AMPUTATE

DREADFUL - EVENT #12

This will be your best life yet.

You have lived numerous lives. Across tens of thousands of years. It’s not because you are unique or worthy of such a thing. This is how life works. All facets of life exist within a perpetual wheel, spinning on a greased axle while floating between Known, Unknown, and Unbothered.

In one life, you were a blade of grass, reveling in your springtime growth. You explode upward like a rocket ascending into space, only to be cut and trimmed in accordance with neighborly standards. While you had no capacity to understand dynamics beyond your speck of land, a thought of ramen danced across your microscopic ridges. Déjà vu, some might call it. A vision. A false embedment of an ideological improbability. See, when strung together, most words stack into gibberish. For you, you dreamed of more, not realizing what a dream actually was. To you, dreams were the nighttime sounds that surrounded you and the morning dew that weighed you down.

In another life, you were the flame atop a candle that sat in a great hall. You burned and burned, observing stories of might and embellishment. And yet, the crowd yearned for more. You glowed brighter and stronger as the hollering intensified. You cooled as the party ended and an eerie silence shrouded all else. Eventually, you reached your end, becoming nothing more than a thin, momentary wisp of smoke before dissipating in a blink. So insignificant that the evening’s stories did not flinch to mourn your passing.

Sometime ago, you were a heinous odor, a cocktail of gas puffed out of an old dog’s ass as they climbed the stairs looking for the comfort of a bed for an overdue nap. You suspended yourself in the air as long as you could, believing that the ability to float was second only to a cool breeze on a warm day. You held yourself together with force and the hope that someone, anything really, would notice your existence. Unlike the candle, you served no purpose other than to prove that the aging dog still had some life left. You pulled apart before being recognized, once again lapsing into a fog that carried you from Then to Sooner.

Only once were you a human. Although you had no others to interact with about your experiences, you knew a human was drivel, scraps from a wondrous meal thrown to you as an afterthought. You were a prophet, standing on a crate and begging any passerby to heed your words. You said words you didn’t believe. You crafted stories you ripped from fables heard at the nearby tavern. People passed by and barely acknowledged your presence, instead lapsing into a deafness and other world that escaped your nonsense. Time loops and ties into an unsavory knot, but while you preached and perched yourself atop your decaying crate on the street corner that reeked of shit, blood, and disease, you knew nothing of time. You allowed yourself to lose decades to a cause you no longer knew the beginning of. You spat and sang until your belly filled with rot and your toes shriveled to blackened sores. Only in death were you given a single name. Only in death were your ideals spread throughout the city. Only in death did your life begin.

Infinite lives await you. Infinite lives have been wasted on you. Infinity is a belief, an ideal that serves no purpose other than to challenge. Is infinity actually infinity? No, of course not, you’d argue. Endings occur all the time. You’ve experienced that. You are a product of endings. Without one, you would never move on to the next. Common sense, really.

But you don’t bog yourself down with such contemplation. You follow the script. You consider your unending bounds, stretching from there to here and here to there. You beckon the calls to action and the naturalistic movements smeared into your essence, regardless of your form, intelligence, or genetic construct.

You are indescribable and unsubscribed to logic.

You are misunderstood, misrepresented, and mystical.

You are you.

From Then to Sooner to Now to Future.

And Now, in this current form, you are born under an overpass within the Dallas city limits. The rain falls in thick sheets, flooding pockets of road and causing the cars to slam on their brakes, which does nothing to prevent concentrated blasts of water from arcing their way over to you. You understand none of this, though. Your mother has shielded you within an abandoned, homeless encampment. The police came through earlier in the day and shooed everyone out, saying nothing more than find somewhere less public to be filthy and pathetic. Your first sensation is being groomed and cleansed by a coarse tongue. You lay with your eyes closed beside your siblings. This isn’t your mother’s first litter. You are a biological necessity. You are the product of a stray.

You are destined to perpetuate your mother’s cycle and spend your entire life roaming the zigzagging streets while hiding from the intense heat and feasting on rodents. It has the potential to be one of your better lives, should you find success. The path will be crammed with countless obstacles and terrors, but you have instincts more carnal and animalistic than, say, a candle or the bacteria within a rhino’s gut.

