On Tuesday, my cat got out.
His name is Arnold. He is not an outside cat.
Arnold is a maine coon, and a fat bastard of a cat. He’s not nice, he doesn’t show affection, he doesn’t shit in his litterbox, he doesn’t even look at me.
But I live alone, and he’s all I got. So I keep him around, well, because if I don’t have him, I have nobody. And picking up after him brings me more comfort than listening to the sounds of my own thoughts. So, yeah. That’s why I deal with him.
So, on Tuesday, he got out. I don’t know why, but it happened. He’s never wanted out in the first place. His existence in our home has primarily been to sulk and knock things off tall surfaces. So you could imagine my surprise when I opened the back door, and he zoomed out of it like he was being paid to. I named him Arnold, as in The Terminator, but he’s never expressed any attributes that would make it make sense. I named him when he was a kitten, I didn’t know how he would turn out.
Anyway, there was something in the yard. The backyard.
I’m terrified of rodents. I’m terrified of most things. And on Tuesday, there was something in the yard out back. I assumed it was something I’d rather not deal with. My guess was a raccoon. I only had the door open a crack, just so I could get a better look at it before noping back in and locking the door. And then— of all times, Arnold bolted through the door and into the yard.
I don’t know what possessed him. He just…did it.
It happened so fast, and after seeing him do nothing but perch over the years I couldn’t even believe the speed in which he ran. It was insane, this fat fuck of fur blurring across the yard and into the dark. Even if I was ready for that— which I wasn’t— I wouldn’t have been able to catch up with him.
So he bolts into the yard, straight for whatever’s lurking. I mostly curse in disbelief, but once I heard the shrill hissing and yowling I felt the twist of nausea in my gut. A primal urge to defend my bastard cat, despite my fear of things that lurk in my backyard at night.
I ran outside, fucking barefoot. I followed the sounds of the struggle, to the writhing mass that was my cat, interlocked in battle with what appeared to be… a possum?
The whole thing didn’t make sense. Possums aren’t hostile things. They’re ugly as fuck, but there’s something precious to the horror that is their existence. They’re not aggressive things, just misunderstood. And Arnold wasn’t a predatory cat. So the fact that he had actually rushed out like the fucking Terminator was even stranger.
Almost as strange as the tentacles bursting from the possum.
As Arnold clawed and bit, these little spindly feelers protruded from the possum, stabbing into his thick fur as they fought each other. My thoughts of distemper and rabies went out the window, and I did the only thing I could think off as I watched Arnold go toe-to-toe impressively against this…thing.
I called the police.
While I rambled incoherently in a panic, I watched the madness unfold in my backyard that seemed to get more bizarre the longer I looked. The details I gave them didn’t make sense. Watching it firsthand, also didn’t make sense.
Arnold with his hair raised, yowling as he swiped at this deranged possum.
The possum fighting back—but not physically— reluctantly via the bloody tendrils that stung Arnold over and over. Even after it was apparent Arnold was (somehow) stronger than the rodent, the tentacle barbs kept the fight going by attrition. Eventually the possum tried to turn and play dead. Then it was dead. But the fight kept on, even as I shouted helplessly into my phone, and Arnold’s hisses got weaker and more deliberate. I felt terrible for both of them; on one hand, the possum that looked very much unwilling to fight, and two, my fat bastard cat that somehow decided today was the day to give a shit about me.
As Arnold got in this death-lock, digging with his front claws more maliciously than I had seen him inflict on the couch, the possum started to melt. Whatever resided beneath was withering as well, but not before it had the chance to stab Arnold repeatedly. Quick, sting-like jabs, inflicting wounds you couldn’t even see through his mancoon fur.
With a triumphant bite, Arnold killed whatever possessed the possum, and as that melted away too, I was left with my cat looking up at me. Looking disappointed.
I hunched over him, bawling like a baby as I watched his furry chest rise and fall with rapid breaths. I reached for him, to try and comfort him and tell him I was sorry, and he swatted at me and scooted away. A fucking asshole, even to the end. But I loved him, and I told him multiple times. I was still saying it when he died, and I was still saying it when the police arrived.
Two rather tired looking cops took my statement, one broad and tan with bleach blonde hair, the other a stocky woman with pink lipstick. They followed me into the backyard, to see my dead cat lying next to a pile of…absolutely nothing. The possum and tentacles had melted away, leaving not a trace behind. Only little spatters where Arnold had bled in the scuffle.
