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(Author’s note): I have just this evening made an impossibly stupid commitment. I have pledged to the soon-to-be-vacationing family of my eldest daughter that I will submit myself to taking care of their beloved cat. Almost exactly five years ago I made the same pledge.Here is the story of that week from hell as I wrote it at the time:
It’s not that far. The average person could walk three miles in an hour, maybe less. You can drive that far in three minutes or less…six minutes or more in town, depending on traffic. If you found yourself three miles from a Black Hole, you’d be lost to the universe forever in a fraction of a second. Three miles…it’s a relative thing, even though it’s an absolute, measured distance. I live three miles from one of the most incredibly beautiful creations on this entire planet, and if I had my way, I’d rather live three miles from a Black Hole.
Here’s the tale: in the heart of the peaceful borough of Sayre, there lives a family of six wonderful people. They own the most gorgeous cat ever seen by human eyes–long, smoky grey fur from nose to tail, softer than silk, and a face that portrays pure innocence and feline love. This fabulous creature draws the unsuspecting visitor in with a “come and pet me” look that is beyond resisting, as she lies alluringly across the top of the sofa. I leapt at the opportunity to spend a week cat-sitting while the family was away recently. A daily visit to make sure there was food and water, and a clean litter box, would be a pleasure…plus, if the glorious little beastie was out and about, we could become friends.
Day One…I unlocked the front door to find the little beauty sitting on the third step of the stairwell just inside the front foyer. She blinked politely as I said my helloes and reached out to offer a bit of a stroke under her chin. I don’t remember seeing what happened in that instant, but there was a flash of sharp pain from my elbow to my wrist and a fair smattering of red as my life blood found fresh openings to pour from. I heard a vicious hissing and a scramble of lightning-fast feet as I staggered backward through the door. Thoughts of cursing loudly, I’m sure, crossed my mind as I stumbled into the kitchen, to turn on the cold water full blast and thrust my wounded appendage under the flow. I rationalized that I had probably surprised and frightened the poor little kitty, by not being one of her family. It took about half a roll of paper towels to staunch the blood loss before I remembered why I was there. Fortunately the family had left a sizable bag of delectable cat food on the counter, so it was simply a matter of collecting the little darling’s food and water dishes from the adjoining dining room and filling them. It was, in fact, a perfectly laid trap. As I bent to gather the two bowls from the floor, a grey tornado erupted from under the dining table, completely equipped with buzz saws and fangs designed to carve me into bite-sized chunks and then dispose of the evidence. I no longer thought of cursing loudly–it became an automatic response. For an elderly person, I must say I was subconsciously impressed with how quickly I flung my soft bulk sideways out of death’s way, as the killing machine pile-drove itself against the wall. Shards of wallpaper, dry wall and wooden studs filled the air as I heaved myself to my feet and dashed for the front door, slamming it hard behind me.
Day Two: two pairs of Wranglers and four long sleeved shirts, steel-toed boots, heavy leather work gloves, and a hockey mask. It’s what every cat-sitter wears, isn’t it? Nonetheless, my heart was racing as my trembling hand turned the key in the front door lock, and I entered. I’m pretty sure there was ominous music coming from somewhere as I tiptoed through the house, my head on a swivel. Food rattling into an empty dish sounds like thunder when all you want is quiet. Same with the friendly rush of water from a sink faucet. Then there was the litter box to sift. A tiny tapping from somewhere in the house…like a child working secretly on hammering something together…or a cat with cat-sized power tools, assembling something dreadful to lay waste an old man’s body. I wasn’t going to go looking for whatever it was. I slunk safely to my car and made my escape.
Day Three: as I entered the Demon-PsychoCat’s lair, the corner of my eye caught something in the living room to my left. Something malevolent. A large towel was draped over what might have been a bear trap. I grabbed a small wooden stool that stood by the front door and tossed it into the center of the towel. The trap slammed shut with enough force to spray splinters into every piece of furniture in the room as I ducked into the hallway leading into the kitchen. I did an army crawl to the food and water dishes, sifted litter (she was obviously eating whatever I left in the food dish!). From there I made my getaway.
Day Four: what a transformation! The smoky vision of feline loveliness came to me with a look of contrition and wove herself around my ankles, purring contentedly as I strode cautiously toward her dishes. I spoke gently and made no show of my healing arm as I prepared to go about my tasks. I chatted; she purred, eyeing me intently, sincerely. It was a lie. It was all a clever ruse to get me to offer my hand in friendship. I’m typing with what’s left of my mangled fingers. I swear I never imagined anything alive could move as fast as that hideous animal’s talons. Do fingers regenerate?
Day Five: Starve, you evil thing! Your family will be home tomorrow…
Day Six: as dawn crept over the horizon, I checked my email for the good news of the impending arrival time of the unfortunate owners of the grey ghoul. This is what I read: “Dad, we won’t be home today. The car broke down. It’s in the shop. We only got three miles down the road. You don’t mind taking care of our precious little puddy for another day, do you? You only live three miles away.”
Contact Lloyd Davis at ldpsu74@yahoo.com
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The 2021 Athens Area High School Homecoming Parade was held on Wednesday, Oct. 6.
Scenes from the Sayre Homecoming Parade
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