And Now, you are a week old, finally finding the fortitude to open your eyes. The shelter is large enough to house several litters. Perhaps that’s because some of your siblings are motionless, succumbing to the disarray of life in a hostile environment. Mother does her best to provide, but even in the animal kingdom, being a single parent is a heavy burden. You nourish yourself as needed, seeking your mother’s nutrients and warmth. Your ears are unfurling. You can barely move. If a creature of basic intellect were to burst through the tarpaulin your shelter was structured around, you’d return to the fog in mere seconds.

Your defenseless nature carries on for two more weeks. The phrase hiding in plain sight has never been more accurate. Even in a city as expansive as where you found yourself, many, many things can dodge attention. During this time, you experience exponential growth in size, intellect, and physical abilities. You hiss at the sound of traffic and the scattered skittering of rodents sniffing you out. You stand yourself up and wobble over to the edge of your home. Your mother yelps out a warning. You have curiosities that tug at you. In each life, you yearn to be free, always needing to relearn the meaning in whatever context pertains to you.

Freedom, in this life, exists beyond the tarp.

And Now, you are alone. Consider it luck. Call it damnation. You are the last sibling. You have no higher power to contemplate your situation with. Instead, you yearn for food. You don’t desire an answer as to where your mother went. Like all other lives, things happen because they happen because they will always happen.

You take an assured step out from your home, leaving behind the waste you’ve tried to bury and the scraps of food you no longer find appetizing. You are in search of nothing outside of survival and to have kin of your own.

You dart toward the concrete wall that extends up to the bridge. You slink against the wall as you move closer to the sunlight. As you teeter on the edge of Known and Unknown, you meow once. You meow again because why not. You like the sound of it, and while it could attract unsavory sorts, it could also lead you to new acquaintances. You step out into the sunlight and appreciate the warmth. The heat spreads throughout your body and propels you forward. The pads of your feet make no noise as you skulk ahead. You pick up your pace as you gain more confidence. Your tail drifts higher the further you distance yourself from the shelter.

Change is good, you’d tell yourself if you could say such a thing. Instead, you meow one more time.

And Now, you haven’t eaten in two days. You’ve found a bucket of water in a patch of green space that you’ve greedily returned to a dozen times. You require small, inconsequential sips. You have hunted and scoured the area for rodents or remnants. The scents lead you in every direction as you maneuver your way through the neighborhood, and yet you continue to come up empty. Consider it luck. Call it damnation.

Whatever it may be, you are slipping into a feral state. You feel yourself constantly on edge. Every noise startles you. Your tail bushes and shakes. You hiss and employ every defensive tactic that a millennium of evolution has gifted your kind. Your ears are constantly alert, even during the brief periods of sleep you get as you wedge yourself into tight quarters.

You groom yourself vigorously to distract yourself from the hunger. Your tongue drags across your fur and limits the potential for matting and disease. You scratch at the nearby wooden post, shredding the outer layer to keep your claws sharp and intact.

You grow bored. You rest your head and let your ears sink forward and close your eyes and try to sleep.

And Now, you are eating a meal. A rat. A multi-minute chase ensued as the rat pumped its stubby legs across grass, pavement, and stone blocks to escape your wrath. At one point, you lost sight of the critter as it slipped under a fence. You stalked forward and heard the movements just faintly enough to regain its location. You lengthened and thinned yourself enough to pass through. As you did, the rat froze in its tracks. It rubbed a tiny hand over its ear and said a final prayer as you descended on your prize.

With each bite into the rat, you shake your head and tear loose flesh and bone. It isn’t much, but it’s enough to survive.

And Now, you have your face buried in a bowl of milk set out on an apartment balcony. You keep a low profile and lap up as much as you can. You don’t realize it now, but that milk will curdle your stomach. The future discomfort is worth the present enjoyment. The milk fills you up far more than the measly rats you are still feasting on. You have come to realize how your position within the food web is pathetically low. Your ideations of heftier meals are a pipedream, although you don’t know what a pipe or a dream is in this life. Regardless, you resign to the fact that you will be alone. You’ve heard other packs of strays roaming near you at various points. You could have introduced yourself, but fear hovered over you. What if they didn’t like the sight of you? What if they thought you were ugly?

