Day 285 - Cat Story

Cat Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Some cats are good luck. Some cats are bad luck. Cleo was a moody and temperamental cat. That, George knew. He didn’t know about the rest. George had never believed in the whole black cat equals bad luck idea, and he certainly didn’t subscribe to any magical scenario such as “familiars” or concepts like that. He did, however, like the idea of the majesty of cats. A symbol of grace and poise, Cleo was not, but George still appreciated the imagery. He didn’t worship them or anything crazy like that, but he did find the history interesting and thought it made for a fascinating story. He went so far as to name his cat Cleopatra, even though his cat was male. He shortened it to Cleo, but in his heart of hearts he always thought of cats as being somewhat feminine, so adhering to a masculine name wasn’t all that important.

George lived alone in a small and cramped studio apartment. Cleo was on a very short list of George’s friends. George realized the full implications of this realization, but he tried to bury it in the back of his mind as much as he could. He wasn’t particularly lonely; he just didn’t want to start talking to Cleo so much that he actually expected some sort of answer. Either way, despite the fact that Cleo could be less than devoted, George believed Cleo did indeed like him to some degree, or could at least appreciate where the food came from.

George was woken one night by a loud crashing sound. Disoriented and still a little night blind, he leapt from his bed, only to promptly crash into his desk. The studio was far too small for all the furniture he had in place. George rubbed his foot, but it didn’t feel like there was any blood. He took another step forward and tripped on his desk chair. Off balance, George fell forward and hit against a bookshelf. Before he knew what happening, he was falling back again, but this time he had the bookshelf in tow. Maybe he had grabbed it in an attempt to balance himself. Maybe it had been ready to tip over. He wasn’t sure. His back hit the desk chair and then the bookshelf hit him and everything went black.

George woke up on the floor, the bookshelf on top of him. His sides and back hurt badly. He was on his side and the bookshelf was pinned on top of him. It was a vintage bookshelf, made from thick and sturdy wood. That meant it was heavy. Very very heavy. He tried to move, tried to turn himself off his side and onto his back, so he could get both hands on the shelf. The results were less-than-stellar. He wished he had worked out more. He wished he had bought a lighter shelf. Something was pinching his legs in a bad way. Something on his side felt broken. He was lacking feeling in his trapped left arm.

This was not a good situation. George screamed out. He wasn’t sure if his neighbor was home or not, but he was going to make sure he made enough noise to wake anyone that was in a waking distance. George yelled and yelled for help. He was sure it was only a matter of time before someone heard and came.

Cleo appeared. George wasn’t sure why, but it made him feel a little bit of real relief. Not that he believed Cleo could do anything to help him out of this situation, but it made him actually believe that some other help would be coming soon. Plus he didn’t want to be alone right now. It just made him feel better to have some company.

Cleo licked his face and rubbed up against him. He thought at first the cat was being affectionate. George realized he loved his cat and now, apparently, he knew his cat loved him.

But George was wrong. Dead wrong.

Cleo turned feral and took a big bite.

George screamed, this time in a different way.

George wished that he had done something to limit Cleo’s claws and teeth. Between moments of pain George had a passing thought, he wondered if somehow Cleo had arranged for all of this – the shelf ready to fall, the chair out of place to trip him, and the loud noise that woke him. Cleo, it turned out, was a mean and terrible cat and a mastermind of evil.