Of the Cat’s Deathly Inquiries
Racquel Lee
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A cat, such a small, antsy little thing, asks one question when one of its lives has been taken. Each question that was asked— whether the death was minuscule or significant in its impermanence, whether that death was something that could’ve been prevented, whether that death was always slotted amongst the grandiosity of fate— was an innate, deep-dwelling inquiry.
Through the thickness of grassy splendor, of dry muck and stumps, a cat might become the prey for a rabid mutt once ensnared in chain and metal, prostrated for the chance of slob and sustenance. That rabid mutt had struggled, lurched, stumbled, fought with a sharp-toothed sneer, had finally, at last, escaped the cold-clenching clutches of hindrance, starved to the point to which its ribs stretched at its furry, clumped, flea-tinged skin. The mutt was feral, desperate, high off the euphoria of a bone-breaking escape. It had rushed into the canopy of trees, of flickering sunlight and trampled bugs and earth, and had seen the voyaging cat slinking through dense bushes. The sight had the mutt drooling, crazed for the hunt, begging for the feline’s meat to be crushed unfathomably in its teeth.
It had rushed over, despite its withered state, before the cat could ever hope to react, and clamped down its jaws to the hardest extent they could go, so hard in fact, that blood seeped and sputtered out of its own eager gums, mingling with the blood its bite had produced from the howling feline. The cat had struggled for a while, but its fruitless efforts soon grew still, slack, and complacent.
After the cat’s blood had dried out, converged into energy for another being, the cat asked this question:
- Are all animals meant to be prey to something bigger than themselves?
The second death was just as gruesome, but provided no use, only an obstacle, really. The cat had awakened from its deathly slumber, cracked, twisted into place. For a while, the cat was cautious, careful; hopped on sturdy branches from lurking dogs, slept on shingled roofs away from all beings alike, pranced and trailed softly, quietly, hissing at obstacles and threats it considered an annoyance. One obstacle that was considered too severe for the poor feline, however, one that it could not hiss at to cause another’s avoidance, was a car: speeding, hasty, cherry-red, driving with a quickness unsafe for anyone and anything within proximity.
The cat had been in proximity, been too close, hit, and crushed under the tire’s weight.
The cat’s second question was this:
- Was it the car’s fault or mine?
The third death, really, was more methodical, a common occurrence. The cat’s heart thumped at a concerningly rapid rate; it would pass out at random, its limbs writhing with a chill that would wrangle itself within its paws. And suddenly, the cat collapsed again, its heart crackling at an erratic speed before halting completely.
The cat’s third question was:
- Are cats deemed fragile beings?
The fourth death was quite the self-fulfilling prophecy. The cat knew, deep down, in the deepest crevices of its consciousness, that death was an imminent, aggressive, waiting thing for its species. The cat believed that this time around that it would live a life of whimsy to the very end. It teased other cats, snuggled against random strangers’ legs with a swiftness, ate anything and everything barely sufficient, jumped from branch to branch, roof to roof, car to car. It was all the same to it, the surfaces and sturdiness and presence of it all.
In the wake of its churning recklessness, the cat ate something not meant for consumption. Foam simmered from its mouth; thick, viscous, and the cat twitched and thrashed on the ground before succumbing to a startling stillness.
The fourth question was this:
- Is gluttonous consumption the peak of self-fulfillment?
The fifth death was forged from a stirring curiosity.
- How far can the cat go?
The sixth death was calm, a mundane event in itself. The cat had been taken from the brazen streets to a warm house with an even warmer home. Its owners were sweet, kind, unrelenting givers. It was a melodic period, the longest period of life that the cat had experienced. It was peaceful, a time of tranquility.
The cat had died in its sleep.
This was the sixth question:
- Can houses catch on fire from how warm they are?
The lonely little feline in her seventh life had found a companion. One that licked and lapped at her wounds, nuzzled against her on nights with an overwhelming, confining chill, leaped into danger to gather food not for one cat, but two. The cat hadn’t been expecting this— a partner, a friend, a body of warmth that shielded her from life’s drowning persistence.
But that life of compassion, of companionship and warmth, sputtered out and died like a flickering flame doused in water. That other cat she had grown to care for had vanished, leaving not even a paw print to show proof of its existence.
The cat died of heartbreak, of a life meant to be lonely.
The seventh question was:
- Is loneliness a loud or silent killer?
Now, the eighth death was the most painful for the cat. She had managed to get pregnant, feeling the little fickle feline stirring within her. Her life was filled with temporality, with an active flickering of life and death prodding and lurking within each innate action. She had realized that, long ago, long ahead.
Her eighth question was this:
- What questions will my babies ask?
Her ninth life was passed on, plucked out, and given to her little kitten newly born and slick from fluid. The cat had affectionately licked her kitten clean before her body grew stiff and still one final time.
The ninth question was this:
- Why won’t my mom move anymore?
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Racquel Lee is a woman who has known the pen as long as she has known the paper. All she hopes for is that the people who happen to stumble upon her work will see her writing as the epitome of beautifully crafted prose and a source of inspiration for their own creative endeavors.
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Posted in Third Annual Pet Writing Contest and tagged in #boudin, #fiction, #flashfiction, Fiction