Kitten Killer

I have to confess: I am not actually a kitten killer. Even though (almost) everybody thinks I am.

“Mrow?” Misty, my solid gray cat, rubs up against my thigh while I’m sitting on my couch.

I set down my knitting. “Who’s a good kitty?” I ask, scratching her head. She purrs with delight. “I wuv you so much!” My late husband used to say I was silly to talk to my cat like she’s my baby, but I disagree. I’m a cat lady now, but I’m not crazy—or, at least, I don’t think I am.

The groceries aren’t going to magically appear on my doorstep. “Gotta go, sweetie.”

I sigh, get up from the couch, then grab the box of scarves I’ve been knitting for the last couple of months. As I enter the garage, where my silver hybrid is waiting, I take my black hoodie from the coat rack near the door. The hood goes over my head before I get in the car, even though it slightly impedes my side vision while I’m driving.

The ground is covered with a light snow, but the roads are already clear.

The parking lot has some slush from the shoppers walking to the store earlier in the day, and my shoes slip slightly as I navigate the walk. I wait until entering the store before removing my hood. I wish I could leave it on without looking like I’m trying to rob a bank or something.

I peruse the shelves, putting a few boxes of macaroni and cheese, ramen, vegetables, and milk into the blue basket. They’re joined by store-brand bread and the cheapest hot dogs I can find.

A few people look at me like they’ve seen me before, but just can’t place me. One old lady with curly white hair sees me and frowns. Just another day at the supermarket.

One man, probably in his forties, spits on my shoes. “Kitten killer,” he says. “You should be in jail.”

I stare at my feet, trying to avoid any more confrontation. It’s my fault people react to me like this.

Some people have forgotten what I look like, at least. But they certainly know my name. Barbara Bauchman, the so-called “kitten killer.” To be a “Barbara” is to be an animal abuser, just like to be a Karen is to be a complainer who wants to speak to the manager. I think Karen was once a real person, although I’m not one hundred percent sure. But I’m the original Barbara. Even though the story people say about me is false.

I finally make it to the self-checkout and scan my things, avoiding any other interactions with unfriendly shoppers. The hood goes back on when I go outside. The wind slices through my jacket.

Off to the homeless shelter. I park in front, take my box, and go inside. A bell dings as it closes behind me.

“Hello,” Michael, the man sitting at a desk at the entrance, says, looking up from his paperwork. He knows me and knows I’m not a kitten killer. He saw the retraction the news broadcast the day after my story went viral.

I put the box on the counter. “I have forty scarves for you today.”

He peeks into the box and smiles. “It’s been getting pretty cold at night these days. These will certainly be appreciated. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Be back in a month!”

Would I do what I did again, knowing what would happen? Maybe.

Years ago, I began to notice something. The most heinous people would be the ones whose stories were shared. The lady that called the cops on a family enjoying a barbecue in a park. Another lady who called the cops on a man who was birdwatching. The people dining and dashing at the restaurant that gets honored with their picture on the “wall of shame.” Sure, shame them by rewarding them with fame, something people literally risk their lives for.

Every time someone does something terrible, it seems like people make a Facebook post, along with a description of what terrible things they’ve done and the call to action: “make them famous!”

People get remembered for the terrible things they do. People that quietly spend their days knitting scarves for the homeless: forgotten.

I didn’t want to be forgotten.

So I imagined the worst thing that someone could do, that I could make people believe I did. Serial killers are terrible, but I’d have a hard time making people think I’m a serial killer without any dead bodies. But what if I abused animals? I love animals, but people didn’t have to actually know that.

And hurting kittens and puppies would be one of the worst things I could get people to believably think I did.

So I had AI generate a video, as if it was News Channel 5, about me.

“This is Amber Wilson, standing outside the home where a horrible discovery was recently made,” the AI reporter said, standing in front of an AI-generated home. Amber Wilson doesn’t exist, or at least, that Amber Wilson was just a figment of my imagination. “Police are investigating the home of Barbara Bauchman, where thousands of dead and abused kittens were found in her basement.” I don’t even have a basement.

The AI-generated video was blurred to supposedly censor out the “sensitive content.” AI-generated mews could be heard in the background, behind little blobs of orange and gray and black that could potentially be a wriggling mass of kittens.

The report continued. Amber looked choked up as she described the scene. The video looked real, and featured me and showed my face. I posted it using a fake account I created, spoofing the actual Channel 5 news site.

The video went viral overnight. “Make her famous!” outraged people shared over social media. Someone uploaded it to YouTube. It got millions of views. Soon, my name, Barbara, was associated with animal abuse, and I became known as the “kitten killer”, even though I had never actually killed or hurt a cat.

A couple of days later, once the real Channel 5 saw my video and realized it was a fake, they posted a retraction. “That was not our video and nobody with the name of Amber Wilson even works for us,” one of the actual reporters announced. A few astute people noticed that Amber Wilson had six fingers at some points in the video, which was obviously “AI slop.”

The retraction video didn’t circulate as widely as the original video, so most people still think I was actually guilty.

A few days after I posted the initial video, I got a visit from the police. I let them in. They toured my home, saw Tiger, my cat at the time, contentedly washing herself on the couch, discovered I didn’t even have a basement, and left without taking any action. I showed them the retraction video.

I ended up moving after my initial video fame, after a few people discovered where I lived and protested. I figured it was easier than having people wonder why I was shopping for cat food.

My garage door opens, and I hide myself inside once more. I call the vet to make an appointment for Misty’s annual checkup. The vet knows I’m not a kitten killer either, although I have to see them after closing time so I don’t disturb their other clients.

As the door closes, I smile. Sure, it’s a little inconvenient. But people remember me. I’d rather be hated by the world for something I never did than forgotten by everyone.