Читать книгу Short Stories: Long Way Around the Short End - James Hill - Страница 7

Killing Cats

My wife is a hoarder. And it’s getting worse.

In the beginning, it wasn’t that way. We’ve been married for ten years: nine of them happily, this last one not so much. That is when she developed her obsession.

My wife doesn’t hoard clothing or shoes, antiques or knickknacks, yard sale mementos or garage-room junk, nothing like that. She hoards cats. That’s right, cats!

We probably have close to a hundred. There’s no way to get an accurate count because they move around too much, and after a while, they all start looking the same. We have so many, in fact, that they rotate in shifts between the house and the outdoors, not all of them being able to fit inside at one time.

We never had children, and I guess that’s a good thing. They would have nowhere to live. The only room that is forbidden to them is my study, which I keep locked. I’ve even moved a cot and microwave in there where I can sleep and eat in peace.

It’s not just waking up with a tail (or worse) under your nose, but it’s everything else as well. It’s the ammonia from cat spray that burns your eyes when you enter the house, the little bits of cat litter found in every room, the fur balls on your sofa, and the cat fur that seems attracted to your finest clothes. And it’s the predatory eyes and meows when you’re trying to eat.

Luckily, I sell farm equipment and travel a lot and don’t have to deal with it as much. But the drive back home is always with dread.

I’ve always heard rabbits are prolific breeders, but cats have to run a close second. Most of the ones we have now are the offspring of the few she started out with.

I’ve mentioned to Edith on several occasions about getting rid of some. That suggestion is met with the same reaction every time: first, she throws a fit; then, she has a seizure; and she ends it all by saying how unbearable it would be to lose any of her babies. I tell her they’re not babies, just cats, and she has another seizure.

Sometimes, one will run off, get run over by a car, or get sick and die. But let me say the birth rate is much higher than the mortality. One time when some of them got distemper, she mentioned to me about getting them vaccinated. That’s when I threw my fit. I explain that it would take three vans to carry them in, that I don’t have Donald Trump’s money to doctor them with, and that there aren’t enough vets in town to see them all.

Could I carry my car full then? I put my foot down. The only two cats I will carry to the vet are the only two she has that are full-blooded. They are two Siamese she has papers with: the male is Singing Sammy Lee Jr. and the female is Fancy Mae West.

“Besides,” I tell her, “the cat food bill is astronomical.”

“Oh, Lester,” she says, “you make good money, and the cats are very appreciative.”

“I would appreciate spending more of it on ourselves,” my reply.

“That would be living selfishly, Lester.”

I mentioned one time that maybe a medical professional could help her with her problem. That is when she had her worst seizure ever. That idea was never mentioned again.

I love my wife. I don’t want to leave her, but I also know I can’t keep on living like this.

I even mention it to my doctor during my annual company physical. “Doc, is there a way to give someone an allergy to cats?” I ask him.

“I don’t think so.” He looks at the red rashes on my arms, around my neck, and under my nose. He laughs. “But it looks as if you’ve developed quite a nasty one though.”

The only reason you haven’t seen us on the news, with animal control rushing in and caging up truckloads of cats and authorities carting our asses off for animal neglect, is because we live in a rural part of the county. Our closest neighbors, Herb and Clara Edwards, live a quarter mile away with woods in between. In fact, woods surround my house, and maybe that’s a good thing.

* * * * *

I walk the quarter mile by road one day to have a beer with Herb and discuss my problem with him.

“That’s easy, Les. Just take your rifle and start shooting them.”

I just about choke on my first swallow of beer. “Are you crazy? She would either take the rifle and start shooting at me or have to be institutionalized. I have to devise a plan for getting rid of them without her knowing I’m behind it.”

Herb thinks for a minute. “Look around us, Les.” We are standing at his shed, so I do. “There are critters in these woods who would gladly kill and eat a cat.”

“And how do you propose I advertise cats are on the menu?” I ask.

