Nine Lives

Glynnis stood on the porch and took one final puff of her cigarette as she watched the tabby take yet another shit in her begonias. She had tried everything: fences of varying heights and materials, pepper spray (in the garden bed, not directly at the cat, though she couldn’t say she hadn’t been tempted), throwing rocks and even the ill advised dog piss (the dog piss was definitely worse than the cat shit). But, just like the stupid song, the cat always came back the very next day. She had complained to her yuppie neighbours on a number of occasions. They were always civil and apologetic but she caught their half-hidden eyes rolls and knew they were merely humouring an eccentric. She realized how wild she must look to them in her paint splattered jacket and over sized galoshes, pants too short and frayed, hair a dandelion head gone to seed, but frankly she didn’t care. She had spent a lifetime caring. She was good and ready not to give a shit. Didn’t mean she deserved a load of cat crap in her garden.
“Fuck off cat” she yelled. “Pssss” she hissed. The cat continued to bury its load, shot her look of disgust and sauntered off. Glynnis picked up one of the large shells she used as an ashtray and hurled it towards, not quite at, the tabby. The cat gave a hop, startled but not panicked as the shell whizzed past its head, and scampered under the hole in the fence. Glynnis chuckled. Then, she noticed that the shell had decapitated a daffodil.
Glynnis shuffled back into the house and put on the kettle. The damp was getting into her bones and her hip was aching. She rinsed a china teacup she found in the sink and dried it on a ratty tea towel that read I’d be wise if I could remember anything. She chuckled for the thousandth time and reached for the sugar bowl. An army of ants marched around its base. She crushed a few with her thumb and checked the inside of the bowl. Fortunately none of them seemed to have scaled its walls. She opened the fridge, wrinkling her nose at the smell. Damn, the milk was off. She reached for a shriveled half lemon and cut a dry slice. The kettle whistled an angry mewl. She poured the water into the cup and watched as the water turned an inky red. She wandered into the living room and settled on the ottoman. Both she and it groaned. Slurping her tea, she stared out the window and contemplated the rest of the day.

Glynnis woke before the alarm She always did. She wasn’t really sure why she insisted on setting the alarm any more. She didn’t have deadlines to meet or meetings to attend but she feared sleeping the day away. The light was weak and she shivered under the patchy duvet. It was losing its feathers. She often thought about replacing it but felt that it would probably outlast her. In the meantime, she patched the rips and holes with duct tape, never having mastered needle work and the likes. Sometimes the tape came unstuck in the night and she found herself sticky and uncomfortable, bits of silver clinging to her skin. Fortunately this morning everything seemed to be in place and the only resistance she encountered as she swung her veiny feet onto the brown and orange rug, was her own body. She noticed that her toenails needed clipping. They were yellow and gnarled, curling over at the ends. They looked like someone else’s feet. She worried that soon she would need to visit one of those dingy salons that offered “seniors pedicures”, toenail clipping for those too stooped and arthritic to do it themselves. She pictured her swollen feet soaking in a tub filled with the grime of a thousand other toes. She saw her feet become prune-like and waterlogged as apathetic staff yammered in Vietnamese. She shoved her feet into her slippers, banishing the image.
She straightened the covers, brushing off bits of crumbs and lint. Maybe she’s vacuum later if she could get the cranky thing to work. There was something off with the wiring and she had to hold the cord in the right way to get the thing to hoover. Sometimes it cam naturally but usually it was more of a struggle than she was prepared for. The alarm rang.
Downstairs she put the kettle, reminding herself that she really needed to get milk. Today she would go shopping. While the water boiled, Glynnis headed back upstairs to choose an outfit. She searched for something reasonably clean in her drawers. Nothing with buttons, too much work, but she feared sweatpants and leisure suits. She could hear the kettle whistling and hoped it didn’t boil dry while she wrestled on a turtleneck. The shrill whistling continued while she forced her arms through the sleeves of a cardigan and her feet into wool socks. She is sweating by the time she is fully dressed but knows she will appreciate the layers later. The kettles cry is starting to sound a bit feeble.
