With a bag of groceries in each arm, Magarisa managed to unlock her front door and push it open with her foot. As was his practice, Fury wended his way between Magarisa’s feet, trying as hard as he could to be stepped on or to trip her. His excited meows morphed into purrs as he dipped his nose into the brown bag, crinkling it as he rooted around.
Up popped Fury’s head. His eyes narrowed. His little pink nose flared. “Meow. Meow-meow. Meeeeooow.”
That may sound like Greek to you, but what Fury said was, “What the &#%! is this?”
“The vet says you need some dry food,” Magarisa answered. “It’s not good for you to only have the wet stuff.”
“MEOOOOOOOW.” Fury finished with a hiss.
Henrietta Pussycat may be the most famous talking kitty, but Magarisa’s cat Fury talks without the help of Mr. Rogers or anybody else. And he’s sassy. Fury would eat Henrietta Pussycat for lunch. Or dinner. So long as she wasn’t dried. It became a contest of wills, the dry food. Magarisa decided: no soft food until Fury ate the couple of tablespoons of dry food she’d put out. It wasn’t going to kill him.
But oooh, the curses and vulgarities from Fury. He was aptly named.
“You gonna clean your fur with that filthy tongue?” Magarisa shot.
A neighbor called the cops and said the noise was keeping her awake, said Magarisa was talking to herself. She explained that no, she was trying to talk sense to her entirely unreasonable cat, and there on the kitchen floor was the evidence: the still-untouched dry cat food. Fury had used his paw to dig most of it out and spread it around as an act of rebellion.
When Magarisa translated for the officer, he tried to cuff her, said she earned herself a free ride to the mental hospital. And from there, things got ugly. A person isn’t a threat to society until you try to separate them from their beloved cat.
Whether it was Fury or Magarisa who clawed the officer’s eye out was never ascertained, but when the orb dropped onto the tiles with a juicy plop, Fury beelined for it.
“Ah…wet food, finally.”
But to you or I that would’ve sounded like: “MeeeeeOW!”
Cats are meat eaters, and they’re not picky about the meat.
“We’ll have to make this to go,” Magarisa scooped the eyeball in one hand and tucked Fury in the other. Faster than she thought possible, she raced from the house and took off for the hills. Of course they outran the law and lived happily-ever-after. Magarisa published her poetry under a pseudonym and with the huge cash advance, bought an RV. They travelled the country, and Fury ate soft cat food every day- whatever he could hunt down.
True: Magarisa has a cat that vocalizes more than any other she’s ever met/had. When she talks to her, the cat responds, and that sometimes goes on for quite a while. They have long conversations about everything and nothing. I changed the sex of her talking cat because it made the story less confusing. And for some reason, my muse told me to rein in the horror this time.
Also true: Magarisa blogs at Becoming Unstuck. I’ve enjoyed her poetry for many years. Like Emily Dickenson, Magarisa is, by her own admission, “a solitary individual who enjoys being a recluse a little too much.” I am honored she chose to participate in MTO Horror.
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