Random Recordings of Mental Meanderings

The cat next door was one of those annoyingly mean cats. You know the kind, the ones that laid their ears back and hissed at everyone who walked by, ran out from under cars to shred your calves with their razor-sharp talons, or jumped on your shoulders from a tree and clawed at you as you walked unsuspectingly by. She was a Persian, with long, matted hair on her belly and hind legs from not being brushed very often. She had a scrunched up face from many years of inbreeding, typical of Persians, and her ears were scarred from being in fights with other cats. I always figured that she was mistreated when she was a kitten. Most cats that mean were chased all over the house by little kids or other pets, had to fight for the last scraps of food, and basically had to fend for themselves all their life, with no one to offer comfort or care for them.

This cat ran the street, as far as animals went, simply because whenever she walked down the street the other pets would cross to the other side in order to avoid her. More than once a week, I saw her walking around with a bird, a mouse, or some other carrion she hunted down or found dead somewhere. Squirrels were deathly afraid of her. Several times when I was walking the dog, I saw her climbing tree branches to get to their nests. Over that first year or so after Steve and Rachel moved in, all the squirrels on the street slowly disappeared, in spite of the various nut trees people had in their yards. The one good thing I could say about Scruffy (as we called her) was that the mice that were plaguing our neighborhood all left for more hospitable climes. Everyone, no matter how mean-spirited, evil, or ill natured, can have something nice said about them.

It was a bright Saturday morning, and I was heading out to the store to pick up supplies. The weather was supposed to be perfect for working in the yard. We wanted to put in a flower garden next to the garage and fix up the one in the front of the house. I got into my baby blue Cavalier, and started it up. It was a good car, easy to maintain, and even easier on the wallet when I filled her up once a week. Something today, however, didn’t sound right when the engine started. There was a quick thud under the hood, and a bit of a squeal, and then she settled down. I thought it was a bit odd, and paused a moment to make sure everything was OK before backing out of the driveway. Figuring it was nothing, I looked behind me to check for traffic and neighborhood children, and backed out into the street. Waving at the garage, where my wife was getting gardening tools together, I tapped my horn, and that’s when I saw the bloody mess on our nice, clean, concrete driveway.

I pulled back into the driveway, cut the engine off and reached down with my left hand to pop the hood latch. I was filled with trepidation over what awaited me in the front of my car. Getting out, I walked to the front of the Cavalier. My wife came out to the porch and asked what I was doing, why wasn’t I going to the store? “Because, Janine,” I said as I reached underneath, pulled the lever and picked the hood up. “Something’s wrong with my car, and I don’t think you want to see it.”

She gasped, saying “Oh my God . . . “ when I opened up my hood. There was Scruffy, or should I say, what was left of her. Part of her tail was stuck on the serpentine belt, the remains of her body lay in front of the engine, and bits of hair, skin, brains and blood were sprayed all over the engine compartment. More blood and guts dripped onto the driveway from the engine block. Thankfully, the engine wasn’t hot enough that I could smell burned flesh and hair, but I could feel the bile rising in my throat as I contemplated how I was going to clean the mess up. Although my uncle had a farm, and I had killed many an animal during my summer sabbaticals from high school, I never really got used to the sight of blood. This was especially true when it was as grisly and repulsive as the now dismembered, and partly shredded, neighbor’s cat.

“What are we going to tell Rachel and Steve?”

It was one of those insanely obvious questions Janine made a habit of asking. I didn’t have an answer, though, as we really didn’t know them all that well. They had moved in about a year earlier, and kept pretty much to themselves. We had invited them to our gatherings, and they invited us over for theirs, but we never took each other up on the offers. They’d occasionally have friends over for drinks and a campfire in their backyard on Saturday nights, but we didn’t feel comfortable hanging out with people we didn’t really know. They returned the favor when we had friends and family over. Mostly, Steve and Rachel stayed in their house with all the windows and doors locked tight, while they watched TV or did whatever they did with themselves. We thought the cat was indicative of their personalities, and quite honestly didn’t want to take the time to get to know the owners of such a nasty beast any better.