Finally ready, she shuffles down the stairs, rescuing the kettle just in time. She puts on a pot for boiled eggs and peers into the fridge. She will have to make do with boiled egg singular. While she waits for the water again, she collects the empty milk bottles from under the sink and places them in her cloth shopping bag. She hopes the store will take them back. There are flecks of rancid cream clinging to their necks, despite her best efforts to wash them.
She eats the runny egg out of a gold, dragon-covered egg cup. The egg cup always makes her think of adventure. She pictures herself traveling the world with all her possessions in a back pack. She smiles. The image is appealing but ludicrous. She sips her tea. It is disappointing without milk. She scoops up the yolk with a dry bit of toast. A drop splatters on her sleeve. She fills the sink with lukewarm soapy water and leaves the remnants of breakfast to soak. She gathers up the green shopping bag and bundles herself up further to face the outdoors. As she steps onto the porch she scans the garden. No sign of the tabby. Good.

On the way back from the store, it begins to drizzle. By the time Glynnis reaches her front gate she is damp and miserable. The rain has seeped through jacket and her boots. As she pushes open the gate her mind is lost in thoughts of a dry sweater, dry socks and a cup of tea with milk. She almost trips over the tabby as it darts across her feet, startled by the yowl of the opening gate. She expects it to immediately scamper to safety through the hole in the fence but instead it freezes in the corner and stares at her, fur on end. She grabs a handful of the hedge and yanks until a twig snaps off. Brandishing the scrawny twig, she swings at the cat. The cat bats the twig, sneezes and finally retreats. Glynnis stands over the hole wondering what she can plug it with. She kicks at the loose soil and accidentally uproots a tulip. Glynnis gathers some loose rocks and shoves them methodically into the hole. When the last stone falls into place a cold, wet, shivering Glynnis trudges up the stairs lugging a bag of sodden groceries.
Glynnis spends the afternoon sneezing and coughing deep, rattling phlegmatic coughs. It’s a cold, not lung cancer she assures herself. She tries to read but her glasses keep flying off her nose and she can’t concentrate. There are very few times when she wishes she owned a T.V. –it’s mostly garbage- but today is one of them. She goes to bed unreasonably early. She hopes it doesn’t rain tomorrow so she can work on the garden. That is if she’s not on death’s door.
Glynnis wakes feeling achy but rested. This morning a warm light filters through the curtains and the chatter of birds fills the air. Glynnis feels hopeful about the day.
Downstairs she steps onto the porch to collect the paper. It too is mostly trash but she needs to keep abreast of world events somehow. Sometimes she imagines that a war could break out and she wouldn’t even know until the whole house collapsed around her. The front door groans as she opens it. Glynnis takes a step forward and walks right into the carcass of a tiny lark. The tabby grins at her from the garden. Glynnis howls and chucks the whole paper at the cat who swishes away pleased. At least the bird is not still flapping or jerking about and she is able to delicately wrap its body in the welcome mat being careful not to touch it. As she crouches over the body she hears the rattle of an approaching stroller and the rumble of mindless chitchat; the neighbours huff into view. Glynnis stands abruptly and her foot catches the sash of her robe, pulling it open. She clutches at its ends with one hand and the bird mat combo in the other as the neighbours stroll past clearly trying not to gawk at her. “Fucking, fucking, fucking cat” Glynnis hisses under her breath. The neighbours try to ignore her, turning their heads awkwardly to feign an interest in the parked cars. “This is your fault you know”, she yells abandoning the robe and holding the carcass aloft. The neighbours fake deafness.
God, she needs a cigarette, but first the body. She thinks about burying it in the garden but fears that will be seen by the cat as a direct invitation. Besides, rotting flesh will do little for the already acidic soil. Still in slippers, Glynnnis flip flops to the garbage can and rolls the body, mat and all, into the bin.. She hopes pick up day is soon. Is it Wednesday or Thursday? She can never keep these details straight. It’s a good thing she gets up so damn early these days. It gives her a chance to dash down the stairs when she hears the crunch and squeal of the dump truck turning up her street.
Glynnis retrieves the newspaper from the garden bed. It is damp and soiled but still mostly legible. Glynnis is feeling quite tired, though she’s been up less than an hour. This is far too much excitement before tea.
