The Cat and the Killer

Tabitha was a large, smoky-colored Maine Coon. Her tail was bushy, her ears large, and she had the coat of one who had been around the neighborhood a few times. She carried herself with the slow confidence of one who knew every scent and shadow within three streets. She would often see other cats in windows and simper at their captivity. Streaks of silver and black enveloped her as she crept, as cats often do, quietly through the backyards of neighboring houses. She herself was quiet, yet had an intense face that often melted at the touch of her owner, Harold Gordon.

Harold had installed a small door for Tabitha to come and go as she pleased, but to call it a doggy door would be an insult to Tabitha herself. Dogs were often clumsy and dumb, nothing like Tabitha, who displayed her cunning and agility on every nightly excursion. On this night, she had already managed to catch a bird, a small, brown and yellow Carlina wren which she took pity on and decided to let go, and a mouse, which she did not pity. The mouse now lay just inside her cat door, neck broken and waiting for Tabitha to return. First, however, Tabitha needed to check in with the neighbors.

She liked to climb the various oaks and maples of the neighborhood to sit and take a sharp-eyed peek into the lives of those who lived in the nearby homes. The homes were ordinary in nature: a swing in one backyard, an above-ground pool in another, and still another with just a shed and two plastic chairs. This night she sat perched on a limb, much like the bird she had let go earlier. Tabitha internally smirked at the thought.

She was seated outside a home three doors down. Nothing of major interest in the backyard—no trampoline, no pool—but there was an old charcoal grill and a few comfortable-looking chairs. Occasionally, Tabitha would nap here or, if lucky, find a morsel of charred beef or pork on the ground near the grill. Tonight, though, she just sat in the tree watching.

Inside were the couple that occupied the dwelling. Tabitha did not know their names and, frankly, she didn’t care. It was the activities that interested her. Whether they were sitting quietly in front of the television or enjoying a meal at the dining room table, Tabitha could always find a good vantage point. On this night, she sat idle, ears perked, until she heard a noise.

The sound was faint at first, drifting through the night air like a whisper carried on leaves. She scampered down the limb, leapt onto the roof, and hurried over to where she knew she could get to the windowsill of the exact room. As her feet landed, without a sound, Tabitha leered through the window and could make out the couple mid-fornication.

A few minutes went by; the couple seemed quite into the act as they kissed and rubbed all over each other. Tabitha watched intently at first, but after the second or third position change, she yawned. What a monotonous activity the humans engaged in. Not that her Harold participated in it—his wife was long gone, and he was elderly in age.

Tabitha decided she was ready to move on, but just before doing so, the door to the bedroom flew open and the man that lived in the house rushed in. The entire scene was so full of arms, legs, hair, breasts, and butts that Tabitha had failed to notice the man in the room was not the one that lived there.

“You bitch!” he screamed.

He picked something up that sat next to the door and swung. It was a metal baseball bat; Tabitha recognized it from when Harold watched the sport on television. It bored Tabitha, but it was a nice thing to cuddle up to and drift away.

The bat connected with the man as he was scrambling to get off the bed—not an easy task as he was wrapped in the blankets. The man fell and attempted to gain his feet, but the bat came screaming down upon him. This time it made contact with his head. Blood sprayed across the bed, flew into the air, and began to cover the ground. The woman screamed.

"Stop Jonathan! You're killing him."

Tabitha yawned again. This was all very interesting, but what had the woman expected? Perhaps she did not expect him to come home. The woman’s husband swung the bat again and again, raining blows down on the lifeless body of his wife’s lover.

Blood covered the bat as the woman leapt from the bed and attempted to grab the bat, but it met the side of her face, and Tabitha could see the woman’s jaw unhinge itself awkwardly. The man pulled back, swung again, and struck the woman’s head one last time. Her head swung around, and Tabitha snickered internally again. It reminded her of the mouse.

Ah yes, the mouse. She really ought to be getting back to that. The man crumpled next to the bodies. One on top of the other and began to cry. That seemed like a silly response to Tabitha. People really were the strangest creatures.

Tabitha walked over, jumped back to the rooftop, and scampered back to the limb she had perched on earlier. She skipped down the tree, limb to limb, and landed softly on the ground. As she walked away, she heard a loud bang from within the house. She paused for a moment. It almost sounded like the guns from Harold’s favorite western movie. Oh well.

Tabitha could not wait to get back home to Harold and her mouse. The events of the night were already fleeing from her mind. All she could think about was her mouse and curling up next to Harold. The moonlight traced her fur in silver, and for a moment, the night itself seemed to bow to her quiet reign.