The old grey farm cat finally died that last frozen winter's night. The temperature dropped too low to sustain another beleaguered breath. They found the frozen, calcified mass under the porch steps the next morning. Just a hint of a once-vital tail stuck out to barely signal its petrified presence. It was rigid, as if bronzed, and curled into the smallest ball it could manage for any paltry amount of warmth. The ground was too solid to bury it, so they figured they might as well take it down to the creek and let the icy current do what it willed.
The big farmer bagged up the gelid feline he once held a moody affection for and with his ominous black rubber Hunter boots and fur-lined parka, he marched the mile down to the creek at his wife's insistence. The farmer's wife never did care much for cats, even if they did catch the pester-some mice that scurried about the farm. The way they slunk and crept along so stealthily; she didn't trust them. They seemed wicked and maniacal, always plotting something nefarious behind those shifty, marbled eyes. She especially hated that old grey cat. It never seemed quite right. It lurked and stared at her, as if it knew a deep, dark secret. It gave her an uneasy feeling whenever it slithered by. She was glad to be rid of it, once and finally. She smoothed her apron in relieved satisfaction and went back to frying up the fresh-cut bacon for breakfast.
The big farmer finally reached the creek on that bitterly cold, overcast morning. It was frozen over, of course, but he figured if he trudged down the bank a bit, covered it with a thick mound of snow, it would be, but a hazy memory by the spring thaw. He found a suitable enough plot for his once-beloved pet, but he only felt the cold of the day and a maybe a touch of pity. He packed the snow around the corpse tightly enough to pay reverence, said a quick prayer and began his trek back up to the bustling farmhouse. There was plenty of work to be done.
The next morning, the farmer's wife stepped out on the aged, grand porch, with its weathered and paint-stripped planks creaking beneath her boots as it did every morning as she went out to feed the steadfast hound dogs. As she turned to go back inside, out of the corner of her mahogany eye, she swore she saw a hint of that grey tail. She skeptically, but cautiously peered over the flaking white of the railing. Sure enough, there was a grey tail peaking out beneath the well-worn steps. Son of a bitch. Another dead cat, she thought. She called for her husband. His imposing frame begrudgingly lumbered toward the door, mumbling some low, agitated grumble. The concern written all over her face stopped his knee-jerk crankiness mid-sentence. He swung open the screen, still in his long johns and looked in the direction of his wife's disquieted eyes. He swallowed hard and audibly. What the bloody hell? He stomped over to confirm his fears. That wasn't just another dead farm cat. That was the same dead farm cat. He thought it best not to tell his wife of this revelation. "Yep, honey, it's another dead farm cat. I'll take it down down to the creek with the other one. One hell of a harsh winter. You get back inside and finish up breakfast."
She wondered if he knew it was the same dead cat. Her hands trembled as she cracked the eggs into the bowl.
The big farmer pulled on his old black boots and parka, once again, to make his way down to the creek with his old friend. His mind reeled that mile down. How in the hell did that damned cat make it back up to the house? Did one of the dogs dig it up and drag it back? It was possible. That must have been it. He convinced himself. Or maybe it wasn't quite dead? He pushed that thought out of his mind as strode to the burial site. The snow was built up a bit across from the ash-white birch where he had placed it. He dug down further and piled even more snow atop, mounded close to three feet high. This time, he didn't feel quite so numb, he felt edgy, almost frightened, but not quite. He recalled the day the old cat ran away. Shot off down the road one spring afternoon, after some imaginary rodent, no doubt. He wondered then if it ever would come wandering back, but he wasn't quite sure he wanted it to. The cat seemed more trouble than it was worth. Sure it would catch a few mice now and then, and snuggle in his lap come evening, but it would howl and cry all night long, scratch and claw at the antique doors, leaving long and irreversible mars upon the wood. And every once in a while, it would go into a hysterical fit for no apparent reason, only to end up in some precarious predicament, like up the old willow tree or or top of the barn. And he was left to figure out how the hell to get her down. The cat was gone for a season or two, but turned up shortly after he wed, scrawny and battered. His new bride wasn't much a fan of cats, relegating them to out of doors, and he was starting to understand why. He made his familiar, but addled way back to the looming farmhouse.
Neither one of them slept much that night. They tossed and turned in their tarnished brass four-poster, but refused to acknowledge the others restlessness. Before long, the old rooster was crowing from the coop. It was time to start another morning on the farm. They both moved a little slower this morning, cautiously, prepensely.
The farmer's wife made her way suspendedly down the groaning staircase to the kitchen. Her heart rate quickening almost imperceptibly with each descending step. She didn't want her husband to glimpse her ill-hid trepidation, so she tried to act as naturally as she could muster. She unlatched the back door as her hands began to bead with sweat against the cold, tarnished knob. Please don't be there, she thought futilely. Oh God, don't be there. She swung open the screen as it lurched and squinked. She peered out over the railing once more, as her breath caught in her throat. She called out to her husband. His stomach dropped through the floor with an accompanying thud. Fuck. He knew. But he certainly didn't want to. He pulled on his boots and parka for what was becoming his daily pilgrammage down to the God-forsaken creek.
