Miss Thing

The happy times were when Bob and Sam lived in Puerto Rico in a community filled with creative people like themselves. Everyone was young and attractive. There wasn't an introvert in the lot. Sundown was a good enough reason to start a party. Money was scarce but life was good. If there were any problems cocktails on the balcony took care of them at least for the night.

Books and music were important. Artists, authors and actors, dancers and sculpters filled the parties with joy and went on to failure and success, sometimes fame. Occasionally a notorious figure from the past filtered in to live out what was left of life and lent new meaning to the gossip. Capote would have loved it.
Sundowners and pills eventually did Sam in and Bob was left alone till Richard moved in to fill up the space Sam had left.

Richard was a caretaker. He worked but he also kept the apartment clean and liveable while Bob haphazardly tried to make enough money to live on.

Times got tougher in San Juan so Bob moved to Miami to get work and Richard soon followed. They lived together in a small house, compatibly but not without spats, sharing the burdens and joys of their life.

Then Miss Thing appeared on their doorstep, not much more than a kitten herself yet obviously about to deliver a litter. Richard spoke to her in his deep, warm voice, fed her and when the time came settled her in a comfortable spot in the shed for the impending birth. She didn't seem to understand what was happening when the tiny kittens appeared one by one, and watched weaakly when Bob tossed them in a sack and carried them away.

Miss Thing and Richard grew very close. Richard worked downtown and came home to greet her happily every day, to rub her back and talk to her. Bob, on the other hand, worked at home and never looked at her or spoke to her. She felt the coldness and preferred staying out of sight when Richard was gone.

Then Richard died too, and Bob was alone again...almost. There was Miss Thing.

The house got dirtier. Bob's face became haggard, he seldom sought work. He drank and smoked and sat in shabby dirty clothes with a week or more's growth of beard. He looked bad.

Miss Thing carried on in her quiet way. Bob set food out for her from time to time but it wasn't the same as when Richard fed her with a smile.

The day came when Bob decided to sell the house and move to a trailer in the woods where he would forget the world and all its unpleasantness.

But Miss Thing was not his cat. He didn't want to be bothered taking her with him.

He decided to kill her.

He made a plan. Nothing violent of course. Bob wasn't a violent person. Even when most angry he leaned to sarcasm and sniping. No. He knew chemicals and took the easy way...gradually increading doses of poison in her food.

Miss Thing loved it. She thrived on the extra attention he seemed to be giving her. He put the food down with a smile and watched her as she ate her fish and liver dinners. She felt loved and she blossomed and grew more beautiful and younger looking. As time passed she seemed healthier than ever. Her eyes were bright and her fur shone as it never had before. Bob took to calling her "Old Dear" and marveled at her will to live. And he cut out the poison.

The move to the woods was made and they developed a new way of life. They sat together outside on the small porch, listening to the quiet and the birds. He put her food out for her and she learned to eat it before dark when the raccoon came to get whatever was left.

Miss Think watched Old Bob and thought about the past. She thought about the loss of ther kittens and the loss of a good friend like Richard and the changes in her life. She thought about what Bob's life had been and what it had become...watching the birds and the bugs and the damn raccoon; waiting hopefully for the occasional phone call from some one in the past with which to share a memory. She felt they had both come a very long sad way from the old days when there was laughter and friends and Richard.

She had begun to believe Bob cared for her but now she realized he never had. She had heard him make a joke of her, referring to her as "Richard's widow" whom he felt obligated to take care of. She heard people laugh as he told his story of the poisoning that didn't take. Worse, she heard him wonder out loud how long she could possibly live. It worried her.

Thy fould Old Bob stretched out on his bed on his back, his arms lying easily to the sides, his eyes shut, his mouth open, the picture of an old man who had been taking an afternoon nap, his last thought of the cold beer waiting for him when he woke up.

Miss Thing sat quietly watching with narrow eyes as they carried him out, one arm dangling from the stretcher, the faint odor of fish and liver drifting from his open mouth.

Then she walked slowly, tiredly, to her own lunch, thinking about all the losses...Sam, Richard, and now Bob.