Cat Food

She loved cats. The fluffy little beasts more than dominated her life, they wereher life. The widow of 20 years had gotten along in years, as the saying goes, and had outlived everyone closest to her. There were no more remaining family with whom she maintained regular correspondence. To keep interested in a daily existence her every thought and action were directed at the cats. Well, that plus hoarding.

Newspapers as old as 15 years lined the hallways, stacked six feet tall and spilled over in most of the bedrooms. The newspaper subscription had stopped in recent years. The stoppage was the result of a missed payment, not an intentional act. In all the clutter the billing statement had been lost. The newspaper stopped. The cats didn’t seem to mind.

The cats were numerous. In more precise terms there were too many of them. Most didn’t have names, never did. There were a few that were named, but the names had been forgotten to time. The result was that all cats were susceptible to the same overused pronouns and adjectives. At last count, to her best ability two years ago, there were more than 20. The effort was sincere, but the felines were averse to being corralled which hindered the project’s veracity to derive an accurate count yielding only this estimated tally.

During the day the cats were free to come and go as they pleased. Doors and windows were often wide open regardless of temperature or weather. At nighttime, though, for fear of predators, the home was locked up tight. Food was plentiful and unregulated. Several bowls were scattered throughout the house and were always flush, carpeting or linoleum flooring all the same. Scoops of food were added to the bowls throughout the day. The cats lived in a world of plenty despite the immense clutter and odoriferous environment.

Some cats arrived to the home, or were dropped off, without explanation. Others simply showed up. A small number of them were born on site. Where, exactly, the hostess wouldn’t know. But not all was well. She had neglected medical attention. Not just for the cats but for herself. When feeling ‘under the weather’ she preferred, instead of a doctor visit and the intrusive questions, to drink an ice cold ginger ale and take a nap. Feeling slightly under the weather one afternoon she opened a cold can of ginger ale, as was the firmly established protocol, and took a good long sip.

“Oh, that tastes good, my kitty cats,” she said to nobody and all of them. She went around the house closing windows and doors, filling food bowls for any late night snackers. The water situation was safely on autopilot with a fountain in the kitchen that refilled automatically whenever the specified water level threshold had been attained. She put on her bedclothes, got under the covers, took one final long sip of soda, set it on her night stand, and went to bed for the last time. Morning arrived and she remained in bed, unmoved. Expired, in fact!

Day one of this new era was calm. The food bowls were still relatively full. Some of the cats would have preferred the outdoors, but the day turned over well enough. Day two had a number of antsy cats. The bathroom situation was getting crowded and the food was now empty. The meowing was getting agitated and grumpy with no break in the routine. By day five things went decidedly sideways.

One of the cats was sitting on the bed, the bed that contained their unmoving hostess. The body was entirely covered by the bed sheets. The exception was a single hand protruding over the side of the bed. The cat tapped the hand. Friendly at first, as if to say, ‘Good morning, we’re hungry. Please fill our bowls.’ Yielding no result necessitated a second tap followed by a third. The same absence of response. The cat went to phase two with a quick bite to the hand. Again, nothing. So it bit the hand again, very hard this time breaking the skin. No response, but the cat got a taste of the flesh. It bit again just as another cat got playful and the two tumbled to the floor pulling the bed sheets partly off the bed. There was now an audience of several hungry felines. The hostess had become largely uncovered.

It would be nearly two weeks before the postman could no longer ignore the untended mail piling up, so he knocked at the door. Nobody answered. Upon the postman’s return to the post office he advised management, as per protocol. The authorities were contacted and would visit the next day.

[Happy Halloween!]

Afloat

Part I

(Part I was a blog post from 6/18/2009. Part II is a continuation.)

The breeze was cool, almost cold, and constant. But he had stopped being bothered by this more than a week ago.

He lay uncomfortably on his back. He was barefoot, shirtless, unkempt, and his trousers were torn and soiled. His shirt had long ago been removed and employed to block the sun from his face. His lips were badly swollen and cracked. They hurt. He was well beyond thoughts of applying a layer of soothing lip balm in hopes of relief.

He thought only of water and food. He wanted a glass of water, a gallon, really. He had been without drink for five days, maybe six. Food was ample, but frustratingly inaccessible. Numerous tins of meat and fruit lay at his feet. The labels has been torn from several cans and severely dented from violent smashings together in a bootless attempt to defeat the canning process and get to the nourishment inside. The can opener lay on the floor of the vessel in two parts. Broken at first use! Maddening beyond belief.

He didn’t know how far, or near, he was from the nearest landfall. It had been two days since he last had the strength to raise his head and look over the rail of his small vessel. A wooden boat, a row boat, twelve feet in length. He saw nothing but water at his last peek, an endless sea.

Several nights ago a fish jumped out of the sea and landed in the boat. Dumb luck. He ate it hungrily, raw, squirming in his hands until he discarded the head and fins. Last night two more fish landed in the boat. He was too weak and clumsy to handle either of them. They tumbled through his fumbling hands and safely back into the ocean.

