Horror story (for a cat)

As I sit at the computer chowing down on butter-flavor-spray-fried potatoes smothered in cheese, I contemplate why I’m assaulting my stomach with comfort food.

There’s nothing left to do but write out the pain.

I arrived home around 4:30pm yesterday afternoon to this:  


                  FEED ME!!!  NOW!!!

Ho hum, the usual.

A half can of their favorite cat food remained in their dish from morning.  What made them think I was going to waste another can?  Tired, my head spinning, I  tuned into a podcast of Coast to Coast am about why big pharma is slime.

Ho hum, the usual.

What WASN’T usual?  The 2 hour nap dreaming about giant pills trying to eat me.  That’s enough to scare anyone out from under a comforter.

The first order of business?  Check my email.  Coon cat pranced onto the top of my desk, jumped on my lap, and proceeded to snuggle.

That’s what happens to a Florida cat when the temperature drops below 77.

Ho hum, the usual.

After an hour of Marathon cat petting, I spread some treats over the desk so that Coon Cat would vacate my lap without feeling slighted.  I took the opportunity to get the feeling back into my legs while he leisurely munched, wondering why his brother wasn’t trying to squeeze him out to get a few of the little heart-shaped nuggets.

That’s when I remembered I hadn’t fed them at the ho-hum-usual time.

I shared the remainder of 10 hour old cat food with 4 eager doggies, opened the front door armed with a can opener and let the whoosh of salmon scented air flow through the atmosphere.

Coon cat began to rub on my legs.  Other brother coon cat was nowhere to be found.

I called, hunted, shook the treat bag.  Nothing.  Ho hum was quickly turning into, “Please God, bring him home in one piece.  I can’t afford a $500 vet bill.”

Over the next few hours, I added to one of my books-in-progress, petted the Coon cat on my lap, walked outside into the starry night with a flashlight and called…and called…and…

Nothing.  Not a scream, a meow, nor a glance of Halloween eyes peering at me from a tree.  2am rolled around and I asked my husband (who was now awake) if he’d seen Other Brother Coon Cat.    Irritated, he said, “No.”

The writer’s imagination spirals down from, “He’s probably just being a cat,” to “OMG!  What if there’s a neighbor trapping cats and OBCC is shivering his frightened little heart out in the 70 degree weather waiting for us to save him?  What if he’s in a soundproof room screaming, ‘Me-mom…Me-mom…Me-ow…Me…ow’ watching the guy sharpen his cleaving knife surrounded by the bones of cats before him.  What IF***?!?!?!?!?!?!***”

As I lay in bed with dogs flanking both sides, my husband asked, “Have you found him?”

“No,”  I replied with a tiny whine.

“I’ll see if I can find him for you,”  He said kindly, fetching the flashlight.

15 minutes later, I was asleep.  That was 2:30am.  A mere 5 hours later, I hit the door jam trying to rush to the bathroom.  As I sat on my porcelain throne, close to tears, I contemplated a stream of thought.  Why wasn’t I psychic so I could save my kitty?  Why…Why?!!!?

There was nothing left to do but give 4 dogs the remaining 3 teaspoons of canned cat food from the night before, open another can of cat food for Coon Cat, and sigh.  

That’s when I heard the sound of flaps from the dog door.


Other brother coon cat, his foot-long tail held high, came strutting in like he owned the place.  

If he’d run to me frightened, or had the decency to elicit a pitiful ‘me-sorry,’ things might have been different.  Instead, he stopped 3 feet away and leisurely scratched his chin with a back paw.

Oh, the rage of a human with too much worry and not enough sleep!  I admit it!  I did the unthinkable!!!

I grabbed an implement of torture, assaulting the helpless, unsuspecting creature.


I sprayed every inch of the thankless wonder with Front Line!!!!

Now, instead of owning the world, he’s wet-cat rawring out a pitiful ‘me-why?’ 




I’ll rationalize my actions by saying that the flea biting his chin never had a chance.  But we all know the truth.  Rage has no excuse and I just have to live with the consequences of my actions.

lap cat