Don’t Feed the Strays
First published
in Troublemaker Firestarter Volume 10 Fairweather 18/01/26
Big
yellow eyes stared at me from the end of the garden, from within the gloom of
the bougainvillea. Or was it the
hydrangea? I didn’t know; John had
planted them, and he loved those plants more than me. What I did know was that the eyes were bigger
than they should be, I think, or was that just my tiredness playing tricks?
“Don’t feed the strays.”
That’s
what John had told me when he left at the crack of dawn. Before he set off to abandon me for a
week. He said it was work. Ha. He
was probably fucking some rotted twink in a sleazy hotel.
“If
you feed them again George, they’ll just keep coming back,” he said. “They’ll mess up my plants.”
I
didn’t care about his plants.
Did
he speak like this to that floozie of his too?
I waited at the window,
staring into the dark of the back garden.
Trying not to think about John and his whore. The stray cats never came in the day, and I
spent the morning pacing, this afternoon arguing with her from number
six about leaving her bins out, and then this evening I pigged out on snacks
and stared out of the back window almost non-stop. I sat in the dark, my lights switched off. Waiting.
Watching. I didn’t have anything
else in my life. Not with John
abandoning me.
The yellow eyes had come to
keep me company.
Just
one cat tonight; there were usually more.
I
slipped from my perch, grabbed the pack of ham I kept at the ready, and
slithered to the back door as soundlessly as I could; I didn’t want to scare
away a new friend. I eased open the
door, not trusting the oil I’d applied to the hinges a couple of hours ago. A cold evening breeze tickled the bare skin
on my arms.
I
blinked against the dark gloom. The
night wasn’t as quiet as it should have been; amongst the windy whispers of the
bushes, the distant traffic of the motorway, and the wheeze of my asthmatic
lungs, interrupted the blare of late-night gameshows from the open windows of her
from number six.
“Sandra,”
I shouted, “turn that bloody shit down!”
Damn
it, what had I done? The yellow eyes had
gone.
I
ignored the “fuck off” I heard in response to my exclamation, dropped some ham
on the patio just in case the stray returned, and headed back inside.
I
was woken the next morning by a phone call from John. I didn’t tell him about the stray. I didn’t ask him about his rotted twink. I complained about her from number
six; he complained about work, though I didn’t believe him. I knew what he was doing, who he was doing,
and it wasn’t work that took his attention from me. This was all our relationship had become.
“Don’t
feed the strays,” he reminded me again.
And I thought that was exactly what he was doing with the guys he was
cheating on me with, feeding his strays.
I hated him, I think.
The
ham had gone when I checked, but anything could’ve taken it. I forced myself to believe it was the stray
cat from last night, though maybe it’d been her from number six; I
wouldn’t put it past her to scavenge meat from the floor.
I
returned to bed after that, slept the rest of the morning and most of the
afternoon, making up for the lateness last night and the lateness to come.
I
returned to my position at the window that evening, sitting and snacking in the
dark once more, staring out into my dingy back garden, scouring the bushes for
any glint of a yellow eye, any shadow in the gloom.
It
was almost 3am when I caught sight of something moving at the end of the
garden. A dark shape slinking along the
grass. Large. Maybe.
It was hard to tell its size in the pitch night.
I
was sure it was my stray cat.
I
hurried to the door with the ham and slipped out into the cold evening.
“Pss,
pss, pss,” I whispered. I tiptoed along
the patio and onto the grass. The shadow
had moved into the deep shade of the hydrangea/bougainvillea. It was there.
I knew it was there. “Pss, pss,
pss.” I tried to make my eyes adjust to
the darkness, to see it. To see the
cat. I could only see shadows. “Pss, pss, pss.” I waved the slimy slice like a maiden’s
handkerchief and crouched lower. I still
couldn’t see it. There was just a…
shape. “Pss, pss, pss.” I threw the ham into the bushes, and it fell
through the leaves and flowers as if there was nothing hiding beneath them. No concealed cat. But it had to be there. Had to be.
