Alaina Hammond

The Claws That Catch

I’d been dating Beatrice a few months when she randomly developed an allergy to my cat. Which was strange, as she’d never had a cat allergy of any kind.

That wasn’t officially why we broke up, but it wasn’t irrelevant, either. 

Stacy had two cats, herself. We’d been dating a year when the three of them moved in. Immediately after Stacy’s breakdown, her sister came to collect the cats, as well as the rest of Stacy’s things. Apparently Stacy’s doing better these days, which is a huge relief. I respect that she doesn’t want to hear from me, though god knows I myself did nothing wrong. 

Still. I plan to learn from my mistakes. This time it’s going to be different. 

I sit down with my cat, and speak to him directly. 

“Alastair. I do NOT want to be a bachelor forever. You have to accept that. You have to adapt.” 

Alastair pretends not to hear me, and licks his claw with practiced indifference.

I stay most nights at Julia’s place. She’s never slept at mine. But my excuses are getting tired, as I’m tired of making them. There’s nothing wrong with the apartment. It’s clean and it’s safe. It’s perfect, other than the demonic feline who struts around like he owns the place. 

Julia’s sleeping in my bed for the first time. I’m listening to her breathing, worrying that the sound will stop. But that’s crazy, right? The legend that cats steal the breath of babies is: 

A. A legend 

B. Only about babies

Anyway, Alastair isn’t even the room. It’s not as if he can stop her breath from his place on the living room rug, right? I mean he’s not THAT powerful. Sure he can cause an allergy in a 24-year-old healthy woman, and can drive an even healthier woman to the point of madness, but he can’t literally kill my new girlfriend. Right?   

I get a text, from a number I don’t recognize.

“You are factually correct. Alas, I cannot. Thus the trashy mouse you shagged lies not in mortal danger. I will have my revenge, upon you and she both, but I assure you she’ll survive the night. The question is whether you want her to.”

So he can read my mind. So he can type. With what? His tail? His teeth? His penis? He doesn’t have opposable thumbs, I don’t know!

And the weirdest part is he types exactly as I imagine him sounding in my head. Threatening, yet…pretentious.

I should have listened to the old man who warned me not to adopt Alastair. His broken English makes more sense in retrospect. 

I get another text. 

“PS. Get me more milk.” 

I get out of bed, to do as I’m told. How did Alastair even get my number? And where is he texting me from? Ugh. This fucking cat!