We don’t let the cat out anymore because she kills everything. Piles birds in the kitchen; mice in the cupboards; squirrels in the bathtub. Brings cats from around the neighborhood, mangled to death––just to show us she can. Her fur black and smooth, glistening, no matter the circumstance. We can’t remember where we found her, when she came to us. But the children adore her, the way she circles their beds at night, as if on guard.
Though we have to wonder, have to ask ourselves––kept indoors, will her bloodthirst invade our home? Will she take the baby by the nape of the neck and fling it across the hallway? Tussle with the toddler, drag him down the stairs by the little finger? Grow tired of small prey and creep into our marriage bed? Eat away at us slowly, so slowly we hardly notice?
Please, I beg my husband. I can’t stand the thought, the possibility. Please? I climb onto my husband’s lap, purr into his thighs. We have to let her outside. My husband strokes my head. He has just showered, smells like his body wash, like a forest, like dirt. I paw at his chest. Sharp, he comments on my nails. I dig them in deeper, until they pierce through his nightshirt, until there is blood. Stop it! My husband pushes me away. What has gotten into you?
I jump off the bed and stand tall, on my hind legs. Good-bye husband. I hurry to the childrens’ room, kiss their foreheads, and look at them one last time––lovely, lush, mine––before climbing out their window, sliding down the elm tree and into the night.