They scanned the yard with flashlights, trying to find wherever “it” had run off too. I tried explaining that it had melted, but that detail only granted me scoffs from the bulkier officer, and an awkward, seemingly polite smile from the lady cop. Once they were done searching the yard, I reiterated that no I was not under the influence, and yes whatever it was had actually melted. In the end, the taller man returned to the vehicle annoyed, and the woman offered her condolences. She gave me numbers for the local human society, and just as quickly as they arrived, they were gone.
Alone and in the dark, I buried my cat.
Once it was done, I went back inside and showered, all the while feeling like a miserable piece of shit. Thinking if I would’ve done something, or just kept the door shut, he would still be sulking around the house. But he wasn’t, and it was my fault.
Once showered I laid on the couch and continued to mourn, the hair caked to my clothing and his litterbox serving as visual reminders of his presence. I cried myself to sleep, only to be further taunted by dreams of horrific possums and my cat’s dying look of disappointment. I woke up several times during the night, and each time I looked around the house hoping it was some kind of fever dream. In the sober reality of it all, I went down for the night, feeling alone and like failure.
In the morning, Arnold returned.
I don’t know how long he had been sitting outside the back door but he was there, hair caked with dry dirt, the same look of disappointment remaining. I couldn’t believe my eyes. When I saw him on the porch I thought I was still dreaming, but even after a pinch and slap he continued to sit there, unamused.
I stood there frozen for a while, and jumped out of my skin when he made his usual, lazy meow. More like a mrow.
I opened the door and he sauntered in, his belly swinging from side to side as me made his rounds through the house. Aside from being dirty he looked like himself, and I followed him through the house in disbelief.
He looked exactly the same. He moved the same way. He sounded the same.
After taking three nonchalant laps through the kitchen, dining room, and living room, Arnold settled into the litter box and started to dig. It was something he always did, methodically finding the precise place to relieve himself.
“Are you okay, Arnold?” I asked stupidly. He continued to dig for a few minutes, rudely spilling litter and dried shit clumps onto the floor as he rooted around, only to promptly get out of the box, look me in the eye, and shit on the floor.
My blood ran cold. Not of his actions no— this was classic Arnold— but at the contents that spilled from his puckering butthole.
Pooling onto the hardwood floor was a steady stream of dark-red blood, one that continued until it ran black like tar. Arnold watched me, occasionally wincing as he shit six inches from the box.
“What the fuck,” I said, watching the bloody stool continue to expand until he was finished. He kicked bits of litter onto the pile like it made it all better, and before he walked away, added a “mrow”.
Arnold walked away, leaving me with the mess. I thought it was fair after last night, and as I tried to save the hardwood with towels he rubbed salt in the wound by taking more laps to check in on my progress. Fucked up as it was, I was happy to have my cat back, and considered this revenge for me letting him die last night. Or whatever happened.
I considered washing the towels, but ultimately threw them away. I would just buy more tomorrow. Arnold stopped his rounds in the kitchen, and I took that as a sign he was hungry. He watched as I filled his bowl with dry food, and I decided to throw in a can of tuna to try and entice him. I got the opener from the drawer and started cranking away, but Arnold’s behavior made me stop.
He was trying to sit, but couldn’t.
Every time he tried to loaf on the floor, he would lose his balance and roll to one side.
“You okay, bud?” I asked, and he ignored me. Arnold moved to a different spot, tried to nest, and kind of just flopped over. He did this several times on the floor, before mrowing in displeasure. It looked like he couldn’t hold himself up, like his natural balance was gone.
I opened the can and strained the juice over the dry food before spooning it into the bowl as well. I spread it around nice and even, and walked the tuna can to the trash. As soon as I turned my back, Arnold jumped onto the counter, and knocked the food off of it. The dry-food-tuna mix hit the floor and scattered like smelly buckshot.
“Arnold, what the fu—”
Mrow.
I looked at Arnold and felt my temper rise. The food went fucking everywhere.
Arnold looked at it from his high ground, sniffed the air, and tried to sit again. Again, he rolled onto his side. He looked agitated, but he got up and tried again while I sighed and grabbed the broom.
Once I swept everything up, I decided I would need to mop to get rid of the stickiness of the tuna juice. Minutes later I returned with the mop and bucket, to see his furry mass in the sink.
