The Assassin's Wages

The cat, a sleek calico with bold, drop-dead whiskers, purred and rubbed her head and body against the man’s legs as he sat at the kitchen table. Birdsong outside the window told her darkness would soon yield to daylight, but the man wasn’t very responsive; he groaned quietly, drank ice water and popped little round white things into his mouth. The cat sympathized up to a point, but she was hungry and that problem loomed much larger in her consciousness than whatever was troubling the man. Why, she wondered, couldn’t these human creatures -- preoccupied as they were with putting things in their own mouths all the time -- understand that cats like their meals on time, too? They’re too slow, too reluctant, or just plain too stupid, she concluded. She rubbed against his legs again, then stood to one side, stared at him and meowed a crescendoing meow that warned of diminishing patience. The man stood up heavily. The cat galloped toward the cellar stairs. Her food and water bowls were at the foot of the steps, but she paused at the top landing, to make sure her lord and master had gotten and retained the message she had been at such pains to convey. No such luck. With disgust she watched the man lurch out of the kitchen; she heard springs creak as he collapsed onto the living room sofa with a sigh and noisily broke wind. If only I could talk to this lout, she thought as she trotted into the living room. She thumped the floor with her paws and trod as heavily as she could; the technique for stalking a human being and getting him to feed you was entirely different from the technique for stalking a bird or a mouse for the same purpose. “Damn cat, I know you’re there,” the man mumbled. “Shut up and I’ll feed you in a minute.” She meowed and catapulted herself onto the man’s stomach. He grunted, belched and scratched a bit behind her ears; she purred until she vibrated. She walked over his chest and butted his chin twice with her forehead, then settled back on his chest and began kneading him with her front claws. She tugged and pulled at the fabric of his filthy sweatshirt, now and then digging into his flesh, which made him wince and pull her paws away. He’s got it bad this morning, she thought. It must have something to do with all that shouting and shoving he and the other human being were doing late into the night. The other human being -- the smaller one who yelled and shot at her with that damned water pistol whenever she clawed the furniture or climbed on the kitchen counter -- was still upstairs. Not yelling at the moment, though. But, hey, man, she meowed. Enough about you and your mate. What about me? You’re my meal ticket. Let’s get with the program. You think you feel lousy? How do you think I feel? I’m starving. “Okay, kitty,” the man said, hoisting himself from the couch. “Okay. Let’s get you your crunchies.” She bounded for the stairs and waited again at the top, watching as the man trundled across the shiny kitchen floor, turned on the basement light and started down the steps. This is it, she chirruped. Hallelujah. She dodged between the man’s legs, wanting nothing more than to keep him moving in the right direction. Without warning, she felt the impact of the man’s left foot against her left side, partially knocking the wind out of her. As she screeched, hissed and bristled with pain and indignation, the man cried out and pitched headlong down the steep, narrow staircase, thumped to the bottom and landed on his back, spread-eagled on the concrete basement floor. His eyes were open but he didn’t move. His head lay practically in her water bowl. She meowed a few times to remind the man of his mission, but he didn’t respond; he lay still. She marveled at the laziness of human beings -- resting, always resting. After all that commotion, too, she thought; first he kicks me, then he somersaults down the stairs, and now he decides to take another nap. All right, Mac. My patience with you is just about used up. Let’s make with the feeding, already. She meowed again, deep in her throat, long, loud and funereal, for emphasis. He didn’t move. She saw something coming out his ears and spreading in a pool on the floor. It was warm and tasted salty. She meowed and avoided it, rubbing insistently against his legs. “Now what the hell is your problem?” The cat heard a raspy, high-pitched angry human voice and footsteps. Someone was coming. Poised to leap to her vantage point in the overhead ventilation duct-work if necessary, she looked up the stairs. It was the other human being, the smaller one the man had been fighting with last night -- the one with the sharp tongue and the water pistol. The smaller human descended the cellar steps and looked down at the man. She prodded him with her toe, then reached down and touched his neck for a moment. “The stupid bastard’s dead,” the other human being said. She laughed. “Dead! God does answer prayers! “Good kitty. Good, good kitty. Oh, look. Your bowl’s empty. Let’s get you fed. Then we’ll call someone to come haul this sorry sack of shit out of here forever. Good kitty.” She stroked the cat’s forehead. She poured the dry cat food into the bowl, and the cat rubbed against her legs and purred.