, and retrieve the formidable beast from the median. I scooped her up, but not before she had frozen in front of a line of Model Ts on the way to the annual Fayetteville, North Carolina car show, caused a movie-worthy accident, and hissed at me as if this was, inexplicably, my fault. Needless to say, this cat and I have an ongoing beef. Thanksgiving, last week, Malum, being the spoiled brat that she is, was insistent on having a bite of everything my roommate had. The best piece of the decadent turkey went into her huge, custom-made white bowl—one that certainly didn’t provide a reasonable serving size for even a hefty child. My grandma’s recipe for stuffing, one that I took the most pride in making, was wasted unto her—to take one lick and decide it wasn’t worth her time or taste-buds. Worst of all: the damn mashed potatoes. She slowly ate a whole bowl full and meowed until she got another. The sound of her tongue mushing the potatoes against the roof
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