I wasn't looking for the horror that transfixed me as I lumbered out into the garden with my ailing, aging French bulldog, Miss Avalon. Sunlight pried open my rheumy eyelids as I heard Miss Avvy stir, I knew that my husband, deep asleep, would never get my incontinent girl outside in time.
Sleepily, I put on my soft, pale green bathrobe and went into the living room, opening the backdoor for our two younger dogs, Sparky and Remi Gris-Gris, who yelped with joy at the sight of our neighbor's Herefords who always declined to reciprocate the greeting. I walked over to Miss Avalon who required that I lift her dowager body and I struggled to carry her to the front door. Descending the stairs barefoot I shivered as I stepped out onto the cold, crisp autumn dew that covered the grass and flower garden.
As Miss Avalon attended to her business, I checked the state of my cheerful marigolds, bright Icelandic poppies and fragrant Russian sage. I was sluggishly considering whether to postpone the weeding for yet another day -- or even until spring -- when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of a lithe, dark silhouette -- our grey and white cat, Oscar.
Oscar was recommended to us by SPCA volunteers as a loving older house cat. One staff member placed Oscar in the arms of my husband, Rick, who was completely taken by his pale green eyes. Oscar purred and snuggled even deeper into Rick's arms as if to say "You see? I am the perfect house cat." When we brought him to our vet for his first checkup, she idly remarked that he had the largest canines she had ever seen in a domesticated cat; a comment that, at the time, went unnoticed.
Soon, after several determined galloping escapes from our home, Oscar made it clear that he preferred to sit beneath our ornamental grasses like a pride leader on the Serengeti. He quickly displayed skill in catching small vermin in our nearby woods and fields. My husband overlooked this murderous potential when Oscar neatly dispatched the red squirrel population that had ravaged our garage. Our dogs gave his silent presence wide berth as he perched on top of a recliner and casually sliced at them as they walked by. Our comfort level began to evaporate as his penchant for the hunt grew.
Some months later, on what we came to refer to as The Night of the Long Knives, Oscar demonstrated a new artistic side, not only massacring an entire chipmunk family -- mother, father and children -- but arranging their little corpses in an almost perfect straight row along the sidewalk that we had just constructed. It was clear that we had a serial killer in our midst, but one who, up to that sleepy September morning, provided offerings that were natural.
How had He done this? What I saw was impossible -- something completely unnatural, something that would haunt me forever. This feline denouement demonstrated a brilliant yet horribly macabre artistic streak. A creation God himself would have rejected. How could an ordinary domestic cat so perfectly align the severed head of a blackbird with the headless body of a rat?
He had outdone himself.
And in the chill morning air, I heard a loud purr from the steps of our landing, as Oscar smiled down in malevolent beneficence.
Sleepily, I put on my soft, pale green bathrobe and went into the living room, opening the backdoor for our two younger dogs, Sparky and Remi Gris-Gris, who yelped with joy at the sight of our neighbor's Herefords who always declined to reciprocate the greeting. I walked over to Miss Avalon who required that I lift her dowager body and I struggled to carry her to the front door. Descending the stairs barefoot I shivered as I stepped out onto the cold, crisp autumn dew that covered the grass and flower garden.
As Miss Avalon attended to her business, I checked the state of my cheerful marigolds, bright Icelandic poppies and fragrant Russian sage. I was sluggishly considering whether to postpone the weeding for yet another day -- or even until spring -- when out of the corner of my eye, I saw the flash of a lithe, dark silhouette -- our grey and white cat, Oscar.
Oscar was recommended to us by SPCA volunteers as a loving older house cat. One staff member placed Oscar in the arms of my husband, Rick, who was completely taken by his pale green eyes. Oscar purred and snuggled even deeper into Rick's arms as if to say "You see? I am the perfect house cat." When we brought him to our vet for his first checkup, she idly remarked that he had the largest canines she had ever seen in a domesticated cat; a comment that, at the time, went unnoticed.
Soon, after several determined galloping escapes from our home, Oscar made it clear that he preferred to sit beneath our ornamental grasses like a pride leader on the Serengeti. He quickly displayed skill in catching small vermin in our nearby woods and fields. My husband overlooked this murderous potential when Oscar neatly dispatched the red squirrel population that had ravaged our garage. Our dogs gave his silent presence wide berth as he perched on top of a recliner and casually sliced at them as they walked by. Our comfort level began to evaporate as his penchant for the hunt grew.
Some months later, on what we came to refer to as The Night of the Long Knives, Oscar demonstrated a new artistic side, not only massacring an entire chipmunk family -- mother, father and children -- but arranging their little corpses in an almost perfect straight row along the sidewalk that we had just constructed. It was clear that we had a serial killer in our midst, but one who, up to that sleepy September morning, provided offerings that were natural.
How had He done this? What I saw was impossible -- something completely unnatural, something that would haunt me forever. This feline denouement demonstrated a brilliant yet horribly macabre artistic streak. A creation God himself would have rejected. How could an ordinary domestic cat so perfectly align the severed head of a blackbird with the headless body of a rat?
He had outdone himself.
And in the chill morning air, I heard a loud purr from the steps of our landing, as Oscar smiled down in malevolent beneficence.
2 comments:
Oh my god, Mel! That is really funny. I especially love this: "...casually slicing at them each time they passed by." and this:" Some months later, on what we came to refer to as The Night of the Long Knives". Hee hee!! Nicely done.
That was from my sister-in-law, Cindy, of Cranky Cats fame.
www.crankycats.com
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