“Arnold?” I asked, cautiously looking in.
Arnold was on his side in the sink, slowly sliding to the center. He looked at me for a moment with annoyance before thrashing and getting back on his feet. Again he tried to sit, and again he flopped over and slid to the center.
I reached in to help him, maybe pet him, and he batted my hand away. Asshole.
I left him there and started mopping, straining mop-full after mop-full of hot tuna water as Arnold gave up on the sink and went into the living room. Once finished, I went to go find him.
“Arnold?” I called, holding out a bowl of dry food, skipping the tuna this time. I looked to the floor, and noticed a little trail of dirty paw prints. A trail that led to his cat-scratch house. It was a little post structure with a little hiding spot at the pinnacle, something I bought him when he was a kitten and he never used. And he was trying to fit his fat ass in it.
“Arnold, what are you doing?” I asked, watching him impossibly shift into this hole he had outgrown. I thought of the pictures of cats fitting into weird places, like odd-shaped vases or or tubs. “Cats are a liquid”.
Arnold did a one-eighty inside the too small box, looked at me, and settled in.
“Mrowrrrrrrrrrreeeeek” Arnold’s eyes went wide and he slid out of the cat house, and onto the floor with a thud.
I winced and rushed over to him, spilling food for the second time today. Whereas cats usually just landed on their feet, Arnold landed on his fucking head.
“Jesus bud, you alright?!” I asked him, trying to pick him up. He responded with a shrill hiss and batted my hand away.
“Alright, alright, fuck–” I said, backing off. Arnold thrashed on the floor for a moment, taking the time to intentionally swat at the dry food as well. When he was done, he got up and looked at me, giving the same mwor before sauntering off to find something else to try and sit on.
It didn’t matter what it was, each surface seemed too slippery to hold him. Like everything was covered in oil.
Later that day, I went to the backyard to inspect the grave I had dug for Arnold the night before. It’s not that I doubted that the one in my house was mine (he was definitely every bit of an asshole as he always was) but I just wanted to be sure. I wanted to make sure my eyes weren’t playing tricks on me.
The fresh grave was still in the same place I left it. There was no hole in it like he had risen from the dead, but it did look like the grave had….deflated itself. Despite the sick feeling the act made me, I dug it up to be sure.
There was nothing but loose dirt. Like there was nothing buried there in the first place.
I spent the rest of the day trying to get Arnold to eat, while simultaneously witnessing his failure to nest on anything. I tried to help him, but anytime I tried to pick him up, he would snarl and swat at me. He couldn’t care less about the food as well, and after a while I stopped trying to give it to him. Several times he would take breaks from trying to lay down, and spend minutes scratching at the back door. After the incident the night before, I made a point to keeping the doors locked at all times. Last thing I wanted was for him to get out again.
By nightfall, I was exhausted. I was still thankful Arnold had somehow come back to me, but following him around all day and listening to his constant hissing was starting to wear me down. I felt like it was karma, and this was my punishment for letting him die the night before.
I decided I would make some popcorn, and settle down with a movie for the night. As a bag spun in the microwave, I played on my phone and waited for the timer to go off. I left a big glass bowl on the counter as I waited, my eyes getting heavier the longer I stayed still. I must’ve nodded off at some point, because I jumped awake when the microwave beeped. I pinched the too-hot bag by its corners and pulled it open, ready to dump it before it scalded me. Just as I angled the bag to pour I stopped, immediately seeing two piercing yellow eyes looking up at me.
Arnold was in the bowl, laying perfectly still.
His fuzzy shape had perfectly molded to the bowl, and for the first time today, he seemed content. Not only that, he was purring.
“You okay in there bud?” I asked, reaching for the bowl. The purring immediately stopped, and the familiar growl started up again. I stopped and retracted my hand, and the purring resumed.
I watched him for a moment, marveling at his shape in the bowl. The way he shaped the bowl, he almost looked like a fluid. He was a mancoon after all, and even though he was fat, he would probably only be a third his size if I shaved him.
I thought of the memes again, and the pictures of cats fitting in strange places. In the end, I chalked it up to that.
“Well, alright then.” I said leaving him on the counter.
“Mrow.”
The next morning, I woke up awkwardly on the couch, covered in popcorn. My TV was cycling through the same tired line-up on the streaming service, a reminder that I didn’t even make it to my movie. I remember sitting on the couch last night and watching Arnold in the bowl as I ate from the bag. I must have dozed off.