Despite the circumstances, the nights were beautiful. With not a light shining for miles around, the stars appeared as bright as street lamps. His shirt was removed nightly from sunscreen duty and, instead, used as a pillow as he let his mind wander amongst the stars. This was his escape from the cageless captivity. He was an astronaut floating weightless in space. He was an ancient Phoenician sailor traveling from one land to the next looking to the stars to confirm his way. A 25th century B.C. laborer building pyramids in the desert of Cairo enjoying the night’s break from labor and heat as he stared at the stars losing himself in his imagination.

An island with fresh water and fruit trees was on the starboard side. It was less than a mile away, but he didn’t know. He hadn’t looked over the side since the island had broken the horizon. The vessel was drifting parallel to the coastline and was getting no closer. Even if he saw it he probably wouldn’t have the strength to swim to it. He had only one oar, the other was lost fighting off the other passengers of the sinking ship. He had been concerned the food would not be enough for everyone.

It was a calm gentle rolling sea that kept him afloat.

Part II

tap . . . tap . . . 

With that he’d been roused from the starvation-induced unconsciousness to mere delirium. He opened his eyes for the first time in he didn’t remember how long. He was lying on his back, face to the sun. Another bright day. Feeling around with his hands, he found the shirt and covered his face.

tap . . . 

There it was again, a bump on the side of the boat. He started to remember. He was in a boat, a small boat, alone. There had been a wreck and he ended up in a life raft. Ill equipped, yet alive he remained. He got to an elbow and, exhausted, put a hand on the rail of the boat. He took a moment to rest, then pulled himself to the edge and looked over the side. A coconut floating on the surface of the ocean, how curious.

He grabbed the coconut and pulled it aboard. He admired it as someone might do with a completed Rubik’s cube. He sat back on the floor of the boat in the several inches of water. He seemed not to notice, so warn out was his brain. Turning the coconut over in both hands he harkened back to better times. For his birthday he had sometimes occasioned to purchase a coconut from the local grocery store and prepare it for consumption.

Step one, put coconut in refrigerator for one day. On a lazy afternoon he’d retrieve the coconut, go to the garage, grab the needed tools and retreat to the back patio. 

Step two, drill a hole in the coconut large enough to insert a straw. Drink the cold coconut milk. This tasty draught easily fulfilled immediate gratification.

Step three, hammer and chisel to break the nut, then extract the delicious coconut meat free of shell and unpleasant fibrous debris.

Step four, rinse and eat. Oh, the joy.

Then something clicked in his brain. If there’s a coconut floating around out here, then land is near! He leaned back on his elbow, gripped the rail and through foggy, failing eyes he saw . . . no land, only a vast blue ocean. Looking the other way, there it was! A tall green mountain protruding from the ocean. ‘Land ho,’ he said in his head as he was too weak to speak it. So close to land, if he can only get there. He fell back on the bottom of the boat and hit his head on the wood seat. This would serve as his life-saving impetus.

He put his hand to the back of his head and saw blood on his fingers. Anger was sparked and he shouted, “Come on, get up!” As if obeying a command, he stood and assessed how far he must traverse to regain solid ground. It was no more than 100 yards. He could make that, he thought, even in this ragged state.

A gentle wave rolled under the boat and easily spilled him out into the water. He was a natural swimmer. In better days his strokes were graceful and powerful. Today, though, he struggled just to keep his head above water. As he tread water he rightly figured he wouldn’t have the strength to pull himself back up into the boat. If he was to save himself he would have to swim for shore. His body went momentarily into automatic and his first dozen strokes were good. But it didn’t last. He sank, floundered then burgeoned forth for a lungful of air and kept going toward shore. The water was getting shallower and he could see coral below. He was flopping around unsteadily but still afloat. He kept going until his body was entirely empty of energy. He sank, hit a sandy bottom and his head was still above water! He’d made it. He’d walk and stumble ashore from here. His body was mostly numb but his legs would not stop. He felt mostly sand underneath, there were some rocks then there was a painful prick on the sole of his foot. He was brought to his knees, kept moving forward and the waves helped push him toward the beach.

He lay down face in the sand and enjoyed the sensation of sand in his hands. He regained himself and crawled further into the hot sand. He rested only minutes before his ears heard a trickling stream of fresh water. The thirst! With his face submerged in the stream he drank his fill, took a deep breath then drank more.

He sat on a log and looked at his painful foot. He rinsed the sand off and could see it was already very inflamed. There were two pinpricks, one with a purple needle still sticking out. Sea urchin! The needle was removed with his fingers. The second, however, was broken off and stuck deep in his foot. He knew the urchin quills to be poisonous, he’d heard the stories. He tried to dig it out and failed. After resting he tried again to no avail. Chest pain and difficulty breathing had already taken effect, sure signs that the sea urchin poison was hard at work. He had saved himself from dying at sea only so that he may die here on an island, a deserted island. It no longer mattered where he was. He wouldn’t be here much longer.