My father stood over the dead cat holding a shovel in his hand. “See, I told you there was more than one way to skin a cat.”
My neighbors are hoarders who collect everything from suits of armor to naked pictures of Elvis riding a lion. More recently they’ve added a new psychological disease to their repertoire and have become cat people. Actually it was a natural progression. The cats started coming around their house because all the junk she keeps outside is perfect for hiding and napping. Once the lady realized the cats enjoyed her junk as much as she did, they were inseparable. It began innocently enough with one cat and a can of tuna. But cats are like crack head public relations networkers, if one knows there is a crazy lady putting food out on her stoop they all know it.
At first the cats would run at even the slightest noise or shadow. However it soon progressed to a mild shout or pot banging to scatter their hair ball choking asses. Gradually their feline laziness gene kicked in and they no longer cared about even their own safety. The filthy rat eating bastards were tripping face on cat nip and making a litter box of my father’s yard.
My father hates cats. To be honest my father hates pretty much everything except for banjo music and Coors light. An open-minded fellow if there ever was one. Therefore, these cats were fucking with the wrong dude, or so he liked to say. The reality was my father would bitch to high heaven about these dam cats but never do a thing about it. Or so I thought.
I don’t know if it was work, or family, meaning me, but something made him snap. Bukowski said it wasn’t cheating wives or pink slips that make men snap, but broken shoelaces. Maybe one of those cats used the wrong thing as a scratching post one too any times, I’m not sure. I’ve never been to the ballet but all’s I can say is I’ve never saw anything as fluid or beautiful as a 52 year old man wielding a shovel. It was as though man and spade became one. Although I couldn’t understand his unintelligible cursing the shovel spoke volumes, those cats fucked with the wrong dude.
“Why couldn’t we just put the rat poison in the tuna like I suggested.”
“Go get me a black trash bag and a Coors Light.”
“It would have been a lot easier.”
“Coors Light, and tell me when your mothers pulling into the driveway.”