“You have to bring them to you. Lure them in with bait, and when they see the cats, presto, problem solved.”

“The only things I’ve baited,” I tell him, “are deer with apples and corn and fish with earthworms, and neither of those kill cats.”

“I’m thinking more along the line of Alpo. Buy some cases of it, and set some bowls out around the edge of the woods. The meat is cheap, has a fatty content, and the smell will entice animals from near and far.”

“That could bring up anything.”

“Nothing dangerous. We don’t have any bears in this area, and bobcats are few. It will bring coyotes who are skittish around people but notorious small pet killers. And it will attract raccoons and possums too.”

“I didn’t know they eat cats.”

“I don’t know that they do, but they will kill a cat over the Alpo, and that’s one less cat you have to worry about.”

I think about it for a minute. “It sounds like the long way around the short end to me. But at this point, I’m willing to try anything, no matter how asinine your plan may be.”

Herb rubs his chin, thinking some more. “I may have something better. We have lots of barn owls around here. They would cart a cat off in a minute.”

“How do I get the owls and cats together?”

“We need something to attract them both. He throws his arms up into the air. “I’ve got it…what do owls like most?”

“Female owls?”

“Well, that too…I’m talking rabbits.”

I give it some thought. “I don’t know,” I say. “Rabbit trapping sounds harder than dumping cans of dog food.”

“No, Les.” Herb gives me an exasperated look. “You spread rabbit pellets around the yard. The rabbits come for the pellets, the cats come for the rabbits, and the owls come for both, taking the cat away because they are competing for the same food source. Problem solved.”

“It could work I guess.” I finish my second beer. “Thanks for the beer, Herb. I’ll go to the store soon.”

I’ve walked almost to the end of his driveway when he comes running.

“Wait, here’s the best one yet.” He tells me about this guy he works with who owns a dog whose claim to fame is being a cat killer. “I’ve seen him. He’s a big, mixed breed named Bruno. He will tolerate people and other animals, but when a cat comes around, he goes into monster mode. It’s not a pretty sight.

“I’ll see if Bill will let me borrow him for a week. We will let him roam freely between your house and mine. Bruno should have all those cats taken care of in that amount of time.”

“See what you can do.” And I start the walk back to my house.

* * * * *

So we’ve come up with three courses of action:

Plan A: Bruno, the cat-killing dog

Plan B: Owls, rabbits, and pellets

Plan C: Alpo and everything else

Will any of them work? Who knows? But I don’t feel good about it.

I decide to go to the Farmer’s Dollar today in case Bruno doesn’t work out.

* * * * *

Benny, the clerk and local boy, watches me wheel the hand truck up with everything I need. He looks at the five cases of Alpo, the two big bags of rabbit pellets, and the six large plastic dog bowls. He comes around the corner to scan them.

“Wow, Mr. Addison,” he exclaims. “You used to come in just for birdseed.”

“I don’t feed the birds anymore, Benny. Not since we’ve acquired all the cats.”

He looks at the stack once more. “Are you starting a zoo out there?”

“Trying to get rid of one,” I grin at him.

When I get back to the house, I hide the tools of my new trade in the garage.

* * * * *

The next morning, my phone rings. It’s Herb.

“I’ve got Bruno here. Come over. I want you to meet him.” The dog is a big brute, and I see how he got his name. Herb hands me a dog biscuit. “Give him this, and let him get used to you.”

I hold it out, and it’s gone in one gulp. The dog licks my hand, and I rub his big head. The plan is set.

“I will walk him down the trail to your backyard today. Let him get the scent of cat. Then at dusk, I will take him to the head of the pathway, give him another dog biscuit, and send him your way,” Herb states breathlessly, excited by all this intrigue. “At the same time, you place a bowl of cat food on your end. That should get the party started.”

“Do you think it will work?” I whisper, going along with his secretive scheme.

“No doubt in my mind. You better be up before Edith the next morning to clean up Bruno’s handiwork.”