You are so engorged and drunk off of the 1 percent milk you are guzzling down that your ear only twitches slightly as the curtain from the nearby window pulls back just enough for an eye to peek out at you. The boy swallows a squeal. He doesn’t want to scare you away. For weeks now, he has been putting out milk after school. He read in a book how cats like milk, and he thinks they are squeezable and huggable, and he likes the purring noises they make. The boy is utilizing the age-old trick of entrapment, and you have taken the bait. That’s quite alright, though. On this day, the boy only observes. He will bring back his findings to his ambivalent mother, one who makes her living by telling her son things like “be careful” even when he goes to the bathroom to shower and uses words like “responsibility” and “disappointment.” Everything she says produces anxiety in the young boy. But with a cat, he will finally have a friend. Friends are important.

And Now, you are back at the milk bowl for the eighth day in a row. This means nothing to you. It’s merely context. All that matters is that you walk away full each time, even though the mess you create later could be interpreted as one of Picasso’s more abstract works.

The door is already unlocked in anticipation of your arrival. The boy has been reading. He knows you will turn tail and hit the highway before he can pet you. That isn’t the goal today. Instead, the door handle jiggles and then inches open like the beginning stage of a burglary. You choose to ignore the sound. The milk is just too damn good. In the threshold, the boy stands in his pajamas. He’s pudgy and wears a pair of glasses. Surely, he gets picked on. This means nothing to you as you pick your head up and stare at the creature. You crouch and remove your tongue from the bowl. The boy holds out a hand and waves the treat in your direction. You remain frozen as he bends down and places the seafood medley treat on the floor. With a finger, he pushes it closer to you. You blink at him and then blink at the treat. You’ve never had seafood. You don’t know fish from fiscal, but you know that the smell is too good to disregard. The boy steps back into the threshold and watches as you only consider the treat for a moment before devouring it. The two calories of manufactured goodness mix nicely with the pound of milk you’ve just inhaled.

And Now, you are inside. The furnishing within the apartment leaves much to be desired. Everything is gray and sterile. You wonder if the dishwasher works. Perhaps it does, but the more important question is whether the boy uses pre-rinse in addition to a detergent tablet. That’s the part everyone forgets about.

You voice your displeasure at being confined within a foreign place by yowling in all rooms of the apartment. You move to the balcony door and scratch at the corner. With enough force and willpower, you believe it can be pried open to return you to your meager living. Every caged animal aspires to be free. Make no mistake about that.

The boy comes into the room and pats you on the head. He is patient with you, understanding that this new environment will take time to get used to. You acknowledge his patience by rubbing your body against his leg. He giggles at this. A real friend, he says. Finally.

You are fed three times a day. You have an ample supply of water. You learn what a litter box is. You sleep for long bouts, no longer restless and tinged with fear or anticipation of harm. You curl yourself up into a ball and twist your head so your chin faces skyward. The position is about as comfortable as it gets for you. In moments when you are feeling particularly relaxed, you knead on the blanket. Your claws lovingly dig into the softness as you make divots. The boy watches you from afar, in somewhat disbelief that a creature could be as adorable as you are.

You are content. Life is satisfactory.

It will not last.

And Now, you are asleep. The house is empty during the day. You spend the morning hours on the windowsill observing the outside world. It’s like watching television, except you can’t flip through the channels to find your favorite show. You are stuck with whatever the neighborhood has to give, and most days, it isn’t much. The occasional squirrel or pesky rodent tap-dances across your view. Once, you saw a stray dart between the cars and dash into the shrubs across the street. That was exciting, but you didn’t envy them. Your mind has cleared from the desire of spending your days outdoors. You enjoy the simplicity of this life much more. Some would consider it a prison sentence, but to that you’d say, what is prison?

