I Prefer Bob As A Cat

Don’t worry. It won’t hurt. Just like snipping a string. I know what you’d say. But you’ll still be male. Anyway, as time goes by, you’ll forget about golf and poker, cigars and bourbon, and the fucking tools in the basement you never used. All you’ll want to do is lie in the sun and sleep.

I’ve got plans. First, I want to sell your Porsche convertible. Never liked that damn car. Wind blew my hair like crazy and gave me earaches. With the money, I’ll get my law degree at night while still clerking at Rose and Arrant. You were such a jerk about my going to school, pinching pennies when it came to me. Did you think I’d be the better lawyer? Make more money? It’s not my fault you spent your degree teaching Business Law at the local college. Maybe if you’d been in the top half of your class. Oh well, that’s the past. You’ll soon forget about these human concerns.

You can keep your name. Bob the cat rings a bell, doesn’t it? Trendy for cats to have names like Ted or Fred or JT. Just makes you more of the family. Speaking of which, it’s good you’re getting fixed. You were such a man-slut. Tried to hook up with any woman under fifty with a big booty. Remember the Christmas party two years ago when you left me your keys and disappeared with Mrs. Claus while everybody was singing “Silent Night.” Didn’t see you until 2 the next afternoon.

Bob, there’s so much I can do to you in return for your abusive macho bullshit during the ten years we were married. For starters, I can put you outside. What do you know about a feline’s life in the wild? If you don’t get decapitated and eaten by a coyote, you’ll wind up smeared on the street by the neighbor whose wife you slept with. You’re perfect for a tomcat. God knows how many kittens you would father. But you’re going to be a eunuch.

House rules. 1. Use the litter box. Your aim always sucked, but I expect better now. Miss the box and you’re out. You won’t like that, you little chicken shit. 2. No scratching on the furniture or any other place except the scratching post. I’m giving you fair warning. Signs of shredding and I’ll find a back-alley vet to yank out those claws. 3. You obey me, please me. Yeah, most cats have a screw-you attitude, but you will heed me like a dog or I’ll drop you at the pound.

Good news. You can sleep in front of the TV whenever. Plus, I’m going to give you a sister. What do you want?  Calico? Siamese?

Chella Courington is a writer and teacher whose poetry and fiction appear in numerous anthologies and journals including SmokeLong Quarterly, The Collagist, and Spelk. Her novella-in-flash, Adele and Tom: The Portrait of a Marriage (Breaking Rules Publishing), was featured recently at Vancouver Flash Fiction. Courington lives in California.

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