Sad Solution

CAT'S MEOW 

 

'Shut that damn thing up!' I hear Mrs. Harney's bedroom window slam. Her light goes out. A dog barks and a cat hisses. Mrs. Harney opens her window again. The shrillness of her voice sends shivers down my spine as my blood curdles. Her words shock me. 'Kill her, Bowser. Kill her!' I let her words froth from my mouth. 'Kill her, kill your mistress, Bowser.' The idea grows in my brain. Mrs. Harney is a bitch. I can instigate a neighborhood ban against her, really make her miserable. If we get lucky, she'll move away.

 

In the morning I am the one who rages. My newspaper isn't on my lawn. I find it in the gutter, sopping wet, dirty. No question, my nemesis has walked her dog without his leash and he is the one who did the foul deed. This boils my vitals. Holding the sloppy mess between my thumb and middle finger, I ring Mrs. Harney's door. She opens it cordially, smiles to me and invites me in for coffee. Indignant, I wave the paper in her face and plainly blame Bowser.' 'Why, Mr. Tweedel, Bowser hasn't been out of the house yet this morning. He's not feeling well. He threw up on my kitchen floor.' I ask her if she is sure Bowser didn't throw up my paper. With no hesitation she has an answer for me. 'I didn't particularly like cleaning up the mess, but don't happen to own a microscope so I could examine it. Are you sure you wouldn't like a cup of coffee?' I don't thank her, leave saying loudly and with great authority,' Keep that dog of yours on a leash or I'm reporting you to the police.' Mrs. Harney, slams the door and Bowser barks, scratches the wooden panel. I cuss and hope he breaks a paw.

 

'Hey, Sammy,' I call to my neighbor, the jerk who gets in every walkathon he hears about within fifty miles. 'Did you hear Mrs. Harney last night yelling out the window for Bowser to kill some skinny alley cat?' 'Sorry,' says Sammy, 'I went to bed early to be ready for the Cancer 5K today. Well, did Bowser kill it?'

 

Mrs. Blacksburg, a real gorgeous young, married neighbor, gives me a friendly 'good morning.' I ask her if she heard Mrs. Harney yelling at Bowser to kill the alley cat last night. 'No, Johnny and I were at the Rialto to see a 3 D film. It was terrible. I was scared almost to death.' I ask her if she knows who owns the gray Manx cat and who is feeding it but she hasn't the foggiest answer to either question.

 

I stop at the super market to pick up the Wall Street Journal and see the biggest Georgia peaches I've ever seen. I buy two. Each weighs one pound and is over-ripe by the time I decide to eat one for breakfast. I ask the pharmacist where I can buy mace, mace I can use on either Bowser or Mrs. Harney. If he knows, he doesn't tell.

 

Night times flows into day. Mrs. Harney is yelling to or at Bowser again. 'Catch that damn cat or you're going to the pound by 2 o'clock.' The woman is an idiot. Bowser might think the pound is where he'll get a big, juicy burger and I'm an idiot, too, for even coming up with the idea that dogs think as we do. 

 

Night has quickly returned. I don't care if Im loud. I call Mrs. Harney  while she's yelling at Bowser, insisting she take her damn dog back in the house or go out and sleep with him. 'Take his leash with you, Mrs. Harney.' She doesn't answer, nor does she slam her window. Am I getting to her?

 

For two whole nights I hear neither Bowser, the cat or Mrs. Harney. But, when I hear her again, she is screaming loudly in front of her house. Cars are jamming on their brakes, neighbors are running outside to see what the commotion is about. Mrs. Harney is on her knees in the middle of the street, trying to lift Bowser who is bleeding from all ends. She is out of control, yelling at the bus driver who killed her Bowser. Oddly, my heart aches for her pain. I regret having been so mean to her. Bowser was her imitation child, one who didn't understand he must not go in the street. Mrs. Blacksburg and Johnny stay with her and Bowser's remains until a vet comes to take him away. At midnite I see her bedroom light is on. She is sitting at the window, staring  at nothing. Neither Bowser or the cat make a sound.

 

After a week of fitful sleep, I do something drastic. I buy her a new pet, a beautiful white angora kitten, put it in a pink basket tied with a wide white bow and invite Mrs. Harney into my home to just share a cup of coffee and strudel. She accepts. Her face is still streaked with tears, age lines are deeper and her back slumps. With shaky hands she almost spills her coffee. Conversation is slow, depressing. I ask her to stay a while longer, to sit in the living room. 'Excuse me, Mrs Harney. I'll be right up. I have to get something from the basement. I take two steps at a time going down to get her present and with a big smile on my face I give her the ball of fur. 'I've named her Munchkin but you can change it,' I tell her. She's so soft and cute and never has to go outside. She'll stay with you a long time.' Not a word does she say. I feared she would have a fit, cry in rage, go crazy. But no, with great warmth she picked up Munchkin, cuddled her on her lap. A small red tongue licked her hand and a perfect blendship, a new friendship was born.

 

And I felt good, warm too and gradually got rid of the memories of wanting to save Bowser and destroy Mrs. Harney. Munchkin has a scratching pole in her new house, in the living room where she and her mistress can watch t.v. Her litter box is in a corner of the kitchen, a ball of yarn is almost always in sight.

 

And I, the perpetrator of good and evil am treated weekly to a pot of delicious soup and a chance to hold Munchkin.