You wake as the door unbolts and the boy returns home. You sit in the bedroom doorway and watch the unbridled joy that radiates from the boy. He runs to you and scoops you up in his arms. He twirls you around with such enthusiasm that you get overstimulated. He doesn’t feel your tail whipping back and forth. He doesn’t see your pupils widen. Your excitement turns to anxiety and then rage. You are no longer enjoying this affection. It’s too much and too rough. You are on your back now. The boy holds you with one arm as the other scratches your belly. He is pulling out the greatest hits of what not to do. Of all the books he read, did none mention any of these no-nos? You try to squirm your way out, but the boy grips tighter. He whispers about how much he missed you and that he would bring you to school if he could. He has done this love bombing before. You’ve allowed it. You’ve allowed yourself to be cradled like an infant and tossed around like a rag doll. Not today, though.

The motion unfolds rapidly and without the opportunity to prevent it. You reach a front leg up to his face and unfurl your claws. You wind back as if you’re about to throw the last strike to win the World Series. The boy continues to live in bliss as he spins about the room. Your entire life has led to this moment. You whip the claws forward and smack him across the face three times. Bop, bop, bop. The claws tear away flesh in long slashes. Before you know it, you are falling to the ground. You correct yourself and land on your feet. You scatter to the furthest corner of the apartment you can find. Anywhere to get rid of him. You cower and watch as the boy leaves the bedroom with a hand pressed to his cheek. To his credit, he doesn’t cry, although the look on his face is one of a leak looking to burst. He slams the bathroom door shut and curses your name until his voice gives out.

And Now, you are in the backseat of a car, tucked into a box. The mother never bought you a crate because she knew this experiment wouldn’t last. And during that long, torturous drive, she unloaded all of her thoughts to the boy. She laughed and said things like, “I told you so” and “Why don’t you ever listen to your mother” and “I knew you wouldn’t even last a week with the foul, wretched creature.” The verbal onslaught continues as the boy sinks further into the passenger seat. He is far too young to be sitting there, but the mother didn’t want him any closer to his abuser than he had to be. The boy begged her not to open the balcony door and kick you repeatedly until you left. They settled on this alternative only because of the agreement that the boy comes along to watch his failure.

You meow and scratch at the box the entire drive. Your cries grow wimpier until they morph into caterwauling. You go on autopilot and continue with your vibrant sounds until the mother reaches back a hand and rattles the box, cursing your annoying existence.

You remain in silence the rest of the way.

And Now, you are furiously licking your belly. It itches. A tingly sensation that will not pass. You’ve been bothered by this for days, but you were confined by a terrible cone that restricted your movements. You shook your head like a demon to try and untether yourself, but you had no luck. Instead, you laid on your side and thumped your tail against the ground in both protest and resignation.

You notice the tiny mark on your stomach. You try to lick that away too, but it appears to be permanent.

Once you are satiated, you return to sitting by the glass, absorbing your surroundings. This view is much livelier than that of the apartment. Numerous creatures are in your field of vision and new people are always walking down the aisle. Nobody says hello to you, though. Sometimes they look at the sign taped above and read all the interesting facts about you before moving along to another option. Dogs appear to be the popular choice, even the ugly ones with a missing leg or a lopsided snout. You watch them trot down the aisle with their tails motoring a million miles a second.

One day, it’ll be you.

And Now, you have been in the shelter for a month. You have surpassed the average length of stay. Congratulations.

And Now, you have been in the shelter for three months. The days have grown shorter, and you have grown tired.

And Now, you have been in the shelter for eight months. You have become scorned. You don’t even bother to impress anyone walking by. You have resigned to your fate. Not all lives feature heroics or fantastical stories. You dream of fog. You dream of what lies ahead. You dream of an end.

Perhaps it will come.

And Now, a full year has passed you by.

And Now, it has been two years since the boy and his mother left you to rot. In moments of pure boredom, the workers talk about euthanizing you. Not seriously, but more like a what-if-we-could type of way. You are taking up space in a crowded shelter, after all. Their hope for you has diminished to a speck of light.

