Don't Tease the Cat

Don’t Tease the Cat

Cleaning up the blood—he refuses to grow up, takes risks, a self-serving garnering of attention, expectation of awe—in his eyes, anyway—at his daring.

We are getting old, on the cusp of senior-citizen status, and he no longer bends easily to wipe up the floor. Sprays and pooling, black-red on green fibers and then beige tile, hobbling into the bathroom, blood squirting.

He teased the cat. Back claws swiped, found a vein, a rapier hole unnoticed. Little of the fallout fell on his skin. He felt the sticky puddle beneath his foot.

Now he is woozy, clamping a dirty towel over the pulsing wound. I scramble for a wad of gauze pads—pressure, pressure—grab disinfectant wipes. They absorb the red, spread the red. Switch to paper towels, no—rags. The sprays dry, the pools congeal. I overlay the blackening mess with chemicals, clean his feet, wrap round the gauze, tight pressure.

Too wide the soiled carpet. I step on the sopping stink of pink-tinged cleaner to fetch a pail of water. Blot, scrub, blot. I’d like to break his crown. Change the water. Repeat. My knees hurt.

Do NOT tease the damn cat!