Anguish of a House-Sat Cat

Marty Bachman

My diet has been reduced to canned food ever since my keepers left for vacation and the fat tart they employed for my own personal care threw the salmon steaks that were reserved for my lunch and dinner into the box freezer in the basement. She muddled down there for what seemed like an hour, and when I heard those meaty slabs she uses as thighs slapping together as she lumbered back upstairs, I slid against the doorframe and prepared to pounce, to take a bite out of one of those fleshy hooves and fight for what was mine! But then, I thought, what would happen to the poor freezing salmon? A sneak attack would only waste valuable time and make an enemy of the only being who could retrieve my precious fish from the icebox, a task I am incapable of performing myself.

My only hope was to smother her with affection. So as one of her chunky ankles passed by the door, I bristled my tail and shouldered into her calf with a purr.

Oh kitty.

I carved figure eights between her legs until she stooped to pick me up.

You must be hungry.

I allowed her to stroke my well-manicured coat as she walked around the living room, and I blinked my eyes to feign a look of ecstasy.

Listen to your little motor running. You’re not at all the devil they spoke of! Let’s get you some food.

But she was wasting time! The poor pink fish steaks were freezing in the basement. I wanted to swat at her to let me down and release me from the senseless stroking and pacing but wait, she began to tromp toward the basement dooryes, yes!

No. She walked past the basement and plunked me down beside my stinking bowl.

What is this foulness? Whiskas?

I can no longer be held accountable for my actions.

Pablo Garcia is a man who has traveled the world but still considers himself far away from home while staring at his navel.