“Don’t worry about that,” I whisper again.

* * * * *

The next morning, I get up before dawn, go out on the back porch to enjoy my pipe and to see if Bruno is true to his reputation. Sure enough, four still forms lie in the grass, and the cat bowl has been overturned.

I put the pipe down and go to the shed for the shovel and wheelbarrow. As I do the cleanup, I start doing the math. If Bruno does four to six cats a night, he will have done twenty-eight to forty-two by week’s end. That will put a sizeable dent in them.

As I scoop each cat up, I notice each one has a broken neck.

That Bruno really is a beast!

There is only one thing I can do with the dead cats. I wheel them down to the woods in back. A path takes me down a good distance and ends at a small stream. I go left and eventually come upon an old gold mine that was abandoned many years ago. I turn the wheelbarrow up, the carcasses slide out, and they fall many feet below.

I know it sounds cruel, but there’s nothing else I can do. I don’t have the time nor the energy to bury every cat we have. And if I did, Edith would become suspicious at all the small plots of upturned earth. And when she noticed the herd thinning out, she would put two and two together, put her foot up my ass, or have another stroke.

When I get back, I wash up, and the phone rings shortly thereafter. “Well, how did it go?” Herb asks.

“He got four that I know of,” I answer. “There could be more in the woods.”

“That Bruno. I told you he was good. Are we on again tonight?”

“Yes. Let’s try it again.”

I go back outside and remove the overturned bowl from the scene of the crime.

* * * * *

Daybreak the next day, I grab my pipe and slip outside to see what last night’s results were. I’m shocked to see only one figure lying in the yard, and it’s not a cat—it’s Bruno!

I step out into the yard and survey the damage. Bruno has been raked up pretty good, and the part with the most fur missing is around the neck, with it being partly torn open. It looks as though Bruno had his wind choked off. I look up at the cat bowl to see five of Edith’s biggest tomcats sitting there staring at the dead dog and me. It looks as if they’re grinning.

I take out my cell phone and dial Herb up.

“Hello,” he answers with sleep in his voice.

“You better get down here fast. Something has happened to Bruno.”

A short time later, I hear boots tromping down the trail. I’m standing by Bruno and the wheelbarrow when Herb exits the woods.

“What the hell happened?”

I point to the five big cats still by the bowl.

“They may have had a hand in it. Or it could be one of the few bobcats you say we have exacting revenge for cat’s rights.” I lift the wheelbarrow and situate it closer. “I thought you’d bring the truck.”

He looks at the dead dog. “I can’t take Bruno back to Bill looking like that.”

“You want to take him home and bury him?”

“Hell no. Clara knows Bill’s wife.”

“I have a suggestion.”

He helps me lift the dog and fit him in the wheelbarrow the best we can. His head and tongue drooping over the handled end, and his ass hanging over the scooped one. We roll him down to the mine and dump him in, joining the cats he killed the night before.

“What are you going to tell Bill?”

“I don’t know, but he’s going to be pissed.”

* * * * *

I give Herb a call later that day after he’s home from work. “How did it go with Bill?”

“I told him Bruno either ran off, or somebody stole him…I wasn’t sure which.”

“And what did he say to that?”

“Said he would punch me in the nose if I ask to borrow anything again.” He pauses a beat. “What are you going to do now?”

“I guess I’ll go to plan B.”

“Good luck with that. Let me know how it goes.”

Not long after hanging up with him, my phone rings in.

“Lester, this is Ralph.”

“What’s up, boss?”

“I need you to drive to Georgia day after tomorrow. We have a dealer there who wants a presentation on our new grain threshing machine, the T-24.”

“I can do it.”

“Do you have a brochure on it?”

“Yes. I picked one up the last time I was in the office.”

“Good. Guy says there could be two other parties interested. Could be a three-day trip. I will e-mail you all the other information you need.”

“Will do, Ralph.”

“Oh, one other thing. You know the Farm Equipment and Trade Show is in Kansas City this year.”

