When I opened the door to my house to take out the trash the cat burst in, darting across the house. My three year old sons cheering and running towards it. Stay back, I tell him. The cat may hurt us. We don’t know. And he stops running towards it, but steps back. I run to open the back door. But the cat doesn’t seem to notice and runs past to the back room.
It runs all the way to the back most room in the house where it jumps on the desk, jumping on a pile of papers, which flies in many directions and scatters on the floor. Several stacks of small boxes fall to the floor with thuds, and the keyboard slips off the desk also, which hangs in midair by its cord. And it finds the window and leaps up on the sill. The cat is covered by the curtain. I can see its silhouette of his wide head and its thick orange body and its tail flicking back and forth against the curtain agitated.
I slowly edge toward the curtain. And pull it back. The cat releases a low moan. It looks at me, it’s eyes look dilated and huge. I step back. I step into the garage and look at the beebee gun that propped against the door. Thinking.. thinking.. I come back into the room and pull back the curtain and put my hand on top of the cat, picking it up with my arm circling around it. As I do, the cats low moan comes back, and then a loud hiss. I almost drop it but grip it more firmly this time as the cats claws sink into my arm like knives through cheese. With the cat secured in my arm I power walk through the house, long scrapes where its claws are firmly entrenched, and blood lining down my arm and dripping onto the light gray carpet.
I open the front door and the cat jumps out of my arms and runs wildly across my lawn and down the block. I close the door shut. My son standing behind me, looking with large eyes at the sight of red all across my arm. I try to give him a smile as I walk to the bathroom’s medicine cabinet.