It was up to me to knock on their door to tell them the bad news about their cat.

“I may as well just get it over with,” I said.

I walked slowly up the stairs to their porch, and rang their doorbell. I knew they were home because both cars were in the driveway, but I didn’t hear anything when I pressed the button for the bell. Figuring it was broken, I opened the screen door, and rapped three times loudly on the front door. Closing the screen door, I waited for what seemed like hours. Janine stood on our porch, hugging herself, wondering aloud if they were home. “No,” I said, after a minute. “There’s someone coming.”

Rachel opened the door, looking tired and somewhat surprised to see me. She was wearing a long t-shirt, and apparently nothing else. “Can I help you, Fred?”

“I hope so,” I replied slowly. “I . . . um, have a little problem. I . . . well . . . I was going to the store, you see, and heard a funny noise in my engine and . . . “

“Oh, you need a ride? Let me go get Steve.”

“No, that’s not it. Um . . . your cat . . . she’s all over the inside of my engine compartment. Rather, what’s left of her is.”

“Oooohh, shit. What the hell am I going to tell Steve? He loved that cat, letting him in and out every night. It was his ritual. I hate, or hated, the damn thing. She was always tearing up the curtains, scratching my legs and getting in my way. That’s why I was always kicking her out of the house.”

“Let me get him. I’ll be just a minute.” She went back in, almost shouting, “Hey Steve? It’s Fred from next door. Fluffy’s dead.”

I heard him say something unintelligible from upstairs. She turned around and told me through the screen door that he’d be down in a minute, and disappeared into the back of the house.

I waited on the porch, now a little more anxious, knowing that he actually liked the cat. It’s never good, breaking news like this to someone who cares for a pet. I know I’d be a little more than upset had a neighbor I barely knew woke me up on a Saturday morning to tell me our dog Shelby had escaped, and had been killed by their car. Nervously, I paced up and down their porch.

Steve came out wearing boxers and a wife-beater, with bits of shaving cream under his ears. His hair was wet, and he smelled strongly of skin care products. “What happened to Fluffy?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “I don’t know why she was in my engine compartment, but there isn’t much left of her to see, other than what’s in my driveway.” I pointed to the blood and guts stains that were starting to bake in the late morning sun. “I was going to the store, and discovered too late that she was inside there.”

“Ah, fuck. Good riddance though. I always hated that damn cat. She was always ruining our furniture, scratching it up all the time. She would sing all night, too, whether to get in the house or to be let out. I guess I’ll have to go back to the SPCA to get another one for the wife. She liked that cat for some reason. Rachel would always pick her up and carry her outside, especially when the cat tripped her up.”

I started laughing. This was too funny of a situation not to laugh. Considering the intense nervousness I had just experienced, it was the most logical reaction I could have.

“What’s so funny?” Steve asked.

“I’m sorry,” I said between chuckles. “Rachel just told me how much she hated that cat, and how much you liked it. Now you’re telling me how much you hated the cat, and how much she loved it.”

I continued laughing. “Apparently, no one – man or beast – liked Fluffy.”

Steve and I cleaned up my car, and buried Fluffy next to my garage where the garden was going to go. While we sprayed down the driveway. the girls decided to go to the store for steaks and beer, and the four of us had a barbeque. We sat around, ate, drank and talked all day. It turned out we had lots in common, from music to favorite movies to jobs to friends. Steve worked at another engineering firm not far from where I worked, so we could actually carpool most days. Janine and Rachel went to competing Catholic high schools, and had several common friends and acquaintances. It was quite late before the four of us went to bed, tired and quite drunk.

Janine and I didn’t put in the gardens we wanted to that weekend. We did make some good friends with the neighbors, much to our surprise. And it was all thanks to a cat that no one really liked.