Words on a page do little to dictate accurately what your time in the shelter has been like. The passage of said time has been laborious. Two years of the same meals. Two years of the same view. Two years of eternal disappointment each time a person looks your way only to pass over you for another damaged creature. Two years. Two agonizing years. Time, like most things, means nothing to you. There’s a waltz to perform, and you always arrive when needed. You have experienced tedium and agony and displeasure in many lives, that this isn’t unique. What’s unique is the overwhelming suffocation of abandonment, of being just another thing left behind and forgotten.

That, regardless of whatever shape you take, will always hurt.

You are being punished for a singular mistake, one that could be blamed on the other party’s stupidity. You are still physically active. You have all your fur. Your teeth are intact. Your eyes are sharp and notice everything that happens.

In essence, you aren’t a heinous-looking creature, and you will live a long, fruitful life.

Assuming that the crippling nature of your prolonged shelter life doesn’t last forever.

And Now, your days are no longer counted. Why keep track of an inevitability? You are a staple. A mascot. An advertisement and a warning to others. Watch out, or you too could also become a habitual shelter creature.

On this random day, a cane stomps its way down the aisle. Your ears perk up at the rhythmic sound. Whack . . . Whack . . . Whack. It reverberates off the concrete floor. Gripping the end of this cane is a man. Aged, wizened, and still full of piss. He is hunched over but walks with a determined stride as if he isn’t dependent on the object. This visitor feels different. He is here early, the first patron of the day. You feel the gravitational pull bringing you to the glass. You sit before it and let your tail flick at the end. Excitement. Anticipation. Hope. It all flutters around you. You want to bury it. You want to smother your instincts and return to your stoic life, but this is different. This man is here for you.

He stops before your glass encasement and doesn’t even bother to read your stat sheet. He bends down, gripping the cane with white knuckles. His body cracks in every place it can. He carries on without concern for any of it. He stares at you. Looks through you. He is evaluating you as if he is about to drop you into a boiling pot of water. He reaches out a hand and taps the glass. You blink. He blinks back. He cranes his neck sideways and speaks to the worker hovering above him. They exchange words. Mere mumbles that you don’t understand. The worker shakes their head and points to the paper. The man waves him off and points to you. Your tail continues to wave back and forth like a windshield wiper dusting off rain.

And Now, you feel the sunlight on your body. It pokes through the holes of the crate. The warmth is welcome. You could bask in it for eternity if it were allowed. Instead, you are placed in the back seat of the man’s car. The worker is gentle with you as the man barks his instructions. He says what he means and has no intention of repeating himself.

You meow halfway into the drive home and the man shushes you. This will be the last time that his reprimands are gentle. You take the hint and curl into a ball, enjoying the occasional light that filters into the car as you travel north to your new home.

And Now, you scratch. The apartment is littered with wooden objects and furniture that begs for your attention. And you take advantage. Your claws drag against every surface, letting any other creature know that this space is yours. It feels fantastic, so you have no intention of stopping.

Then, it hits you. A spray of water. It’s cold and jolts you from your bliss. You scatter into another room and lick away the wetness. The man follows you into the room and scolds you for your stupidity. He drones on, yelling and ranting about how misbehaved you are. You blink at him. At one point, you resume your licking. You are barely listening. You are thinking about what you will scratch next and when your next meal will be. He issues another warning and says that his patience is growing thin. You couldn’t care less because you don’t speak human. Your currencies are chaos and leisure.

And Now, the man catches you up on your hind legs, digging your claws into the couch. He winds back and wallops you with the end of the cane. Your claws detach from the couch, and you skedaddle into another room.

This is the cyclical nature of things. Every day you are threatened or punished. And every day you never heed his warnings. He feeds you. He cleans up your litter. He buys you toys. In essence, he treats you well. But he has no patience for your shortcomings. While you will never know anything more about this man, he has had a short fuse his entire life, always teetering on the edge of madness. He is an abuser. An enjoyer of pain. To outsiders, he is pleasant and a kind-hearted geriatric who adopted an unwanted creature. To outsiders, he is looking to spend his remaining years with a companion.

Instead, this man will ruin you.