This same eerie scene played out for close to a month. Every morning the same story. The farmer's wife would espy the frozen grey tail and the big farmer would hike down to the creek with the cat in a bag to mound it under an ever-mountaining pile of snow. The precipice of frozen precipitation only growing more monolithic and mocking with each passing day. Anger began to slowly replace the fear and pity once felt. Each day, the big farmer's face reddening with a touch more rage as he planted each weighty stomp down to the creek. Spring was almost here and the permafrost would soon melt, the creek would flow again, and then finally, maybe, they would be rid of this.
It was so perfunctory at this point, they hardly acknowledged it anymore. It was just another part of the morning routine on the farm. Get up, feed the dogs, find the cat, walk down to the creek, make the breakfast. The farmer's wife's fear was replaced with exasperation, then quiet acceptance. She was starting to understand. Her husband's anger was always quelled by the last bite of breakfast. They settled back in to their quotidian lives.
It was finally spring, the snow had melted and the ground was softening as winter lifted its thick veil. There was a lightness about this fresh spring morning. The sun beamed its uncut, first rays through the filmy windows with a powerful warmth. The farmer's wife almost half-wondered if that old grey cat would even be under the porch this heavenly morning. Yet there it was, just like every morning. But the breeze blew warm across the seasoned porch and the fledgling scent of lilac buds filled the crisp morning air. Something had changed, more than the weather. The big farmer pulled on his black rubber Hunter boots, but didn't need his parka today. His lambswool sweater would do on this sun-drenched spring aurora. Swallows perched leisurely on the branches of the antediluvian and elephantine oak to the right of the porch. They filled the pastoral landscape with their saccharine and untroubled song. He bagged up the old dead cat, almost jauntily and turned to make his way toward the creek. But then an odd thought struck him. He turned to the left and headed toward the barn. He slid open the hefty wood door. The hay crunched delightfully under his largish boots. He got a devilish grin across his normally stoic face. He spotted the rusty axe leaning against the brown-grey planks of the barn wall, almost immediately, as the streaks of morning light shining through the opposing slats pointed their phosphorescent finger. He strode casually to it, as if to savor the thought, and grasped the smoothed and sanded handle with deliberate zest. He grabbed the equally worn spade on his way out of the chiaroscuro-ed barn. He made his way to the all-too-familiar creek, but walked his way further down to the makeshift bridge; an old board he used to cross the creek at its low point, axe, shovel, and bagged cat in substantial hand. The creek was free-flowing now, but he had a better idea. He untied the bag, and dumped the cat into the supposed regenerating field. He began to dig in the just-yielding earth. Further and further down he went. Dirt from his spade flew over his shoulder, wildly, fervently. Just when he thought it deep enough, he dug a few inches further still, clawing at the cool loam and clay with his bare hands now. He crawled out of the fresh grave and clutched the axe. He raised it above his dirt-stained, sweat soaked head, the anger built up furiously from all the laborious digging and wasted time. He was going to actually enjoy this. A ghoulish and deserved smile formed across his face. He brought the axe down hard on the rigid feline, severing its head clean off the body. There wasn't any blood, so it wasn't as satisfyingly gruesome as he had hoped. He took another swing, not much minding the idea. He severed the torso in half. It really was cutting up like a dream. He was picking up some momentum now; each chop/thud sound so gratifying, propelling the next reinforced swing. Pretty soon the old grey cat was in a thousand unrecognizable bits of fur and bone. He looked about the scattered pinkish guts and discolored yellow end-trails with a smug and quenched calmness. He readily scooped the indistinguishable old grey pulp and carcass morsels up with the spade and tossed them flippantly into the cavernous hole. After every last scrap was in its plot, he, with seemingly boundless energy, replaced the moist dirt, happily, back from whence it came. He packed and tamped it down tight and vigorous. Once finished, he pulled a Marlboro out of his drenched, flannel shirt pocket and smoked it down to a nub. He flicked the butt onto the fresh earth, gathered his tools and muddying lambswool sweater from the dry, cool grass and knew that he would never think about that stupid decaying cat again.
He walked back to the farmhouse, with a lightness to his step instead of his usual leaden plod. He was filthy and almost laughing. The farmer's wife saw him striding his way back home from the expansive kitchen window vista. A cold tingle of relief washed down her clenched spine. He finally did it, she thought. She knew he would eventually. And she was seldom wrong about these things. Another farmhouse breakfast awaited him. Back to work, she murmured. This breakfast wasn't going to make itself.
No comments:
Post a Comment