The Third Cat Story Megapack: 25 Frisky Feline Tales, Old and New

by Damien Broderick

Bambi woke up behind the wheel of her rig. No, no, it wasn’t her rig. It was a big Volvo rig, the nicest model she’d ever seen. Automatic transmission, power steering, red leather bucket seats, air bags. From behind her she heard the dim shrieking and meowing and purring of her load. It sounded like a million cats.

  Disoriented, she realized she was in a line of trucks, all ready to move into a weigh station.

  She turned on the radio. All she could hear was the sound of breathy, high, sweet singing, all in some language she didn’t understand. Latin? Greek? Hebrew? Sanskrit?

  She turned on the CB. More of the same music. She took a deep breath—or tried to—it seemed she no longer could breathe at all.

  She said, “Anybody know how much longer we’ll be here?”

  The CB music continued, but a deep, resonant voice said, “Your soul will be processed in the order in which it was received. Please have your conscience ready for inspection when the officer reaches your rig.”

  She tapped her fingers on the wheel, noticing that they no longer made any noise. She reached for her cigs, but she seemed to be wearing a white coverall with no pockets. And no cigs.

  Shortly, a face appeared at her window and a large, exquisitely manicured hand tapped on the glass.

  She realized the officer must either be eight feet tall, or he was standing on a stepladder. Also, she wasn’t sure if he was male or female. He—or she—was beautiful, with smooth skin that seemed almost luminescent. The hair was long and blond, and the eyes were ancient, and yet unsullied by pain.

  “Please show me see your license, your log, and your conscience,” the officer said.

  “Am I dead?” It seemed the only explanation.

  The officer held out a beautiful, slim hand for her paperwork. “Yes, as a matter of fact, you are. Ischemic stroke. There are no Virginia Slims in heaven.”

  She gripped the steering wheel and felt huge, hot tears run down her face.

  “No need to grieve and sorrow in this place of eternal rapture,” he said. “We meet you on God’s golden shore.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she blubbered. “I don’t know where my freaking conscience is.”

  “Glove box,” he said.

  On the sleeve of her white coverall, she wiped a blob of snot that threatened to run down her lip and into her mouth. She reached over and retrieved a white leatherette binder full of papers, then handed it to the officer.

  He (she decided the officer was a male, just like that damned purple cat that had brought her to this awful pass) took the papers and began reading, quickly and yet with great attention.

  “Ah, I see you are a woman of constant sorrow,” he said. “Troubles all your life.”

  She nodded emphatically, and the tears flowed even heavier.

  “There were the beloved parents. Gone, gone, gone,” he said. “Then the beloved husband. Never really materialized. Then the high cost of maintaining a rig. No children. You coveted them, I see, but it’s way too late even to adopt. Might have helped, incidentally, if it’s any comfort to you.” He continued thumbing through the papers. “Sorrow, sorrow, sorrow.”

  “I’m dead!” she shrieked! “I wanted to pay off my rig! I wanted to find out if Orville really watched porn movies with his buddies or just played Canasta! I wanted to finish that last Stephen King novel! I wanted grandchildren!”

  “These seem all in order, Candidate Bambi. You can take them—” but the officer stopped. “Who is Joseph Patrick Michael Thomas Stephen Jesus-Marie Francis Antony Benedict Anselm John Edward?”

  “What? What kind of a freaking name is that?”

  “He was also called Purple.”

  Bambi had a sudden horrid suspicion. “He wasn’t a cat, was he?”

  “Yes, yes, he was. You put gasoline on his fur, and you were planning to have him stuffed.”

  She was speechless.

  * * * *

  Purple crouched in the ditch at the side of the road. The two men called for him, halfheartedly, but they were busy. Probably had to take the woman called Bambi off to see her friend Orville, or maybe to the taxidermist, whatever a taxidermist was.

  She’d have to do it without Purple.

  * * * *

  At the weigh station, two more of those enormous officers came up to her rig and opened the door. They were both so beautiful they brought fresh tears to her eyes. When she looked at them through the rainbow of her own tears, she could see that they had huge, translucent wings, which they periodically fluffed up and then settled around their shoulders.