And Now, an appointment has been made. The man called around to twenty different vets throughout the city, and all but one declined his request. You watched him as he paced around the apartment and bickered into the phone. His demeanor tightened as he thrust his cane down onto the floor with each disappointment. You spend much of your time now hiding under the couch out of fear. And in those rare moments where the man is gone or preoccupied, you scratch, further solidifying the reasoning for the man’s decision.

Dr. Unk has been a veterinarian for the last thirty years, and, frankly, he no longer gives a shit. As an up-and-coming vet, he worked hard to develop a positive reputation within the community in order to build up a thriving practice. The effort paid dividends and granted him a wonderful life where he pays alimony to two ex-wives and has four resentful children. Through all the trauma, he has always had the stability of caring for animals. But Now, he is tired. He is dreaming of retirement. He goes through the motions with no flair. He no longer finds any joy in seeing puppies or kittens. He no longer exhibits any emotion during euthanasia. He no longer contemplates the best medication for a pet, just the first one that comes to mind.

Which is why when the man called, Dr. Unk agreed to the surgery. The persuasion wasn’t much of one. The man supplied an ounce of a sob story and Dr. Unk filled in the rest.

The surgery is invasive, Dr. Unk warned. The man didn’t care. Anything to stop this little shit from destroying my apartment.

Have you tried behavioral treatments, the doctor inquired.

No.

Would you like to explore those options?

No.

Are you aware of the potential risks of this surgery?

Yes.

It can induce rage, anxiety, and social problems.

Yes, yes.

Because of this minimal, thoughtless exchange, you are now unconscious on an operating table. You are dreaming of nothing. Darkness. A lapse of time, space, and meaning. You are in a new place, somewhere on the edge of Known, Unknown, and Unbothered. You have no recollection of the following.

Dr. Unk hasn’t performed a surgery like this in a dozen years. Professionally, it is difficult, and the risks far outweigh the need. Personally, he hated the idea of mutilation. Life, though, has a knack for changing people. Dr. Unk is a shadow, a shady shell of slim sanity. There is no logic greater than that. Logic will always suffer in the face of idiocy.

Dr. Unk picks up the device and tugs on your paw. He presses down until your claw pops out. You see, declawing a cat doesn’t involve filing down the nail or trimming it back until only a nub remains. No, it’s invasive.

It’s an amputation.

Dr. Unk places the blade against the innermost claw of your right front paw. The blade resembles one someone would use to cut the end of a cigar. He places the blade far enough back so that the slice will remove your entire knuckle. He steadies himself. He presses down hard as the blade tears through skin and bone. He hears a slight crunch as your body offers no resistance. You weren’t made to defend this. Your knuckle falls onto the operating table as blood exits the wound. Dr. Unk staunches it. He brushes your knuckles into a pile like some kind of trophy hunter.

He repeats this maneuver seventeen more times until all of your claws are removed, not just the front ones. He quickens his pace as the surgery turns into a game of how fast he can go. He has missed this control. You are a tonic, a reinvigoration of what he has lost. The pile of knuckles grows into a monument to mutilation. When Dr. Unk is finished with the surgery, he throws away your knuckles and claws along with the discarded bandages and other supplies.

And Now, you cower. It has been a month since the surgery, and you haven’t been the same. The pain was immense and long-lasting. You tried many times to drag your paws across different surfaces, misunderstanding that your claws were no longer there. You lack the ability to connect the dots as to how or why this happened. You meow your disgust and disdain. You sleep to pass the time because no other activity seems worth the effort. You are lost and unsure of your surroundings. Each noise startles you. Each time the man speaks to you, you hunch close to the ground and freeze in place. Life is cyclical. Always has been. Always will be. This time feels like those initial days when you were living under an overpass. Mother. You haven’t thought of her in years. You still don’t think of her. Your mind doesn’t allow you to.

The man laughs at your discomfort. He chastises you for being so easy to scare. He has peace in knowing that you are no longer destructive. You are a cowardly creature with no identity. And yet, he still tries to show you affection. He beckons you up onto the couch and gives you treats right before he goes into the bedroom for the night. It’s the nature of abuse. You don’t understand such a thing, but we do.

