A Bagel to a Cat

*Contains explicit language*

“MR. CHIPS!”

“Huh?”

“MR.CHIPS!”

“Huh?”

“CHIPS!”

“Huh?”

Bates McGee eyes bugged at said Mr. Chips. Though his bared teeth, red face, and looming, pointing finger looked like the animation of an angry man, Bates McGee was more flabbergasted than enraged. For over three years he’s been living with “that damned” Mr. Chips. Thirty-six months, two weeks, one days, thirteen hours, and 2.63 minutes of companionship and in that current space of time Bates McGee had seen the unprecedented, the incredulous, the impossible. Mind you, Bates McGee saw Mr. Chips swim across the Rio Grande (not twice, but thrice!).

“That’s it!” Bates McGee said. “I’m done. That’s it!”

“Why- what?” Mr. Chips said. “What are you talking about? We gotta get those Fucking Carp, Bates. The Fucking Carp!”

“Fuck you and fuck the carp! I don’t give a flying fuck about any fucking.”

“Don’t swear, Bates.”

Bates McGee told Mr. Chips to piss off. He almost sputtered back at Mr. Chips that he had swore first. Bates McGee caught himself at his lips, though. Good thing too; Mr. CHips would have gone on a bumbling, mumbling shpeal on names being excusable for cursing due to necessity of naming. Bates McGee didn’t want that argument again; nope, nuh-uh. Instead of stumbling into a bumbling, mumbling, Bates McGee got down on his knees.

“And move your damn paw!” Bates McGee said. “I don’t know how you managed to shatter this, but you did…damn thing looks like pieces of a shattered snow globe.”

Mr. Chips moved his paw out of kindness (but sure as heck not out of remorse). Mr. Chips watched with lax, wandering eyes as his companion picked up the pieces of the thing he so clearly cared for more than the clearly not-broken Mr. Chips. Typical. Bates McGee wasn’t the most conscientious working partner a cat could hope for. Especially not for a cat like Mr. Chips. What tuxedo colored cats does Bates know that have swam across the Rio Grande not twice (but thrice)? Not many, if any.

His cousin, Ms. Dip, only did it once.

“You done?” Mr. Chips said.

Bates McGee spat spit out his retinas.

“Are you done -does it look like I’m done?” Bates McGee said.

Mr. Chips calculated what was in Bates McGee’s hands and the gravel path they’ve been baking on all morning. The verdict: about mostly.

“About mostly done, I’d calculate.” Mr. Chips said.

Bits and hunks of poppy seed and sad onion sprinkles sailed over the feline’s head. Bates McGee hadn’t tossed the whole handful, though. Mr. Chips watched a mighty jagged chunk land in the cattails behind him when a mightier chunk smacked his shoulder.

Mr. Chips whined a yowl then glared at Bates McGee. The latter flipped the former the bird.

“That was my last everything bagel, you dick!” Bates McGee said.

“You said that last time you had one everything bagel!” Mr. Chips said.

“Doesn’t matter!”

“Neither do your bagels.”

Bates McGee shot another bird at his tuxedo-wearing companion. Mr. Chips only looked at him with a lazy-lid cat stare. Off behind Mr. Chips, past where a hunk of a chunk of everything bagel was being picked and prodded by a painted turtle, a gum-sucking, lip-smacking, suck-sucking sound echoed from a lake both our characters couldn’t see. The cattails were tall, green, and denser than pound cake filled with cement. A Honda Accord could get tossed in those reeds and be lossed till the fall. The turning point days of May Spring into June Summer had a way of turning the outdoors into a burst of life and living. Blooming and budding and all sorts of critters and plantters were filling as much space as the could. It was a good time. Things felt like they were just getting started.

And no other start was noticeably more starty than the carp spawning season. Kayakers, canoers, and fisherman alike don’t need a calendar to know it either. Every river, stream, pond, lake, and retention pond deep enough to cover your ankles was rippled, ruppled, and completely muddled by splashing, twirling, and horny common carp. Mud would churn to the surface. Morning strolls would be soundtracked by the liquid sounds of fish fucking. Like the cattails and the rest of the outside world, the turn of seasons was primetime for carp to show they were alive and loving it.