“I remember.”

“Well, since the home office is located there too, the powers that be have decided to hold a sales seminar afterward. Tell Edith we will be gone closer to two weeks than one.”

“She will be glad to have me out of her hair for that long.”

He laughs. “So will my wife.”

* * * * *

Since my timeline has been amped up, I need to speed the process up also. It’s time to bear all arms and bring both plans of action together at one time. That should create one three-ring circus.

Boy! Was I right…or wrong about that? Depends on how you look at it.

The first thing I do is take a bag of pellets and spread half around the backyard. Then, I remove a can of Alpo and one of the bowls from the garage and take them to the house for the can opener. I slip up and leave the empty can in the kitchen trash.

I take the bowl outside and place it at the entrance to the trail from Herb’s house. I already see three rabbits munching on the pellets.

Ol’ Herb might just know what he’s talking about.

On my return trip to retrieve the opener for the other five cans, I find Edith wiping fur from the counter, getting ready to prepare supper, a cigarette with inch-long ash dangling from her lips. The can is sitting at the edge of the counter.

“What is that?” she asks as the ash falls.

“The label says Alpo.”

“I know what it says. Where did you get it?”

“Herb gave it to me,” I lie.

“Herb doesn’t have a dog.”

“I didn’t ask him how he came about it. He just gave it to me.”

“Well, we don’t feed our babies this stuff. They need good by-products.”

I know. They can’t eat the dry bulk sold at Farmer’s Dollar. They are spoiled on the moist stuff with expensive names like Fancy Feast and Kitty Cuisine.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I hide the opener in my pocket, get a plastic grocery bag, put the can in it, and start outside.

“I’ve noticed you’ve been spending a lot of time outside, lately.”

“I’ve found my pipe tastes better in the fresh air.”

“It sure makes the air better in here.”

How can you tell with the cat-piss ammonia cloud hanging overhead?

“And since I’m on the road so much, I’ve found enjoyment in the peacefulness of nature.”

I better stop while I’m ahead.

“I’ll call you when supper’s ready,” she cuts me off.

I make my way outside and fill the five remaining bowls with Alpo. Putting the cans inside the bag with the other empty, I notice one more rabbit has joined the pellet-eating party, and some of the cats have taken notice as well. I set the cans under the porch and carry one bowl down to the gold mine path. The other four are placed in strategic positions along the perimeter.

In the distance, I hear an owl hoot and a coyote howl. Yeah. This show ought to get good tonight. I take a seat and have a smoke before dinner.

* * * * *

After supper is over, my wife goes back for her bath, and I step outside to see if anything is happening yet.

Nothing so far, but things are looking good—the stage is being set.

The sun is low in the sky. A possum is eating from the bowl at Herb’s trail. Another rabbit is in the yard, and an owl has perched on the big oak by my shed surveying the scene.

Most of the cats are watching from under the porch or the edge of the woods, so I move a cat bowl closer to the dog bowl the possum is eating out of. That should hasten the process.

Before I can take my seat, I hear what I take to be a wing flap. I look to see the owl leave the tree and swoop down and snatch a rabbit away from a cat that was stalking it. It flies up into a tall pine tree overlooking the two bowls I’ve placed together and begins to have dinner itself.

The owl had its choice of either one, cat or rabbit, and it chose rabbit. This leads me to believe that rabbit must be the better meat, which could shoot Herb’s theory all to hell.

I go inside to relieve myself and to get my pipe and bag of tobacco. I think I deserve a drink too. And since I don’t have any beer in the refrigerator, I take a bottle of Edith’s fine white wine. And since she’s going to be pissed anyway, I grab one of her nice wine glasses.

On my return to the porch, it’s dusk now, and I see a damn cat eating from one of the Alpo bowls, and a raccoon has set a place at the cat’s bowl beside the possum. And the owl, full from its rabbit dinner, has decided to roost early in the pine.

