Holy shit Zette can I relate. My story starts with memories of cat piss but becomes so much more.
We’ve taken good care of Ember. In fact I used to be a cat lover, even after my childhood cat Spats pissed on my head while I was sleeping. You can’t just wash that off with a little soap and water. But when I moved out on my own, I resolved: NO CATS. They smell like urea and I’m slightly allergic to the dander. Better to not.
Until Mom’s second husband. His psycho bitey dog eventually had to be put to sleep, but long before that we had to rescue Ember from her dire fate of cowering in the basement everyday with the spiders.
Ahh, beloved Ember. She’s so affectionate, beautiful, and fluffy. You see her, she jumps on your lap and purrs, you love her. Everyone loves her. We’ve kept her well these last 8 years. In that time, she’s killed: 1 waterbed mattress, 1 pair cowboy boots, 3 couches. I touch her too much I break out in spots. Once again, we kept her well. We figure she’s 16 now. When God forbid, she dies, this we know: there’ll be NO MORE CATS.
And two months ago we got our wish. She disappeared. Ember likes to go outside; perhaps she succumbed to the elements: a stray dog, kitty angina, death by automobile. We had nursed her through her stroke six years ago. We came to find it cute that she always runs around crosseyed with her head askew. She don’t get around much anymore. We carry her to her food dish, she mau-maus down, then she vomits. No way could she have been missing these two weeks and still be not dead. Somberly I told my neighbors.
Stephanie says, "The fluffy kitty with the grey fur and the askew head? No she’s not dead. I just saw her on Tuesday.” I think, “Uh-huh, Stephanie. That’s what you saw.” Two days later Stephanie knocks on my door. “Ember is alive. I saw her again yesterday and Jonathan saw her today around two o’clock. Maybe if you leave some tuna out on the porch for her she’ll come back.” She loves to give me pet advice. With clenched teeth, I say, “Yes, you’re right.” Internal monologue: “Stephanie, you mess with the Tarot deck and the tea leaves long enough, you’re gonna see a ghost. You saw Ember’s ghost. Now hurry up and run along and leave me alone.”
Here’s what’s up: the creepy guy in the garden apartment stole Ember. We know this because he has no blinds. We never noticed this because he likes to lounge on his couch in the nude, so we avert our eyes. But sure enough, there’s Ember, licking herself in the basement. If she licks too vigorously, she falls off the table. She’s feebleminded, you see. I know John the Creep is fully aware that he stole my cat: he asked me who she was one time. One day I will kick him in the nuts – but not today.
When I tell this story, the inevitable response is: “Hope you get your cat back!” But that’s the moral to my story. I don’t want the cat back. I’ve already completed the fifteen minutes of grieving, emptied the litter box, and put the food dishes in storage. I’m never turning back. NO MORE CATS. She seems happy down there with John the Creep. So that’s it. Except something has to be done about John…