The day passes quickly. Two naps will have that effect. It must be the damn cold that’s making her feel so tired. Yes, that must be it. She curses the cat. Despite her weariness, Glynnis does manage to rustle up some stew for dinner. She is somewhat impressed with herself. The stew isn’t particularly good. The meat may even have been on the verge of turning. It had acquired that greenish grey tinge that so much packaged supermarket stuff seems to gain. But, the stew is warm and filling. Glynnis even manages to find the energy to tackle the dishes that have been piling up in the sink. The water refuses to run hot no longer how long she leaves it and everything comes out feeling slick and oily but still Glynnis is satisfied when she sees the pile of dishes neatly stacked in the draining rack. Feeling ambitious, she begins to bundle up some of the recyclables but her aching back soon tells her this is a task better left for a new day. Glynnis always listens to her back. She also listens when a voice says “time for a cigarette”.
Glynnis bundles up all over again, sweater, coat, boots and scarf, and heads out to the porch. The porch swing squeals its protest as she cautiously lowers herself onto it. Glynnis cringes as her pants absorb a puddle of rain water but the damage is done so she simply accepts the wet bottom and lights a smoke. Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, she spots the tabby brazenly strolling up the walk way and onto the steps. “Shoo” she yells, flicking her ashes. The cat ignores her. “Filthy beast” she yells louder, not caring who might hear her. The cat seems to take it as a challenge and now saunters with even more of a swagger. Glynnis stands up, almost toppling over as she leans on the porch swing for balance. She can’t believe it, the tabby is now on the third step and digging in her potted fern. The fucking cat is actually going to shit in her fern. She bangs loudly on the top step, hoping the noise will scare the cat away but the cat jut stares up at her continuing its squat. Glynnis picks up the deck broom and shakes it menacingly at the cat. Midway through a furious sweep, she loses her grip on the broom and it tumbles down the stairs, clattering on every step. The tabby finally takes heed and scampers off but not before leaving a steaming turd in the plant. This is too much, Glynnis swears. She is exhausted but she can’t let this go. She’s going to visit the neighbours again.
She strides across the wilderness of her own lawn and onto the manicured perfection of next door. At first she tiptoes, not wanting to mar the surface but soon she stomps in the grass. She has earned the right. She wonders why the cat doesn’t shit here. She imagines it would be the softest bathroom but maybe a bit intimidating. She tries to plan what she will say to the cat owners but she is pretty sure they don’t speak the same language. Hopefully they’ll get the gist.
She reaches the door and grabs the heavy knocker, a llion with a ring through its mouth. Timidly at first and then with fervour, she raps the ring against the door. She hears the sounds of running water, the half cry half squawk of a young child and then the sound of socked feet on carpet. The woman neighbour answers the door looking intentionally disheveled with her loose, wispy ponytail and the sweats that cling to every inch of her toned body. Glynnis wonders when the usual twinge of envy at such sights was replaced by vague repulsion.
“Yes?” the woman sighs leaning against the doorframe. Glynnis steps forward hoping to be invited in but the woman doesn’t budge. Her husband’s shape appears behind her. He is clutching the child over his shoulder. “Who is it?’ he asks. Glynnis tries to step into his sight line. “I’m here about the cat,” she says. The neighbours adopt matching expressions of resignation but otherwise don’t acknowledge the statement. “It’s been shitting on my lawn again” Glynnis continues. “It’s a cat,” the woman says. “What do you expect?” Glynnis wishes she wasn’t standing on the stoop in damp pants. “I expect not to have to deal with cat shit,” she answers a bit more loudly and harshly than she had meant. The man moves closer, protectively, as if he expects Glynnis to lash out at his wife at any moment. “What do you propose?” she asks, softening her apathy for just a moment. Glynnis is startled. She hadn’t really thought that far. “Well, uh, I think you should at least remove the offending matter.” The woman sighs again, “Well, yes, we could do that.” “Thanks” Glynnis replies. The woman nods and closes the door. Glynnis stands on the stoop. She can hear the neighbours’ conversation as they retreat. “Can you believe it? Does she seriously have nothing better to do than to complain about a cat? And did you see her? Seriously, did she piss herself?” Glynnis turns and walks away, just in time to see the cat galloping out from under her fence. She scowls. Suddenly the full horrific magnitude of what she has done hits her. Now, every cat turd will be followed by a visit from the neighbours. Glynnis sighs and shuffles up the walk to her house.