I got up and stretched, and looked at the kitchen.
The bowl was empty.
“Arnold?” I called, my voice ringing in the empty house. I listened for the patter of paws or his grumbling meow, and got nothing. Not even a pspspspsp provoked a response.
I walked into the kitchen, and picked up the big empty bowl from the counter. It was filled with long gray strands, the curse that was Arnold’s shedding.
“Arny?” I called again, pacing to the dining room. My footsteps creaked in the house as I looked under the dining table, around the cat house, and under the couch. He was nowhere to be found. Just as I was feeling the encroaching loneliness of his absence, I heard a muffled sound.
One that came from outside.
“Mrow.”
The sound was deeper, more of a groan compared to Arnold’s usual obese baritone. I tiptoed to the back door and listened, feeling the hair stand on the back of my neck. I could hear a faint groan, then a scratch.
“Mrow.”
I looked at the knob, to see it was still locked from the night before. I unlocked it and opened it, to find Arnold waiting impatiently. He had the same lazy eyes of indifference, the same shaggy gray coat.
But he was bigger. And he brought me a present.
“Mrow.” he grumbled, and pranced inside. Once his fluffy mass was through the door, I was allowed to fully see what he had left me. Or rather, what was left of it.
The skeleton was almost completely whole, and for lack of a better term, picked clean. I couldn’t tell what it was from, but it didn’t make it any less horrifying. I nudged the remains with my foot, and felt my inside twist into a pretzel.
“Arnold, WHAT THE FUCK?” I shouted. My reply was the sound of his dry-heave.
Arnold was hunched over his food bowl, full-body gagging what looked to be… his intestines. They came out in a painfully slow ooze, a rotting glob that spiraled over his food until it was covered fully. The dry food, of course.
“Arnold… are you okay?” I crouched to him and tried to pet the raised hair down his back, which he allowed for a moment. He blinked back what appeared to be tears, before the same mask of indifference took back over. He waddled away, leaving me to look at the bowl alone.
I’m not a doctor or anything, but they were definitely his insides. Writhing in the steaming mass of decaying intestinal track looked like what I assumed were his other organs, although which ones specifically I didn’t have the time to ascertain, as the food below had begun to melt.
Jesus fuck—
I grabbed the bowl in both hands and ferried it to the back door, the bottom of the plastic burning my fingertips as I struggled to get the door open. The contents simmering like a skillet fresh from the burner. Once the back door was open, I tossed the bile to the yard. I looked at the bowl, the once hard plastic folding in on itself. I tossed that, too.
After watching the grass shrivel, a single question nagged the inside of my brain: What the hell was wrong with my cat?
A few google searches determined the skeletal remains belonged to a rabbit. I don’t know how Arnold seemed to swallow it, or better yet cough it all up like he did. The rabbit had to be his size or bigger, and I couldn’t imagine him running after one fast enough to catch it. I also searched his lack of balance and bathroom troubles and signs pointed to rabies. I looked up “cats killing things outside” and learned it’s very normal for house-cats to annihilate the wildlife around them. No information regarding the whole skeleton thing though.
I decided to call the vet. I explained his lack of balance and bloody stool, they suggested I bring him in to get checked for distemper or… rabies. Against my better judgment I brought up the whole throwing-up-instestines-and-eating-animals-thing, and I think they assumed I was fucking with them, because they hung up.
I called the police next to let them know my cat was alive, and they only responded with two things. 1-They had no idea what I was talking about and 2- I should call the vet to inquire about rabies.
Going downstairs, I immediately heard the annoyed mrow of Arnold, a muted muffle that made me think he had somehow gotten outside again. After a few moments of searching, I found him in the couch. He had slid in between the cushions somehow, and was unable to get out.
I thought of taking him to the vet, but every time I tried to grab him he would slip through my fingers. I considered a trash bag, but each time I look at his sweet, albeit grumpy face, I can’t stomach the thought of doing that to him. I’m not a monster.
Has anyone else dealt with this before? He won’t eat, and the only places it seems he can comfortably nest is the bowl on the counter (which he barely fits now) and the couch (once I took the cushions off).
My cat is incredibly rude but I do care for him, and this whole thing is freaking me out. I’ll take all the help I can get. Any and all suggestions are appreciated!