Yet, no place had carp spawning season worse than Lake Belaven. I mean: I mean it. The meek powers of the Belaven County Preserve Muncipality tried every year to plaster posters across towns warning of mental, physical, and spiritual damage if any one dared go to Lake Belaven when the weather was nice. A whole year’s budget was blown on making a harrowing PSA for all of Chicagoland to see on WGN! Not to mention the personal stories. Mary Ellen from Bluidge, sweet as something sweet, burned her house, the neighbors, and the neighbors housedown after making eye contact with a huffing thirteen-some pile of mucus by the boat launch. Enriquez Meniquez forgot his ABCs forever when he slipped into the lake and contracted fish gonorrhea. Theirs no cure and now he has two belly buttons.

And let’s not forget the great crusade of Belaven United Tenacious Teachers (BUTT for short). BUTT mobbed in the new fashioned way (they posted on facebook five posts a day for three days) and, no-surprise, raised enough support for ecological purge of the lake. They volunteered themselves to do it. Blake Bake, the de facto BUTT leader, rallied her tenacious troops and swarmed the lake with insecticides, pesticides, homicides, and every prefix they could attach to -cide.

It was a mistake, though. For a reason, there was extreme shortage of female carp for that years spawning. The male carp were ornery from their hornery. Absolutely inconsolable and rasculous, the male carp had sprouted legs and plate armor that grew stronger against all things prefix + -cide. It was a terrible, terrible blunder on BUTT. All in all, BUTT shit the bed with an estimate 888 deaths and 27 deaths unrelated (another story for another day).

In short: the Fucking Carp, as they were so monicured, were big stinking problem. Mr. Chips and Bates McGee were seasoned veterans at fixing big stinkers. Especially ones that got BUTT!

“Forget the bagel!” Mr. Chips said.

“No.” Bates McGee said.

“Yes!”

“Nope.”

“Do it!”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Yuh-huh!”

“Mm-mm.”

“What’s your problem, Bates?” Mr. Chips said. The feline was peeved now. He padded back and forth in front of his companion. His tail swished and swashed spite from side to side. He glowered at his companions lumbering frame. Every atom of it he was sure was dumb, stubborn, and, plainly, lame. Bates McGee was always poo-pooing their excursions and doings. Even his swimming the Rio Grande was fight that resulted in three days of being split up. Mr. Chips kept a cool head, but his wits had a limit. He wanted a companion, not a nitpick.

Mr. Chips mentally spat on Bates McGee’s face. Then he stopped. Mr. Chips saw the smallest circle appear in the corner of Bates McGee’s eye. It grew from the size of spot to a small bubble. It hung for a second, hanging from the tention of invisble thread, then slid down Bates McGee’s face. More tears followed.

Mr. Chips felt his anger shift to sadness. He didn’t see Bates McGee cry often. Only two other times. The latest was after watching the Spongebob Movie. The first was years ago…Mr. Chips pictured a cold and soaked shred of cardboard under a dead ash tree. The drizzle was freezing that evening. He saw himself smaller, a kitten, shivering and hungry. All was terrible to that kitten. There was no hope for him and anything.

Then a tall man came up to him. He must have come from somewhere dry cause his clothes weren’t soaked yet. Mr. Chips pictured the face of that tall man: stoic, baggy-eyes, and patchy beard. The man didn’t say anything, but he had looked down at Mr. Chips the kitten and reached down to that poor feline. There was a bubble in the corner of the man’s eye, and it fell for the kitten…all those years ago.

“I’m sorry, Bates.” Mr Chips said. “We can go to that grocery store we saw on route 45. It’s only three miles away.”

Bates McGee moved his eyes by a hair from side to side. He processed the distance, the time, and the effort to get his everything bagels. Mr. Chips waited patiently.

“Thanks for saying your sorry, Mr. Chips.” Bates McGee said.

“No worries. Wanna get those bagels?”

Bates McGee shook his head. “Nah. Let’s do something about the Fucking Carp. Besides, I still got till dinner before I die. I had an everyhting bagel in the middle of the night, remember?”

“Oh, really? Man, you don’t talk about yourself enough. I completely forgot that was thing!” Mr. Chips said.

“Fuck them carp?” Bates McGee said.

“Fuck them carp.” Mr. Chips answered.

And, well, something did happen after that.