I pour some wine, light my pipe, and start to think, This isn’t looking good at all. Herb’s theories are blowing up all around me, and Edith’s theory on good by-products has been debunked.

The streetlight over my shed has come on, and the moon has come up as darkness settles in. The area is illuminated well. I call the light my meth-head lamp. We have had a rash of break-ins in the community lately. The items most desired are tools, lawnmowers, and fishing equipment—things for fast cash and quick dope. So far, the light outside (and maybe me inside with my rifle) has kept the dopers away. Out here, good lighting is a plus.

Edith’s cat patrol of a hundred or so could have something to do with it too.

A coyote skulks from the woods and goes to the bowl where the cat is eating. The startled cat runs right through the coyote’s legs, and the canine gives the feline free pass, gulping down the Alpo instead.

Yep. All of Herb’s theories are falling by the wayside, and his grand scheme is topsy-turvy. But still, I think it will be fascinating to see how it all plays out.

I pour myself another glass of wine and repack my pipe.

The coyote looks my way, wags his tail, and whines pitifully, begging for more Alpo. I’m not about to get up. “Move to another bowl,” I yell.

That settles it. Cat meat must not be very tasty. The only reason cats are killed by other animals is because they’re not very well-liked.

I’m turning up my glass when the scream echoes. If you’ve never heard the scream of a bobcat before, it’s especially terrifying when you’re not expecting it. It is sudden and causes a chain reaction: I drop the glass of wine, it bounces once on the porch, and the stem breaks off. The owl poops from the tree, and it falls into the bowl the raccoon is eating from. The raccoon, thinking the possum has flung it at him, runs over and slaps the possum while it’s eating. They commence to fighting. The five big tomcats, excited by the affray, come running out and join in. And the coyote, displeased at the rudeness of the other diners, intervenes by biting down on one of the cats.

The commotion has gotten quite loud, and I see the light come on in our bedroom. That’s when the second scream sounds out and yellow eyes appear from the gold mine path. The fighting stops, and everything that can run does.

It’s a large bobcat, and he’s coming through the yard to the porch. I don’t know if the cans under the steps are attracting him, if he enjoys white wine, or if he wants to meet the organizer of this event, but I’m not waiting around to find out. I slip through the backdoor to get my rifle behind it. When I turn back around, my foot hits the wine bottle spilling it. My other foot rolls over, causing my arm to come up and fire a shot through the roof of my porch.

The shot sends the bobcat on its way.

Edith comes out, snatches the gun from my hand, and breaks the stock over the porch railing. “It sounds like a damn saloon brawl out here.” She surveys the aftermath. “You’re on probation, mister!” And she storms back into the house.

A little while later, I peek my head around the bedroom door. “I think I’ll sleep in the study tonight.”

“Good,” she says.

* * * * *

I’m up early to clean the mess and tally the damage: an owl who either had a heart attack or was hit by the errant bullet, a broken rifle and a hole that needs patching, two dead cats and a mortally wounded possum, one broken crystal wine glass, and a turned-over bottle of high-priced wine. Edith would add one drunk to this list, but I was not.

Everything is loaded together and dumped in the gold mine.

I take everything of the failed experiment, a bag and a half of rabbit pellets, four cases and eighteen cans of Alpo, and six dog bowls, and take it all down to the local veterinary clinic. They are glad to have it.

I stop by Herb’s on my way in.

“That was some brouhaha at your place last night. How did our plan work?”

“They failed miserably,” I answer.

“They? I didn’t mean to combine the two.”

“Combined, or on their own, the general consensus is that cat meat is not very good.”

“So, what’s on the agenda now?” he asks me.

“There is no agenda. I leave on a three-day sales call tomorrow. Hopefully, that will give her time to cool off.”

“Damn, what happened there last night?”

I tell him everything, including the broken wine glass, the hole shot through my roof, and Edith breaking my rifle in half.

“You’re lucky she didn’t turn the gun on you.”

“Tell me about it,” I say. “She put me on probation.”