  One of them had blue eyes and a long, noble nose like her father’s. The other had a short nose and curly, reddish hair. He also had slit pupils. Like a snake’s eyes. Like a cat’s eyes.

  She had led an exemplary life, she was sure.

  But maybe God had not appointed her the Chief Agent of Feline Birth Control for Northeast Ohio. Maybe that had been a mistake. Something inside her turned over and made her sick. Yes, she knew even at the time that Feline Birth Control à la Pillow Case and Exhaust Fumes was not God’s master plan.

  It had seemed so tidy at the time.

  * * * *

  “Bambi,” said the magistrate. He was wearing a judge’s robes, except they were all white, not black. He was sitting behind a desk in a chair about ten feet off the ground, but the room (immense and whitewashed, except for the doors to the restrooms, which said, THE UNNECESSARY, and were mirrored) held a number of television monitors, probably for those who, like Bambi, were too frightened to look him in the eye. In each monitor, his smooth and noble visage pronounced the exact same words.

  “You have had many sorrows, and you have done many ill deeds, as have most mortals. But we have selected one deed, though it may seem arbitrary, for you to redress.”

  She tried not to sob into the sleeve of her coverall. Sobbing would have been declared contempt of court, she was sure.

  “You have unfinished business on the Earth. You will be allowed a six month pass in order to compensate for the cruelty perpetrated on a number of harmless beings, but most signally to one who had once aspired to divine favor, one Joseph Patrick Michael Thomas Stephen Jesus-Marie Francis Antony Benedict Anselm John Edward.”

  She didn’t dare ask the question aloud, but still she wondered. How did he get that freaking name?

  “Also known as Purple. Named by a small girl in Cleveland, Tennessee, and later by your own nephew, Trevin.”

  She slowly raised her mascara-streaked face to the magistrate.

  The two officers who had brought her moved to each side of her, and took her arms, consolingly, she thought, though they didn’t seem to be planning to help her evade her fate.

  “Find him,” said the magistrate. “You will be judged by what you do then.”

  The bailiff came forward with a transparent bag, containing, she could see, red leather pants, a pink cashmere sweater, a baseball cap saying NEW YORK POLICE DEPARTMENT, and a pair of large gold hoop earrings. He handed her the bag. “May the circle be unbroken,” he said, patting her hand.

  A wind swept through the huge room, and Bambi looked behind her. A door big enough to drive her rig through had slid open.

  Beyond yawned clouds and stars.

  The two officers guided her gently, firmly toward the door.

  “I can’t fly!” she screamed, and then she felt herself falling through cold, dark air.

  * * * *

  Bambi woke in sodden pain. Her arms and legs didn’t move, and her chest hurt like a son of a bitch. She vaguely remembered what had happened in heaven, but she could see that now she was in a hospital. I’m in a story, she thought. In the next part of the story I’m supposed to find that damned cat and discover how it saved my freaking life and then go all soft and mushy like Ebenezer Scrooge. That’s exactly what I’m supposed to do. Her next thought was: I can’t, though. That damned animal gave me that stroke. If that’s what it was.

  When the candy-striper came in, Bambi opened her mouth to ask wh
at had happened.

  But nothing came out.

  “You’re going to be okay, Sweetie,” said the candy striper. “If you’re feeling up to it, we’ve got a surprise for you. My daddy is going to bring in something so cool!”

  All afternoon Bambi tried to talk. But the stroke had done something permanent to her. She could only think. Not addled thoughts: very clear ones. But she couldn’t say a thing.

  Bambi’s sister, Robin, came in while she was pretending to be asleep, trying to work out what had happened.

  “Right hemiplegia,” said the male nurse. “Good candidate for therapy, but don’t expect miracles.”

  Robin sounded weepy. “I don’t know how I’ll tell my son. He loved her. He kept saying she was going to give him a wonderful birthday present. Now this.”

  The nurse said, “Speaking of which, here comes our pet therapy team.” She rolled Bambi’s bed to a semi-sitting position

  A beefy man in a red ball cap labeled V.F.D. peeked in the door. He approached, carrying something in a blanket.