“Pss,
pss, pss,” I repeated, louder this time, and threw another piece of ham into
the flora. “Pss, pss, pss.”
The
cat was silent, but a cranky human voice replied instead. “Piss off George!” Her from number six. She screamed at me from her window.
I
returned a volley of insults and swears, some I’m not proud of, some I’m very
proud of, but it was no less than she deserved.
She gave as much as she got.
I
chucked the rest of the ham into the bushes and headed to bed.
John
woke me again the next morning.
Early. He called to break up with
me, to tell me it was over. That things
weren’t working out between us. I’d
known they weren’t. We both knew. I told him I loved him, and he said nothing
back. John told me we’d talk more when
he came back from his work trip.
Work. Ha! Sort out the divorce. I didn’t mention his rotted twink. I didn’t mention the stray. I didn’t even mention her from number
six.
I
hung up on him.
I
cried myself back into a restless and broken nightmare-ridden sleep.
When
I woke again, when I dragged myself out of bed, eyes red and swollen, it was already
evening. I couldn’t cry anymore.
I
slinked out to the shop, bought more ham for the stray cat, along with a bottle
of wine for myself. Two bottles. It was already dark by the time I reached my
street.
Her
from number six had her television turned up again, louder than usual, and I
banged and screamed on her door for five minutes telling her to show some
respect, but she ignored me. I think. I couldn’t hear anything inside over her
idiotic gameshows, and she had good reason not to reply. I was enraged. Furious.
I hated her, I think.
I
hurried home, embarrassed at my outburst.
As I
returned to my kitchen to spy for strays, I realised something wasn’t right. There was a coppery smell in the air. Metallic.
Fresh. Shivers ran up my arms
like static. I placed my shopping on the
counter and sought the source, checking the cooker and fridge, the lights,
making sure… I don’t know… making sure the electrics hadn’t blown, but no, they
were all working.
The
smell was strongest by the back door.
I
didn’t look out the window, though I probably should have; I swung open the
door and let the cold and dark night rush inside.
And
there on the patio was a gift.
A
mauled and bloodied gift.
I knew
about cats. I often fed the strays, much
to John’s displeasure. Not that he
mattered now. But something I knew about
cats, something I guess most people understand, is that sometimes cats like to
bring presents, as if they know you’ve forgotten the prehistoric hunt of your
ancestors, as if you’re a useless giant kitten who can’t feed themselves. Or was the real reason that the cat understands
tit for tat. You feed them and they feed
you. No.
This felt like more than that, like the stray cat had stalked the
neurons of my brain, pounced on my anger and fury and seen me.
There,
sprawled on my patio, laid out on display either for my banquet or for my
revenge, was her from number six.
Dead. Cleary dead. Her belly had been slashed open. Her viscera exposed, partially eaten. There were two big, bloodied punctures on her
neck. A deadly bite.
It
was no ordinary stray cat that’d done this.
I
couldn’t stop staring at her. I
felt sick.
A
deep and short growl broke my focus from the corpse, and I looked up. Me and her weren’t alone. Sat at the end of the garden near the bougainvillea
or hydrangea, nonchalant but arrogant like all cats, was the stray. It was huge, a big black cat, taller than me,
built of shadowy sinews and muscle. A
massive bulky shape in the dark. It was
almost invisible against the night, but its size was clear, its presence obvious. I knew it could kill me with one swipe. I could see its fangs, its curious neon eyes. It was watching me.
“Don’t
feed the strays,” that’s what John had told me.
He’d broken up with me for that rotted twink, abandoned me from afar. Left me alone.
“Don’t
feed the strays.”
He
wanted me to be lonely.
It
was almost funny.
I looked
back down at her from number six, at her corpse, and then stared back
into those yellow orbs by the bushes, and I knew why the big cat was here. I knew.
I knew why it’d picked me. Why it
had appeased with this gory gift at my feet.
“Don’t
feed the strays.”
I
knew why.
I
knew.
The End.