You don’t think of getting revenge because the concept is foreign to you. Instead, you continue to live in that apartment within The Amorphophallus because it is still the most comfortable you have ever been.

Change is on the horizon, though. Always has been. Always will be.

And Now, you observe as the man cooks dinner. The balcony door is ajar. It’s his way of airing out the apartment without turning on the overhead fan. He complains to no one about how noisy it is. Like a horde of venomous rats, he shouts out to the empty apartment. He has no fear of you trying to escape through the cracked door. He has plied you with enough treats and fake affection that you have forgotten the worst moments together. Go on, leave, he sometimes says as he leaves the door unattended for hours at a time. Let’s see how far you get, he goads. You’d probably break some bones, you dumb shit. You stare at him and slow blink during these threats.

Tonight, the man is making vegetable soup. With unsteady hands, he pulls the knife from the block and arranges his assortment of vegetables. His cutting method is so sluggish that you get bored while standing nearby. After relieving yourself in the litter box, you feel a wave of energy wash over you. You hunker down with your butt up in the air as your back twitches. Your ears are pinned back. Your pupils widen. You attempt to spring forward and dart across the living room. Like a cartoon character, your feet scrape against the flooring, trying to gain traction. Once they do, you catapult yourself with lightning speed into the bedroom. You jump onto the bed and bury yourself under the covers. You have a moment of respite before you free yourself from the entanglements of the sheets and once again sprint into the living room.

You are experiencing a post-poop euphoric state. Poophoria, if you will.

This ailment overtakes you several times a week. The man despises it. He rants, raves, and blithers about your movements. He scolds, yells, and drones on about how you shouldn’t exhibit any signs of being a creature. You should be seen, not heard, he says, mimicking the words he used to say to his children.

As you return to the living room, the man turns his attention from the cutting board. He stands with a carrot in his hand and tracks you to where you stand. With all the might he can muster, he pulls back and flings the carrot at you. You stand still as the carrot collides with the couch and bounces away. His aim was off by six feet. At least. You come down from your high as the man picks up the onion and throws that at you. This time you scram and hide under one of the kitchen chairs. You’re safe here, blocked by a fortress of wood that you can no longer mark.

Sensing defeat, the man huffs his discontent and returns to his chopping. He prattles on about you, cursing your entire bloodline. He questions why he ever picked you from the shelter. He teases the dozen ways that he could kill you—disembowelment, tossing you in a trash compactor, gluing you to the pavement to then run you over slowly with his car, and so on. His imagination runs wild as the scenarios become more elaborate and disconcerting. You don’t pay attention to any of it. You return to the carrot and sniff it several times before giving it a timid lick. Not the worst thing you’ve tasted. In fact, it’s appetizing enough that you want more. What else has the geezer got up there?

As with most things in the apartment, the kitchen counters have always been off-limits. He has sprayed you with the water bottle enough times that you hesitate to jump up there. Hesitate. Once the old tart goes to bed, you become one with the counters. You walk across them and stick your nosy nose into everything. Oddly, the man lets you roam free at night. Oddly, he hasn’t employed tactics like putting aluminum foil on the counters to further dissuade you from your nightly tours. The man believes he has scarred you enough to obey him at all times, even when he is snoring and dreaming of old sins.

You allow the curiosity to consume you. Without claws, your movements are even fainter than before. You dislodge yourself from underneath the kitchen chair and move up behind the man. You stare up at the counter and calculate the correct jump that’s needed. Underestimate and you’ll bonk your head into the drawers. Overcalculate and you’ll bonk your head on the cabinets. Your margin for error is small, but you are agile. You are still the creature, after all, even without your first knuckles.

Your tail whips from left to right once. And then back again. You continue to gauge the needed movement as you drop into a low stance. Your tail whips again. The man brings down the knife in a heavy motion as if he is sawing through bone. He is chopping his way through the other carrot that he didn’t assault you with. He is near the end.