  “Here. This is Twickle, our therapy kitten.” He leaned closer and whispered mock-conspiratorially. “Don’t tell him he’s not a mutant. He doesn’t realize the color will grow out.”

  They put it on her lap, though it tried to claw free. When it calmed a bit, held in place by the fireman, Bambi was weeping.

  Tears of rage.

  * * * *

  Bambi had felt loss her whole life. She had lost her father and her stepfather. She had lost her mother to dementia after that accident. She had lost her dream of marrying some subservient but virile man who would cook, clean, rub her back, and also bring home the bacon.

  And now she had lost her ability to speak. Every day they would wheel her, over her strong objections, down to that room that looked like a kindergarten classroom Some damn woman in jeans and a tee shirt would be waiting, with cards and some damn idea of putting her right hand, the one that worked, in an oven mitt and forcing her to try to talk, even though it wasn’t working, would never work again. Bird! Say Bird, Mrs. Russolini! See the bird fly?

  Bambi couldn’t even crawl. What did she want to do with flying?

  * * * *

  The only thing Bambi had not lost was Trevin. Bambi had never gotten along very well with her sister Robin, but the sister did come to visit her, once in the hospital and once in the rehab unit.

  “You’ve got insurance for thirty days here,” Robin announced coolly. “Then it’s warehouse time for you.”

  Bambi wanted to say, “Just like you wanted to do with Mom,” but of course when she opened her mouth, nothing much came out except a tiny drop of drool. Bambi was feeling very self-righteous because she’d kept Mom at home during her extended final illness. Of course she hadn’t taken care of Mom; it was just that it was too expensive to put her in a nursing home, and anyway, where was Bambi going to live? When Bambi went on the road in those old days, she dead-bolted the front door and left out a stack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. She came home one day to find Mom sitting slouched with three cats in her lap, in front of the TV, dead.

  “Auntie,” said Trevin, who had been lurking in the hallway, “what happened to the kitten you were going to give me for my birthday?”

  Oh God. Not that goddamn cat. She couldn’t say anything, though. Just widened her eyes, trying to tell him she had no idea what had happened to the cat. And let him think the kitten was for him. It might have been a good idea, really, if she couldn’t sell the damn thing, live or stuffed.

  After those first visits, Robin dropped Trevin off at the front door of the rehab hospital. It wasn’t clear how he got past the front desk; the receptionist may have thought he was with some other adult. Anyway, Trevin came by several times a week after school and told her about TV shows he’d seen and games he played at his friend’s house.

  The day after Trevin’s birthday, he brought a bright silver helium balloon one of his friends had brought to his party.

  “Look, Aunt Bambi. It wants to go up and up. If I let it, it would go above the ceiling and all the way up to heaven.”

  Bambi was surprised and somewhat dismayed to think of her nephew knowing about heaven, especially since she’d been there and didn’t look forward to her next visit. She could tell him things about heaven.

  * * * *

  Purple liked his new house. He had to take rides in a car sometimes so he could sit on humans and purr. They seemed to like it when he purred, and purring wasn’t hard. In fact, when he was tired, it was easy to fall asleep on one of those humans. He didn’t like the lady who had put gasoline on him, but he would stand frozen in her lap until they let him go.

  His new home was an interesting-smelling place with a big human, probably male, who others called The Fireman, and who came in only in the early morning. Purple tried to get out so he could jump on things and maybe find another cat to chase. But the windows were closed with invisible stuff, glass.

  It got greener and brighter outdoors. He found a place where he could watch out the window, yearning to get out. One day he heard chirping. Purple leapt up on the ledge to see what was making that delicious music. Songbirds outside were dancing a seductive dance in the sky. He pawed the air, afraid he would find that glass stuff that often invisibly blocked windows. But there was nothing there. Air and nothing more.

  He glanced down. He was high up, safe from dogs and cars and demented women with gasoline. And the birds zagged crazy zigs from branch to branch. And suddenly something glinted, rising swiftly, beautiful and alluring. He could reach it, he could almost --

  But memory stopped him from leaping into flight. He remembered the itching between his shoulder blades. The wings were gone. He remembered the huge pruning shears, meant to shape heavenly junipers and topiaries. If he jumped, he would fall, as he had when he jumped off that windowsill in Cleveland, Tennessee.

