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Monday, January 30, 2012

Chugger Charlie

Category: Short Story

For you, dear reader, a freeze-frame cameo of the pleasures of animal stewardship. The waddling, gluttonous feline ‘Charles Chugger Wellington’ (a.k.a my housecat) has decided he is bored, and therefore hungry.

I am fast asleep.

He positions himself an inch from my left ear and bats it with a paw. His claws are partially extended, and the sharp prick of them draws a gasp.

The green neon of the nightstand alarm clock reports 2:13 am.

The boyfriend grunts.

Ancestral Apache warlords scream to life deep in my gut, clamoring for war; the Irish ones just want a beer.

Various behavioral modification applications flit through my thoughts.

He chuffs softly, voice cracking with desire, and then rubs his sweet smelling fur under my nose. I feel a cold kiss on my ear lobe.

There are a few things I could try. Cold water dunking, electric collars, or maybe get a hyperactive dog to add to the house (pity the dog). The absurdity of bringing a mutt into Charlie’s house gives me a shiver.

There is another alternative.

I could skip the love slave manners and the appropriate socialized responses, and go straight for tavern level obliteration. Just surrender to the bliss of histories’ amygdalae and murder the little sucker.

He chuffs again, this time adding a moan. The sound is husky, appealing, and quite impossible to ignore. It is the sound of utter trust, thrumming with vibrant streaks of patience. It is the gentle voice of a wise, aging monarch who must deal with a slack-jawed slave.

The sound travels through my right ear and streaks through my nervous system, spreading tingling goose bumps that broadcast pleasure flares in the neuronal tides. The pleasure is reminiscent of post-coital tremors. Hormonal feminine fire responds with a tidal wave of maternal instinct. It love- smothers the hungry ancestral voices, leaving them fuming in the ignominious realm of impotence.

I sigh and open my eyes.

He pulls his head back and gazes deep into my eyes. In the orange light of the alley streetlamp, they are shimmering, luminous, and exert a sirens appeal. He stretches for me, in slow motion, muscles flexing, fur glittering, and allows the heavy undercoat of his belly to slide down my arm.

I snap out of it. I have to get him out of here before he chuffs again. I must be strong.

My groping hand finds a pillow to smack him with. I am so very stupid. Twenty two pounds of haste translates into the force of a donkey hoof in the bread basket, when the paws are planted on top of your solar plexus. Nausea, vertigo, and the jeering of the ancestors; with a curse, I turn onto my side, burying myself in pillows to protect me.

Chronic pain robs me of sleep, so the pillow brutality is pure self-defense.

Honest.

Sweet silence and drifting away, a lazy leaf spiraling down to peace and refuge, and a reprieve from the cruelty of the flesh…maybe I can get a little more sleep.

The clock reports 3:02 am.

A heavy blow falls on my left hip, twisting my damaged spinal column like a mad slinky, and a shock wave rips through my body. The right outer calf sports a deep cut, and a couple thousands bees get busy stinging the torn flesh. My heart bolts, a terrified runaway horse on a screaming concourse.

I snap upright, sucking air that’s abruptly thick as a desert sweat lodge, one hand clawing at the air where a moment before there was a cat.

A ruthless coup de grace delivered from the springboard of my towering headboard.

I clap a hand over my mouth. My muffled scream causes my lover to turn over, but he doesn’t wake.

Don’t get me wrong. I am not shy about streams of invectives. However, the man I love is sleeping next to me; time and stress are carving visible ruts in his face these days. I am unwilling to disturb his rest.

I count to one hundred.

Groaning and yawning I rise, draw on a robe, and shuffle down the hall to the kitchen. The sound of the cat food bin brings him trotting to his bowl. He turns his back to me and the chugging begins. Talk about your middle age spread.

The food evaporates like smoke.

I ask him if he is satisfied now. He ignores me and begins licking his testicles.

I am dismissed.

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Old Comments

  • Excellent piece. Next time, give into the Irish, swill a beer, and let the Indians scalp the cat while you imbibe.

    Posted by deminizer  on  01/30  at  09:04 PM
  • Thanks smile I really like that idea sir! Scalping hmmmm….

    He would make a fabulous ear muff:)

    Posted by Chalice_Divine  on  01/30  at  11:17 PM
  • Great, no, awesome imagery. I was right there with you the whole way, and not only because I have (literally) been there myself. I thoroughly enjoyed this! Keep’em coming! (Oh, and ALWAYS go with the Irish. I found that sharing the Irish with the cat BEFORE you go to bed helps, too wink )

    Posted by StarLizard  on  05/03  at  02:29 PM
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