Sarah Grim

The Fucking Cat Sarah Grim • Fiction

Today, y roo ate’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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of her mouth reminded me of stepping into mud and trudging through while it seeps into your shoes.

It was the second helping of potatoes that did it. She got halfway through and began to look utterly miserable. The Renaissance paintings of fat, despondent cats had nothing on her at that moment. The question was not whether she would throw up, but when and where. She slumped down between my roommate’s chair and mine, sighed as if to collect herself, then got up and trudged down the hall.

“She’s probably going to my room to her litter box,” Ramona said.

I knew better.

I followed down the hall and turned the corner to my room. Malum was nowhere to be seen, but, moments later, she emerged from under my bed and meowed in what can only be described as triumphant, rubbed against my leg, and went back down the hall.

It took an hour to get the carpet under my bed back to a semi-normal color. The smell, however, lingered. I asked my roommate to pay for a shampooing and she obliged. My carpet recovered, but I never did.

That’s when I decided to kill the fucking cat.

As I was falling asleep that night, I imagined throwing her into traffic. It was messy; maybe too messy. The driver, I dreamt, kept going, not caring that he had just slaughtered a cat. I watched the F-150 drive off into the sunset with its giant tires circling blood.

Waking up the next day, I felt refreshed, but uncomfortable. I hated the thing, but that seemed a smidge too much.

So, the fact that this almost came to fruition, I had to say that there should be a better plan, or at least a more aesthetically pleasing one.

Over the weekend I sat on the couch with the TV on, plotting. Malum plumped onto my lap and purred every once in a while; I was suspicious. The vibrations, like an engine, I felt against my thighs. Throw her in the hood of a car and gas her—I thought.

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Or I could take her to the woods and shoot her. But where would I get a gun?

Poison would be easy. I’d have to find the right kind to make sure it wasn’t messy. I didn’t want her throwing up and shitting everywhere, but would Ramona suspect me if the cat were to drop dead after her evening meal? Knowing her, she’d get an autopsy. After all, six months ago, when her Gucci boots went missing, she filed a police report. She searched every corner of my room, determined to find them, but it wasn’t until she went on eBay to find another pair that she saw her ex-boyfriend was selling boots that looked suspiciously like hers.

I found myself absent-mindedly stroking Malum in my lap, like every good schemer does when they are coming up with their master plan in their large chair by a fire. It was midday, and the shadows were not nearly as menacing as I would’ve liked.

Ramona interrupted my conniving with the squeak of the front door, carrying a mountain of groceries, including a large bag of organic, gluten-free cat food.

“Hey!” she chimed. “Hi.”

She heaved the amalgamation of plastic grocery bags onto the counter.

“Guess you two are finally getting along,” she said.

As if on cue, the beast leapt off my lap and tottered over to her, no doubt expecting food.

“Hello, my lovely,” she said, crouching down to pet the fluffy ball of malice.

A rush of disgust swept over me, and I wondered how long I had resented Ramona. Maybe I shouldn’t kill the cat—maybe I should just move.

“Hey, Christine,” she said. “Do you mind covering my rent this month? I’ll get you back when my next paycheck comes in.”

I pursed my lips. “Yeah, sure.”

She pulled out her special oat milk creamer that I was sure cost eight dollars minimum.

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“Thanks a million, Chrissy.”

I flinched. What I wouldn’t give to make a fur hat out of Malum and make her wear it.

When I got home from work the next day, Ramona was sitting on the floor in tears. She turned her head, blubbering once she saw me.

“I can’t find her anywhere!” she said.

I fought the smile I felt creeping onto my face. How great would it be if she ran away—but unsatisfying? Why hadn’t I thought of just ditching the damn cat at some kill shelter?

“She’ll turn up,” I said, opening the fridge. We were out of milk.

She continued to cry, and I heard her blow her nose into something.

“You don’t care!” she said, nasally. “I know you hate her.” True.

“Last time she escaped, she was just out in the road,” I said, trying to sound reassuring. “I’m sure she just slipped out and went into the woods down the road.”

Damn near killed both of us and put to rest an era of classic car models, though.

She stood up and hugged me. I recoiled, feeling how warm she was—all that flesh and hot snot.

“Go,” I said. “Get her.”

She released me and nodded, grabbing her keys before storming out the door.

An hour later, she came back, muddy cat in hand and eyes gleaming and puffy.

I felt something akin to relief, though I couldn’t understand why.

“I found her across the street,” Ramona said. “You know the little clearing behind the train tracks?”

The tracks were no longer running, but I couldn’t help thinking of what the cat would look like tied to those rails—like a beautiful maiden in a Western, kidnapped by ruffians. Smoke billowing in the distance, the train would approach, the hero riding his steed

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alongside it, trying to beat it to change its course. The maiden, mewing in terror, is on the track to the right, while the hissing train is headed towards her. If only the hero could come in time to turn the lever to the left!

“I think I know where that is,” I said.

That night I woke up in a cold sweat from a deep sleep, hearing the muffled snores of Ramona down the hall. I felt oddly compelled to go to her.

My dreams were mushy and riddled with pawprints. I hadn’t counted sheep to fall asleep, I’d counted cats.

My hand was on her knob before my mind caught up. The small click of the door gave me pause, but I continued. At the head of the bed, Malum slept soundly on a pillow, her unused cat bed shoved into the corner. Ramona’s mouth hung down, agape and snoring, her brown hair swooped across her eyes.

I made my move into the room, grabbing the cushy, pink bed from the corner. It was soft in my fingers and warm like my roommate’s chest.

They looked so peaceful.

I pushed down until she began twitching, then thrashing wildly—awake. She struggled, but I leaned down with my whole weight on the cat bed and took in a deep breath. I took ten deep breaths, then released. She was dead.

Next to her, Malum stirred and rolled over, her emotionless eyes looking directly into mine. In this state, she wasn’t so bad after all.

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