  He meowed one sad, loud meow. And he continued to watch the silver rising thing until it was too far away to see. Before, he had felt frustration and panic. But now, for the first time in his life, he felt true loss.

  * * * *

  Trevin brought the goddamn kitten in one afternoon. Why wasn’t it getting bigger? Was it some sort of dwarf? At least the purple color had faded to gray.

  “Here, Auntie. I brought you a cute little kitten. Remember that kitten you were going to give me?”

  Bambi tried to tell him oh yes, the kitten was for him, and by the way, this was the same goddamn kitten. But of course she couldn’t say anything.

  Trevin put the kitten in her lap. “Pet it. See, Auntie? It likes when you pet it.”

  Actually, the kitten had stopped purring the minute it was in Bambi’s lap. It froze, terrified.

  Trevin picked up Bambi’s left hand—he knew by now that the right didn’t work—and placed it atop the kitten. Bambi tried to resist, but truthfully the warmth and softness had a sort of allure. To please Trevin, she made tiny petting motions.

  And felt something odd.

  There were tiny jagged stumps on the kitten’s shoulders. She parted the fur and saw scarred stubs of—what?

  Trevin shrugged. “It’s like he was crippled. Maybe he used to have wings. You ever hear of cats with wings?”

  A cat that could fly. Only now, like her, it was grounded.

  Right then, she understood that the kitten wanted its wings back, just as she wanted to walk, and speak.

  * * * *

  Purple felt the scary hands on his back and he flinched, ready to spring away the minute she began to hurt him.

  But she started petting him.

  He thought about this. It felt good.

  He decided to give her a chance. He settled his soft, hypnotic weight into her lap.

  * * * *

  Bambi knew she was losing her mind. Trevin had gone home. The annoying girl in blue jeans who tried to make her stir pretend oatmeal vanished. Instead, impossibly tall men in white stood over her and scolded softly. “Your latest sun is sinking f
ast; your race is almost run,” they said. “Your second chances now are past; your trial has begun.”

  One afternoon she woke up with a bad headache. She lay still on a gurney while they rolled her and drove her (in her own truck? Where was her truck? Had somebody remembered to renew her plates?) to another hospital.

  Trevin came to see her in the other hospital. He talked about the cat some more. Said he’d nagged his mom until she finally looked in the garage, but there was no cat. No cage, either. “I wanted a kitty,” he said. “Or maybe a puppy. Dogs are nice, too.” He was making conversation. “Auntie, are you listening to me? I wish you could talk.”

  You and me both, kid.

  One afternoon after Trevin had left, the white tall guys came back. They put a long black cape on her and made her stand up and walk to the door. She looked back and saw herself slumped over her meal tray.

  It was that gummy stuff. Even the water was gummy. She was glad she didn’t have to eat it ever again.

  The six guys in white took her to a huge warehouse, or maybe an airplane hangar, and put her in a new shiny wheelchair. The angels (now she knew they must be angels) stood over her. The one with slit pupils said, “You have learned nothing. My brethren assign you to the outer darkness. Please present your wrists and ankles for binding.”

  Bambi found she could move her legs and arms quite well. But she didn’t want to be bound.

  Yet shame made her comply. One angel, the tall one who had processed her before, moved forward and tied a silver band around her wrists. He bent and began binding her ankles similarly.

  “No, wait,” she said, amazed that she could speak, despite the months of fruitless therapy. “I can’t help that damn cat, and I can’t love or forgive him for being a cat, but I feel sorry for him. He wants to fly, but you’ve grounded him. It was you, wasn’t it?” She looked straight at the angel with slit pupils.

  He gazed back with seraphic impassivity.

  She spoke as clearly as she could. “He wants wings. You should give him his wings back.” She had no idea how she knew this, but it was true.

  The slit-pupiled angel spoke calmly. “That is impossible. He is a killer and his punishment was to lose the wings heaven accidentally gave him.”