You jump. Your aim is perfect. You aren’t concerned about future consequences. You are locked into the idea of examining every item of food the man has on the counter. You land on the counter right beside the cutting board. As you do, the man lets out a startled yelp and presses down hard on the knife. His trajectory becomes askew. His free hand gripping the carrot shifts just enough that when the knife comes down, the last knuckle of the pointer finger is underneath. The knife slams down onto the board. The man screams. Blood spurts onto the cutting board as the amputated knuckle rolls lazily before settling. The man lets go of the knife and screams some more. His yells are primal and savage. He curses everything, everyone, and all the higher powers that exist. He takes a sidestep toward the sink and slips. His cane is propped up against the couch, at least a dozen feet away. The man falls with a loud thud onto his left shoulder and cries out in newfound pain. He forms sentences that have never been uttered before. He strings together words about the punishment he will inflict upon you. He rolls onto his back and stares up at the ceiling, clutching his disfigured finger. Blood oozes out and onto his ironed shirt.

As the man wiggles around on the floor announcing his intentions, you peek over the edge of the counter down at him. If you could smile, you would. He looks funny down there. He looks like the rats you used to chase throughout the neighborhood. Squirming and screaming. You disregard his continuing theatrics and turn to the cutting board. You sniff and lick the various vegetables. None enthrall you. Instead, you see the glimmer of the knife. While the man took away your ability to scratch, he would have needed to mutilate you far more to take away another one of your innate passions. With a tilted head, you press a tentative paw against the knife. It’s heavy, but it can be moved. You apply more pressure and get it moving. The blade shimmers, bouncing an ugly glow of light across your face. This attracts you even more. You push on the handle and watch the blade swing toward you. You realize you need to push in the middle. You adjust your paw and forge ahead with your crusade. The man is still beneath you, wallowing and caterwauling. There is no urgency in your movements. You push the knife to the counter’s edge and let it dangle. This is your favorite part. This is in-between the Known and Unknown. This is when you can see what the outcome will be, but action is still required to achieve it.

One final push is all it takes for the knife to fall off the counter. In the brief time between counter and man, the knife shifts, and the blade points down. There is a soft plunk as the blade buries into the man’s left eye. He shrieks. His voice cracks and breaks as he instinctively pulls the knife from his face. He writhes like a dog rubbing its scent into a carpet.

You peek again over the edge to examine your handiwork. For once, you are unbothered by his hollering. You revel in a job well done. Yet another object sent to the abyss. You don’t question instinct.

You watch the man gather his strength and whatever ounce of sanity remains. He brings himself to a sitting position. His eye is in shambles. Red, puffy, and ripe with a deep gash. He moans and croaks.

While the man sorts himself, you entertain yourself with his separated knuckle. You flick it around the cutting board. It dances and jives far more easily than the knife. You stoop and lick at the blood. You gag. Tainted. Rotten. Soiled. Losing interest, you swipe at the finger once. It slides down the cutting board and off the side of the counter. It bops the man on the head before bouncing off and falling to the floor.

Good job, you really pissed him off with that.

He slaps a bloody hand onto the counter and lifts himself up onto his wobbly legs. You stare at each other. The man’s face is drained of color. Age is his makeup. The wrinkles are prominent, as are the sagging, deep lines ingrained into his forehead. He wipes his nose and smears blood across his face.

He performs his next two actions simultaneously. He spits at you and reaches out a hand to grab you by the throat. You dodge both and launch yourself into the air. Off the counter you fly. You look majestic. Claws or no claws, you are still a creature with adept skill, and you are putting on a one-creature show. Perhaps you should do this again with an audience who would admire it.

This is when you decide the apartment is no longer viable. You land on the floor and skid to a halt. The man turns to you with elevated rage. Evolved and terrifying, the man stomps his way toward you. The cane is an afterthought. You are a gnat, a vile varmint that needs to be eradicated. He lumbers ahead with malevolence. You easily glide around him. The door is still ajar, filtering in the nighttime air. You make your way for it, not looking back. You hear an object crash into the door, but you pay it no mind. Once outside, you slither in between the railings. The drop is steep. The darkness is all-encompassing. You have no other viable options. The door rips open and the man stands huffing for breath. Sacrificing what good parts of him remain, he dives for you. You choose freedom and leap off the edge into the Unknown.