Preisha Writes

The cat’s skull was completely broken, the white of it’s brain peeking out timidly from behind tufts of orange fur. I stared down at it, the mangled mess of visible bone and blood and prodded it with one finger. What had happened to the friendly ginger that ate of my hand?

I dabbed at the sweat rolling off my nose. The effort of bending and scrubbing had exhausted my old body. I stared at the neat bundle of black rubbish bin lining, satisfied at how well the material contained all the different sorts of fluids leaking out of the body. A slight expression of annoyance passed through my face as I noticed an unseeing eye and auburn fur emerging from a hold in the bag, but I left it as it was. I was no longer responsible for the feline.

That night I felt it was difficult to sleep. I felt that the cat’s life had come to an end that was too abrupt. Although the rain would wash away the stain on the concrete, and the garbage man would collect the bulging black heap, there was something that wouldn’t happen. The cat food in my cupboard would stay at the same level, the water bowl would collect dust in my pantry.

But there was nothing to do about it. After just a few days, I grew accustomed to not setting the bowl out, not shaking the bag of food. Life continued as it always was, and there didn’t seem to be anything missing.

I don’t think of that cat often, now. Though it’s a very good thing I am able to write about it, it seems as if it softened the abruptness, and leaves a small memory of the ginger tabby that ate of out my palm.