I met Mewlius Caesar, or Mew for short, four years ago at the local animal shelter. Among all of the litters of sweet, round-bellied kittens he immediately caught my eye, a stocky and scruffy thing staring forlornly out of his cage. His speckled white coat was topped with a stark crop of black fur on the peak of his head, resembling the eponymous figure’s haircut. It was love at first sight, and within the hour he was stooped grumpily in a cat basket in the back of my car. Despite his perpetually cranky-looking face, we bonded quickly. He spent that evening stretched out on his back, purring while I rubbed his belly.
Since the modest bungalow I call home was located in the middle of nowhere in the heart of the countryside, I deemed it safe to let Mew out every once in a while for a little romp in the garden, with me checking on him periodically of course. He had long since said goodbye to his ability to produce kittens, so he was happy enough to hang around in the garden without venturing further in search of mates and trouble.
It was a Spring afternoon the day it happened. He had been prancing around in the grass trying to catch butterflies when the clouds began to draw in and I heard the first warning drops of rain patter against the window. The familiar sound of paws thumped on the windowsill and I saw Mew standing there, waiting to be let in. I quickly put my book down on the coffee table and got up to open the window. He plodded in slowly, his coat speckled with raindrops, but something was odd. Normally he would give me a little meow of greeting and affectionately headbutt my hand as he sauntered in, but his movements were stiffer today, his eyes fixed ahead of him.
“You OK, Mewie?” I cooed, following his gaze. “There a fly you wanna catch?” But I didn’t see anything of the sort. Maybe he was just grumpy because he got wet. I shrugged and returned to the couch, picking up my book again. I expected Mew to appear on the armrest next to me, looking for pets, or to hear him scurrying around the room if he was in a more hyper mood. After a few minutes of silence, I glanced over my shoulder to see where he went. He was still standing there. Not sitting, licking his paws, or perhaps watching the birds outside intently through the window. He was just standing, his back straight and paws planted stiffly on the window sill. His head was turned to stare into the empty space of the room, his eyes wide and somewhat dazed.
“You really are a weirdo, Mew,” I said with a forced chuckle, but I felt a sense of unease growing in my chest. Was he sick? I got up to check on him. The second I rose his head snapped suddenly to face me and his wide eyes locked onto me. My heart fluttered at the sudden movement, but I walked up to him, trying to be casual. I ran my hand gently over his fur, petting him, but he didn’t move. He felt colder than usual, his fur slick and somewhat greasy. I was feeling really worried now; odd behaviour and a cold body temperature is never a good sign in an animal.
I turned and went to get my phone and call the vet when a mewing sound caught my attention. But it wasn’t coming from Mew, it was coming from the opposite window. And there he was, Mew, meowing desperately and doing his little dance of walking back and forth on the sill and pawing at the glass. But how was that possible? Over my shoulder, Mew was there too, inside, his empty gaze now fixed on the other Mew. I felt sick. But what was I supposed to do? I let the other Mew in, and immediately he pushed his little head into my hand as he rushed inside, a low rumbling purr erupting from his throat. Just like he always does, his fur soft and warm in my hand. Then he saw the other cat, what I thought was Mew, and froze. After a few tense seconds, the evidently real Mew let out a sharp hiss before bolting and disappearing into the hall that joined onto the living room.
I quickly closed the door behind him. The other cat must just be a stray, I decided. Its striking resemblance to Mew was certainly strange, but it is possible that the shelter had originally picked up Mew from this area. What if they were litter mates, even? That must be it. But I didn’t want Mew to catch any diseases from him, so he was staying in the hall for now. I turned around, expecting to see the weird stray on the windowsill still, but instead he was standing on the coffee table. He stood straight and unmoving yet again, his head cranked backwards to stare at me with the same empty gaze. I hadn’t heard him move.
“O-kaaaay,” I sighed. There was something off about this animal, he probably needed to see a vet or something. Normally I would have considered taking him in myself, but my hands were full with Mew and to be honest, it hadn’t exactly endeared me. I grabbed my phone to call the animal shelter; maybe they could pick him up and take him to see a vet. I walked into the kitchen with my phone to my ear as the number dialled, nudging the door shut behind me. I didn’t know why, but I didn’t feel like staying in the living room with that cat.
