I first wrote this when I was 17 for a creative writing class I was taking (Thanks again, Mr. O, for teaching me to believe in my writing). For my current writing class, this week's writing assignment has to do with animals who hate us (okay, so I added the animals who hate us part), and this piece sprang to mind. I've edited it some, but I don't have time to reinvent the wheel this week, what with Christmas, and work, and, oh, right, my two children. So forgive me, writing group, for not being original this week, but here goes...
The best advice I can give to a person is to not put off being the bearer of bad news. It’s best to have it over and done with so that you can be forgiven quickly. For example, one summer my maternal grandparents flew to Alaska to be with my aunt and the newest addition to our family. Since they were going to be gone for approximately three months, they asked me to take care of the garden, the house, and the animals. When they offered to pay me a hundred dollars, I readily accepted. The work wasn’t hard; I had to water the plants, get the mail and newspapers, run their car for a while and feed the cat and birds.
The birds were definitely the most annoying part of this job. Squawker—who earned his name, might I add—and Cuddles, would squawk and chirp the entire time I was in the house, driving me insane. Whenever I opened their cage, they would fly at me, pecking wildly at me. To this day, I still have scars from those damn birds.
The cat was the easiest part of the job and also the most time consuming. Originally my uncle’s cat, Dammit was nearly twenty years old. My uncle named him Dammit accidentally, of course. My uncle never got around to naming his cat, instead choosing to simply say, “Come here, dammit,” ect., until the cat assumed that Dammit was his name. When my uncle moved to San Jose, he dropped Dammit off at my grandparents’ house. They grew attached to the cat and refused to give him up when my uncle came for him. Dammit got special treatment: I had to leave the sink on so that he could get fresh water when I wasn’t there; I had to mix wet and dry food so the cat would get all the nutrients he needed; and I had to play with him when I went to my grandparents.
The problem with this last direction is that I AM NOT a cat person, and Dammit was a mean old thing; he was content to lie on the floor and hiss at me. One night my grandmother called, asking me to bring Dammit home with me because she was worried about him being so old and alone. I reluctantly agreed.
The next day, I drove out to their house and got Dammit. I meant to take him home, but there was an accident on the freeway and I just barely made it to work. I left Dammit in my car with the top down, checking on him whenever I got the chance. He didn’t move, purr, or even hiss. I didn’t know much about cats, so I didn’t question it.
After work, again, I meant to take Dammit home but there was a minor catastrophe at work and by the time I was able to leave, I had to go directly to the airport to pick up my father. Dammit had been so good so far, so I just took him with me. To tell the truth, I sort of forgot about him.
When my father got in the car, he reached back to pet Dammit. While doing so, he got a funny look on his face. Dammit was stone-cold dead, curled up into a ball. When we got home, my dad told me that he’d bury the cat if I called my grandparents. I reluctantly went and called Alaska. My mother picked up the phone and when I told her the story, she laughed for about five minutes. I finally gave up and hung up the phone.
The next day, my grandmother called and asked how the cat was. I was shocked because I thought that my mother had told her what had happened. I told my grandmother that Dammit was sleeping, and would probably sleep for a long time. Instead of understanding the implications, she told me that cats do that and I shouldn’t worry. I didn’t have the courage to tell my grandmother that her beloved cat had died so I didn’t say anything.
A month later, I let myself into my grandparents’ house and was met by an eerie silence. No chirping or squawking. I cautiously made my way back to the birds’ cage and found Squawker dead on the bottom or his cage and Cuddles sitting on him, refusing to move. I called my mother at work, and she started to laugh again. When she was coherent, she told me that she refused to call my grandparents, that I had to tell them. And, while I was at it, I might want to tell them about Dammit.
Unfortunately, my grandmother loved both of those annoying birds and that damn cat. I didn’t want to tell her that Dammit and Squawker died while I was watching them. Of course, I didn’t call her.
My grandparents’ came back three weeks after Squawker died. I picked them up at the airport and drove them home. My grandmother eagerly asked me if Dammit was at their house. I hesitated, then told her not exactly. When we got home, she immediately ran to the birds’ cage. Seeing only Cuddles, she turned to me in confusion. I told her that Squawker had died and I didn’t tell her when he had passed on because I didn’t want to ruin her vacation. My grandmother looked ready to burst into tears. My grandfather put his arms around her and told her that at least they still had Dammit.
“No—not exactly,” I hedged. My grandmother burst into tears and my grandfather demanded to know what I meant. My grandmother turned and screamed at him, “Dammit’s dead! He’s dead!”
My grandmother started to speak to me again a week after she got back from Alaska and she even paid me for taking care of the house after she got back. She has a new cat now, Little Bit, and the first thing Little Bit did was attack Cuddles, who died of fright. At least I wasn’t watching him.
