Click here to return Home . . . Click here to return to Humdinger Literary E-zine . . .   …Kenneth flies out of a small tree to grab the nasty feline, but it is too quick and scurries away. He lands flat on his face in the grass, spitting out dirt and dandelions…   The Cat That Killed Me By Daniel J. Dziedzic   "Meow, meow."             The hunt begins.             "Meow, meow."             The prey comes closer, unaware of what's in store for it on this warm July morning. It drops the bird from the clutches of its teeth, stretches and licks its paw unaware and unconcerned of its pending fate. Just then, Kenneth flies out of a small tree to grab the nasty feline, but it is too quick and scurries away. He lands flat on his face in the grass, spitting out dirt and dandelions, holding but a few blades of grass and even a worm in his misguided grip.             "A cat! A cat! My sanity for a cat! I will have my revenge," he yells, staring toward the cloudy blue sky.             Ken watches as the cunning cat sprints across the yard, under the fence and back into the neighbor's garden for safety.             You see, this damn cat has been running around his property, killing birds and leaving them on his lawn for months. He has had enough and wants nothing more than to see this cat dead and buried. Ken quickly runs into his house so that concerned neighbors will not realize it was he who shouted such a ridiculous remark.             Sitting on his desk in his little bedroom is a crude drawing of a small tree, a man perched on the lower branch and a cat below. This is labeled Phase 1: The Hunt, with quotes around it. Next is the same man (stick man if you will) flying through the air, superman style, directly at the cat, hands outstretched, the cat unaware. This one is cleverly labeled Phase 2: Pounce on the Pussy, with quotes around it. Finally, the stick man stands victorious, cat in hand, its eyes replaced with X's, and the stickman holding it up in the air like a freshly caught fish. This was labeled Phase 3: No More Annoying Cat!, with double quotes around it. Though Ken could not understand why the plan failed, he figures it might have something to do with the fact that it was drawn up with a red crayon on the back of a paper plate stained with jelly. But who's to say?             Ken sits at his chair, arms folded, pondering another way to kill the cat. Upon remembering the leap of faith he just made, his mind immediately recoils in horror at the thought of another aerial assault, so he attempts to come up with a new trap for the tricky tomcat. Ken dismisses the idea of another set of blueprints and instead grabs what is lying next to him, a box and a ruler and scans the room for some string. Ken is a simple man, and apparently has lots of time on his hands to chase around a cat, but he has few material possessions in his house. Unfortunately, a random ball of string is not one of those things (maybe the cat stole it), so he improvises and takes an extension cord he was using for his Christmas lights.             "Now what do cats like?…Hmmmm…," he ponders, chewing on a handful of sunflower seeds. "Of course, mice!" he exclaims with great jubilation. However, he quickly reconsiders, "But then I would have to catch one of those first. . ." He looks down at his bruised elbows and torn pants. "Strike that. What to use, what to use?"             After several minutes of intense thought and searching through his cabinets, he devises a plan.             "Tuna! And I won't even have to catch it myself, except when I knock it off my cabinet shelf." He laughs for a few moments (a few moments too long if you ask me), and then grabs the can as he pushes it off the shelf, to his own amusement.             Despite Ken's best efforts, he comes across another problem. He doesn't have a can opener. Undaunted, he spots a large nail lying on the counter and goes to work. After spending several minutes poking holes in the can, he realizes that his efforts are fruitless and his hands, shirt and pants are becoming a little fishy. So, settling for the mangled can, he concludes that the smell alone will have to do.             He ventures outside to set the trap. Ken expertly places the box in the middle of the yard, propped open by the ruler with the can underneath. He smiles at what he presumes to be "the perfect set up." As he is waddling backward, unraveling the cord, he stumbles into a small shrub, which he figures to be the ideal place to keep him out of the cat's sight. His smile widens at the unexpected bonus he finds as he climbs around the bush. He perches himself on an upside-down bucket and leans back after he ties the cord to his ankle, in case he needs to act quickly. That’s just Ken's logic.             "Now we play the waiting game."             And wait he does. After a half hour there is no sign of the cat. Half falling asleep, he waits and waits, to no avail. His smile has faded to a look of dull complacency when suddenly, he feels a tug at his ankle. His wide-eyed grin returns as he looks up cautiously, peeking above the bush, just enough so his eyes and forehead break the plain. He sees nothing. Disappointed, he hangs his head down in dismay and what does he see?             "Le Chat!" he exclaims.             The furry critter mocks him and his fail-proof trap by licking the tuna off his pant leg. Ken swoops down awkwardly to grab the feline just as it begins to sprint away. He comes up with nothing more than a hand full of fur. He throws away the hair ball and runs after the swift animal as it scurries toward the same spot it escaped earlier under the fence.             "Not this time," Ken says as he hurls a nearby lawn chair.             To his amazement, it lands about 5 feet in front of the black and grey nuisance, blocking its path underneath the fence. It stops and hisses in the direction of the impedance. Ken races toward the stunned cat, ready to pounce on it. With no other options, the cat realizes it must retreat toward the house. The fur ball, with its cat-like reflexes, reverses its momentum and runs toward the house and front gate. Absentmindedly, Ken had forgotten to close the gate and the cat saw its opportunity.             "The cat doth protest too much, methinks!"             With all his pent up aggression, Ken lunges toward the fence, but, alas, is too slow and the cat scoots past. Still determined, he chases after the cat into the front yard. He picks up a rock as he turns the corner and yells, "Tempt not a desperate man!" And, so, with another frantic fling, chucks it with all his might at his retreating adversary.             He almost falls from the momentum of the throw but looks up with enough time to witness the glistening stone flying through the air, almost in slow motion, encroaching upon the cat. The jagged projectile hits its target like a fat man grabbing for a candy bar, sending the cat sprawling across the street to the curb.             "The game is up," he exclaims as he jumps up and down and flaps his arms wildly when he regains his balance.             Filled with the thrill of victory, Ken marches toward the disoriented heap stumbling up the curb on the opposite side of the street.             "No cat will get the bes--"             Just as Ken gets to the middle of the street, his left leg gives out and he falls on the ground. He rolls over on his back to see the extension cord and ruler, still tied to his leg, caught in the fence. He spins his head to the left to see a truck barreling down the street heading straight for him. He looks behind him at the cat, now up on the curb looking directly at him, with what looks to be a smile on its face.             "I wonder whose lawn that cat is going to leave ME on."     © Copyright, Daniel J. Dziedzic   Click here to read Daniel J. Dziedzic’s Brief Bio.   Click the link above to read what will amuse, frighten, amaze and delight you.   It’s Free, offers inspiration and advice others charge money to deliver, provides resources and links and reminds you that you’re a Writer. Subscribe to Jack of Genre, Humdinger’s monthly e-zine by clicking the above link.   The above link will take you to the idiosyncrasies, eccentricities, and delightful weirdness of Humdinger’s unpretentious writers. 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