“Hello, this is Paw Buddies Animal Rescue,” a lady spoke from my phone.
“Uh, hi, so I’m in a kinda funny situation…” I began, and went on to tell the story of my kitty’s unexpected doppelganger. The woman from Paw Buddies was very helpful. She let me know that there would be someone swinging by that evening to pick the cat up and to just keep him warm and hydrated until then. So I just had to spend a few hours with the weird cat, and help would be on the way. That works. I felt kind of bad that I felt more unease than empathy towards the little guy, but at least he would be looked after either way.
I returned to the living room, ready to fetch some bowls of kibble and water for the stray, when I saw that the hall door was open. It had been closed, I was certain, but there was no time to think about that; I had to make sure the stray didn’t get close to Mew in case he got sick. I ran into the hall, my eyes darting into the room, and immediately I froze.
Mew was lying on the floor, and on top of him was the stray, facing the opposite direction. Its tail wrapped around Mew’s neck and snaked into his mouth, clamping his head and jaws in place. Its legs pushed in on Mew’s, pinning him in place, and its face… Its face was red, wet with blood, a string of sinewy flesh hanging out of its mouth. A string of flesh coming from a ragged hole on Mew’s back. It stared at me, eyes glazed over and blank as before, the only motion the slow and mechanical grinding of its mouth as it chewed.
I screamed, and before I knew what I was doing I charged forward. The horrid thing leapt from Mew, the only time I ever really saw it move, and disappeared into the shadows of the hall. His mouth free, Mew cried out as I gathered him into a bundle in my arms. I ran to my car, both heart and mind racing, and gently deposited Mew’s small form onto the passenger seat before leaping in myself and slamming the door as I jammed the keys into the ignition.
The veterinary receptionist looked at me like I was crazy when I barged in, babbling and hysterical, my little Mew clutched to my chest and staining my shirt with blood. But they saved him, and that’s all I cared about. My little buddy was going to pull through. He stayed with the vet that night, stitched up and on painkillers and antibiotics, so that they could monitor him. The vet looked at me strangely as he escorted me out, asked if I was alright. I shook my head, tried to act normal, said I was OK. I wasn’t really OK, but what was I supposed to say? He was puzzled by my story, but said that he’d look into the weird cat and its aggressive behaviour if I could bring it in. Rabies has been long extinct in my country, but he said it would be a good idea to check if there was some kind of other disease causing the animal’s odd behaviour. Truthfully, I never wanted to see that thing again, but I had left it in my house.
It felt strange, driving back without Mew. My stomach sank when I climbed into my car and saw the small red stain on the passenger seat, and when I thought of what would face me when I returned home.
I took my first step into my home tentatively, afraid that it would be standing there, staring right at me. But it wasn’t in the first room, nor was it in the sitting room, or the hall. I looked everywhere for that cat, that thing, but it didn’t seem to be anywhere. None of the windows had been left open, so where had it gone? I searched for hours before I gave up. I swear, I checked every room, every possible hiding spot, but it simply wasn’t there. A volunteer from Paw Buddies showed up as planned, and left disgruntled after I had to tell them the cat had escaped. I told them I must have accidentally left a window open, put on my best sheepish grin, though I knew that wasn’t the case. I called my mum that evening. After explaining the situation, in the most normal terms I could, I asked if I could stay at her place. I told her that it was because I was too upset to be alone. Not because I had become scared of what could be hiding in my own home.
It’s been a week, and Mew is home with me now. He’s slowly returning to his old self, though sometimes he gets a fearful look on his face, staring intently into whatever nook or cranny of the room has caught his attention. I don’t blame him. I feel the same. I don’t let him outside anymore, and I keep him close at all times. I can’t sleep if I don’t feel him curled against me. I never saw that thing again. I can’t bring myself to call it a cat. There’s this awful, inescapable feeling in my core that tells me it was something else. Sometimes I think I see something glinting at me from the shadows, like a feline’s eye, but it’s gone before I can even register it. I think I’m going to move soon. I don’t feel safe here any more.