Scraggles

(Fiction...) 

“Dead as dead can be, my doctor tells me, but I just can’t believe him….”  I whispered the words rapidly, with a hint of irritation, just under my breath.  The man across from me lifted his eyes from the partly smashed body bleeding on the table, and gave me a quizzical stare.

He could never know the hell I’ve been through. 

If she really was dead, I’d rejoice, because I ‘d know that tomorrow the cycle wouldn’t begin.  But I know the truth.  The truth is she’ll crawl out of her stinking hole once again and her calico butt will be waiting for me at my front door step.  Waiting for me to let her in.  And my heart will feel that repetitive glimmer of hope until something goes horribly wrong.  Until death claims her. Or maybe not.

I thought about the people in the waiting room, and wanted so desperately to give them this advice: Never take a stray cat home from a graveyard.  The situation in itself should be a clue that bad news is preparing to follow you to the gates of your personal sanctuary. That demons are already chomping at your heels, and that by voluntarily carting the creature to the one place you consider safe, you’ve effectively guaranteed that they will never leave.

I turned to my boyfriend, Salem.  He still didn’t get it.  He’d watched the nine lives queen die twice now, but still thought the vet had been mistaken.  I’d seen the cat bite it and resurrect six times, and I was betting on number seven.

“That’s it then.” he said, with a conviction that almost made me want to believe him.  I eyed his curly head, his calm blue eyes.  He was the picture of serenity.  Eventually he would understand.  Then he would leave me.

I shook my head.  My sweaty hands trembled.  I could see my reflection in the mirror over the sink that stood across from the stainless steel table where Scraggles lay.  (That’s what I’d decided to call her, since her long feline hair often became bedraggled with dirt and muck after a few days of living.)  Dark circles looked as if they’d been painted under my eyes, the blackened half moons were so even.  Every inch of my hair looked as if it wanted to find it’s own direction to travel, greasy shoulder length brown and golden tresses having had nervous fingers run through them several times in at least three unwashed days.

“What do you want to do with the body?” The vet wasn’t cold about it.  He was being practical.  With a room full of clients, his method of making a living was waiting.

“Cremate her.”  I said.  “I want the ashes in an urn.  How soon can you get it done?”

I hadn’t gone the route of fire yet, afraid of what kind of creature would come back from the flames.  But maybe this time she wouldn’t come back.  Maybe that would do the trick.

The vet stroked his chin thoughtfully.  “The bodies go out every Friday.  We get them by Monday.  You’re lucky it’s Friday.  We can send her out this evening.”

I made an audible sigh of relief.  Perfect. The problem was, there was no specific time-frame when her spirit came back.  It was as if the grimalkin blithely wandered the spirit world and made an impetuous decision to pester the living when it suited her best.  What if she managed to pull her little stunt before the cremation?

****

I picked up the urn from the vet on Tuesday.  The day was glorious, filled with the scent of decaying red maple leaves, damp earth from last night’s rain, and the aroma of someone’s early chimney fire.  The container was a simple black plastic thing, no bigger than a large apple, sealed along the edges of the lid with clear packing tape.  Attached to it was a little paper card from the vet pronouncing its sympathy for my loss.  I made a wry smile.

Placing the urn into the passenger side of my red Toyota, the paint on the vehicle chipped and faded with years of travel, the only thought that filled my brain at the moment was:  

What do I do with the urn?

I couldn’t take it home.  Having it there, sitting on a shelf, would always make me afraid that Scraggles would one day pop out of it and claim me as her human once more.

Driving along the winding country road, it was a while before I realized I was near a part of the James River where a bridge crossed one of the deepest areas of rushing water.  I pulled over.  Grabbing the urn, I got out of the car.  Autumn winds whistled through the arms of somnolent trees.  Perhaps it was nostalgia, or some weird need to say goodbye a bit more intimately, but I found myself kissing her urn just before I pulled my hand back and chucked the remains into the frothing white rapids below.

“Goodbye, Scraggles.”  I said, and let myself smile.   Then I turned the car towards home, making a mental note on the way back to stop at the grocery and buy cat-food.

(written via a Writing Prompt through Ventura Fiction Writers....)

(Image from Greykitty on DeviantArt.com)