“Probation?” Herb looks perplexed. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t know everything it entails, but a certain privilege has been revoked…if you know what I mean.”

He looks at me sadly. “I think I do.”

* * * * *

When I return from the Georgia trip, Edith greets me with a big hug, a deep kiss, and tells me she missed me. She seems sincere. I guess the incident in the backyard is forgiven.

Soon, Herb calls me on the phone. “Get up here. I have the plan of all time.”

Again, we are by his shed having a beer. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before,” Herb says, “and it’s so much easier.” He goes over his new plan with me.

At first, I want to reject it wholeheartedly; after all, I could still be on probation. Even though it sounds far-fetched, it is simple, and it could work. And it would be nice to have only two cats by the time I leave out for Kansas City.

“What if she recognizes your voice?” I ask.

“I studied drama in high school and have a variety of accents. No problem there.”

“I don’t know…”

“Trust me. This will work. Just get me one of those burner cell phones and bring Singing Sammy Lee when Edith goes to the beauty shop.”

* * * * *

A short time later, Herb and I are standing outside the shed with Sammy Lee inside. I hand him the untraceable cell phone, and he dials up Edith, putting the speaker on for my benefit.

“I have your prize cat,” Herb says in a high-pitched voice that sounds Swedish.

“Do what?” I hear her say.

“Just offer up your other cats for adoption or turn them over to the animal shelter. You can keep the other Siamese, and when the other cats are gone, Sammy Lee will return.”

“Sammy Lee stays in the house,” she replies. “And how do you know his name?”

I’m making gestures at my neck.

“I don’t know…maybe your husband let him out. And his name is on his collar, along with your number.”

Whew! That was close.

“Is this Herb? You sound like Herb.” I’m making slicing motions on my neck now.

No! No! Abort! Abort!

“I don’t know who this Herb fella is,” he says in a deeper tone with a sinister Russian accent. “Just follow my instructions.”

“Tell Lester he better have Sammy Lee home when I get there…and he better follow mine. You and Clara up for a game of Rook on Friday?”

“You got it,” and he clicks her off.

Idiot!

* * * * *

The cat wraps around her leg and purrs when she gets home.

“I don’t know if you and Herb are getting senile or going through a midlife crisis, but these pranks involving my babies have got to stop. That’s strike two, Lester. You don’t want to see what happens if you strike out.”

I sleep in the study for the remaining nights until my trip. When someone has put you on probation and given you the three-strike rule, it’s best not to lie down beside them at night.

* * * * *

I’ve been busy as hell here in Kansas City, but I’ve managed to call Edith the first three nights with no answer. She’s probably still mad at me. But on the sixth day with no answer, I become concerned and call Herb. Clara answers.

“Clara, this is Les.”

“Hi, Les, how are things in the big city?”

“Busy. Would you mind checking on Edith? She hasn’t answered her phone in a week, and I’m worried about her.”

“You’re right. That doesn’t sound like her. Yeah, I’ll go check and call you back.”

She doesn’t call back for two hours, heightening my concern even more. When she finally does, I can tell she’s been crying.

“Sorry it’s taken so long to get back. It was horrible, Les.” She starts sobbing again. “So terrible.”

“Calm down, Clara, and tell me what’s wrong.”

There’s a brief pause. She stops crying and says in a jittery voice, “Edith’s dead, Les.”

My God.

“Take it easy, Clara. What happened?” I ask in a voice beginning to get shaky.

“The medical personnel think she tripped over a cat, fell down the stairs, and broke her neck. She’s been dead for days, and with nothing to eat, the cats started eating on her.”

Oh, my God!

“I’m sorry you had to see that, Clara. I’m catching the next flight out.”

I call my boss and explain what has happened. I call the airlines to book the next available flight. And I call my realtor, telling him to put the house on the market. There’s no way I can go back to living in it.

As I’m packing my things, I think of an old saying with a slight variation: When the salesman’s away, the cats will play.