This story won an 'honorable mention' award at the 1999
first annual Current magazine poetry/fiction awards.

It was published in the June issue of 'Current' magazine.

Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction

The Cat Out of the Bag by Sue Blair 
---------------------- 
(a story of losing one's temper)

It was the year 1985 and I shared an apartment, which was the ground
floor of a house, with two other women, Vanessa and Cathy. One day,
Vanessa brought home a stray adult gray cat which she named 'Xavier',
being the hipster that she was. Of course, she didn't bother to ask
anyone if they happened to be allergic to cats. I asked her if she
was high off her ass or just plain inconsiderate. She apologized and
argued that clearly a life was more important than an individual's
comfort. I couldn't argue against that, and I couldn't use any
meat-eating or leather arguments against her, since she was a
vegetarian and wore all hemp clothing. Plus, I would be OK since
I had my allergy drugs.  Though I did suggest that the rent be
divided four ways now, Xavier picking up the latter fourth.

All seemed well at this point; however, in no time, the cat was
in my shit. I had to make sure my bedroom door was shut at all
times for fear that he would get a hold of my clothes, slippers,
or hats and chew/claw them to pieces.  God forbid that I should
leave the bedroom door ajar while going to take a piss down the
hall. Being transcendental psuedo-bohemes, my roommates didn't give
a shit about their personal possessions and declared that I was a
materialistic bastard for expecting them to give a shit about mine
(I freely admit that I am in fact a materialistic bastard). Clearly,
they said, a life, albeit a scraggly, ungrateful piss-head cat life,
was worth more than some purse or a pair of underwear. On the other
hand, I declared them to be hypocritical bastards for having become
pissed when a visitor's dog ate a baggie of marijuana.

Soon, I forgot the cat's name since I always referred to it as The
Fucking Cat.  I could not leave any food unattended on the dinner
table without the mangey little bastard jumping up on the table and
dragging the food off my plate. I would have to hide in my bedroom to
eat since the cat would sit a foot away from me while I was eating,
inching closer and closer, staring at me. He did this to everyone,
though I was the only one that seemed to be bothered by it. I told
Vanessa that she should keep her fucking cat in her room or teach
it some manners, at least wash and brush the damned thing, take it
for shots, and get the fucker declawed, all of which she ignored.

Finally, I decided, this is bullshit. I'm going to eat at my table
and in my living room, and to hell with The Fucking Cat. The first
time that the wretched beast touched my food, I dumped a pitcher of
water on it and it ran away. The second time, I threw a glass of
wine in its face. Eventually, it started getting the idea.  Soon,
all I had to do was make a motion with my hand or give it a dirty
look and it would go away.

My meals were peaceful, though all of this was not without
backlash from the fucking demon feline. It would climb on top
of the TV and hiss at me and arch its back while I was watching
Letterman. People would tell me I was cruel for throwing paperbacks
at it at these times and suspected that I was even more "abusive" to
the cat when nobody else was around since I was the only one that he
was pissed at.  But everyone else let the fucking cat eat off their
plate and laughed when it chewed up their stuff. I really didn't
care what people thought of me and I wasn't about to be like them,
and I wasn't going to kow-tow to some motherfucking mangey piece of
shit cat.  I'm sure everyone thought that I took afternoon classes
so that I could ass-fuck the cat with a strap-on after they left
in the morning. I accepted pariah status since that was better than
letting a scraggly-ass cat get the better of me.

I was getting orange juice one morning when the little fucker hissed
and took a swipe at me from the top of the fridge. I touched my
eyebrow and it was bleeding. Shit, I thought, that could have been
my eye. All hell broke loose at that point and I totally went off. I
grabbed a garbage bag and caught the cat inside it. It was thrashing
around like a mad bastard, but I was holding its front legs together
through the bag. Its hind legs were sticking out of the end of bag,
so I grabbed a roll of duct tape and taped its hind legs together. I
then spun the cat around and taped its front legs together. Then
I let the cat stick its head out of the bag. I carried the cat in
the bag outside and buried it up to its neck in a snowbank at the
front of the house. I went back inside and put my elbows on the
picture window sill, staring and smirking at the cat, waiting for
it to die, making sure it knew that I wanted it to die.

Just then, my roommate Cathy was coming up the walk. At first she
was puzzled, but then she "figured out" that the cat was "caught"
in the snowbank and went to help free it. She was clearly stunned
when she dug out the cat and saw that it was in a trash bag, and
even more shocked when she saw the duct tape. As she walked in with
the cat, I walked out saying, "I'm going to the library".

When I returned later that night, the cat saw me and immediately
bolted down the basement stairs, but not before I noticed that part
of its leg hair was missing. I assumed correctly that Cathy had to
use scissors to cut off the duct tape.

Cathy talked to me about it.  She said that she was my friend and
was concerned that I might be stressed out about finals, and that I
really should seek psychological counseling.  I pretended like
I was truly sorry and told her that I was in fact a bit stressed
lately. It was true that I did feel bad about bumming her out, and
that I had been a bit stressed, and that I was glad that she was
my friend. After that, the cat always left the room when I entered,
and we all lived happily ever after.