The drone of lawn mowers wakes me - it must be Wednesday. It's just past seven and as I roll over, I avoid looking at the crack at the bottom of the door, focusing on the ceiling instead.
Then I hear it - the sound that sends shivers up my spine.
"Yeow," he mews innocently.
I tell myself not to look, but I must, and his golden eyes stare at me as he attempts to push his head through the two-inch crack. He knows if he gets inside, he can pummel my head until I respond to his demands. Since she left, he's dominated me, forcing me to do unspeakable things in the name of love. Love, that's what they called it at the shelter. You adopt out of love, but when you get them home, beware.
"Yeow," he mews again. He thrusts his paw through the crack with alacrity, igniting my ahh response. Against my will I smile, isn't that cute, no, stop that, and don't do it again. He's a madman out to kill you, you fool!
I throw off the covers and put my feet on the floor. His yowling intensifies as his lust for my blood escalates to orgasmic proportions. I rise from the bed and head to the bathroom. My time on the commode offers me one last chance to change my mind. Do I really have to go out there? Is it possible to live in a bedroom indefinitely? I can hear the monster scratching the door. Damn him! He knows I’ve recently repaired the damage he’d previously inflicted on my custom-made carved oak door. He’s toying with me. I hold myself back, my hands balled into fists, then I hear it again - his nails digging into the hardened wood, leaving one foot trails along its surface in their wake.
"Stop!" I cry.
Silence. He's waiting, though. He won't leave until I open the door.
I hesitate, contemplating a shower before my morning coffee. In all likelihood, he’s licking his private parts as he waits. His enjoyment of that disgusting practice often supersedes his desire to kill me, but not always. I listen. The silence from the other side of the door gives me pause. Has he left, distracted by some noise, perhaps the gardener passing near the window or a bird flapping its wings? There's no way to tell unless I open the door.
I'm a grown man, I think, this is ridiculous. I have to get rid of the damn thing. He was her cat and she didn't feel any responsibility to take him when she left.
"I can't afford him now," she said. "Besides, this is his home. You can handle it."
He didn't even mew as he watched her walk out the door. He simply licked his anus for an hour and went to sleep. If only it had been that easy for me.
I decide on the shower and the bathroom fills with steam as the hot water finally arrives from the basement. The warmth penetrates my frozen neck muscles, restoring their elasticity. How long can you stay in a shower? Until the hot water runs out, idiot. I take my time with the towel, and as I leave the bathroom, I hear him again.
"Yeow."
A long white arm is reaching through the crack and stays there, taunting me. His claws, distended and burrowing their way into my Oriental, find purchase and disengage a thread. I can imagine his glee as he realizes he has succeeded. The nasty little turd. I find my toenail scissors in the drawer of my nightstand and approach the door. I have to move quickly, and my aim must be sure. If I fail, he'll rake his claws over my hand, and that would be a catastrophe. I bend over, and with the speed of light, I clip the thread. I pull back my hand as a paw appears, ready to strike, and my joy is overwhelming.
"You missed me, you little shit," I say with pride.
"Yeow," he mews with escalating frustration.
I smile, and knowing I can't put it off any longer, get dressed. I have to be at the studio by nine. I moisturize my hands and don my white cotton gloves. I walk to the door. With my hand on the knob, I hesitate one minute more. The evil punter is waiting, his leg extended, swatting my feet.
I open the door and there he sits in all his pure white glory. He's the picture of innocence. His tail moves back and forth as he stands. He wraps himself around my legs, daring me to move as he slithers between my appendages. My impulse to kick him is held in check as I finally extricate myself from his dance of death. I rush down the hallway, and he flies past me. I make it to the kitchen and he jumps to the counter. I grab the water bottle and spray, sending him crashing to the floor. He rights himself and runs from the room, but I know he'll be back.
I fill the Keurig with water and hit the brew button. If I can get the coffee made and into a covered cup, I can get out of the house before he realizes I'm leaving. His panic always intensifies when he understands what’s going on. This could be attributed to the fact that on several occasions I've left the house without leaving food and water. You would think, however, that he'd have forgiven me by now. I've been extremely thoughtful in my choices of canned food, and I've placed a sign on the back door reminding me to check his bowl before going. But he's relentless and merciless in his vengeance.
I reach into the cabinet for a can of food while the coffee brews. The lid snaps as I pull the tab, and I see his face peeking around the corner. I hurriedly dump the contents of the can on a paper plate and put it on the floor next to his water bowl. The water bowl is a fountain guaranteed to attract any feline into drinking. Apparently, cats would rather die than drink stagnant water. She bought it for him. She who would ooo and ahh, and pick him up to snuggle. The mere thought of it turns my stomach. She never saw him for the evil assassin he is. She thought he was "cute."
The coffee-maker sputters and the cup is full. I slap on a lid and head for the door. He has appeared from nowhere and is standing in front of it, defying me to cross the threshold.
"Get out of the way, Precious," I say with authority. "I swear this time I will send you to the moon."
He stands like an Egyptian statue, staring at my face. His golden eyes show no fear, and he steps forward, walking between my legs and rubbing his scent glands against my trousers.
"It won't work. I have to go or I'll be late. Go eat your food."
But he doesn't want to eat. He wants to see me dead, or at the very least, destroy my career. If I move fast enough, I can disentangle myself without hurting him. He continues to rub my legs, and the layer of white hair accumulating around my trousers thickens.
"Get away from me, Precious," I yell. He runs like lightening, momentarily alarmed by the firmness in my voice. This is my chance. I pull the door open and quickly close it behind me. I take the lint roller from my pocket and rub it vigorously around my the hems of my trousers. My satisfaction at having bested him fills my soul. I look through the window to give him one last triumphant look before leaving and I see my coffee cup still on the counter. Precious is poised near the cup, leg extended, paw at the ready. His victory assured, he swats the cup sending it over the edge of the counter.
I shake with anger. Rage fills my heart, but I have no time. The photo shoot is more important than a spilled cup of coffee.
"I won’t forget this," I yell before walking to my car.
I drive to the studio with minutes to spare. I take off my cotton gloves and the make-up artist prepares my hands for the shoot. It's a watch ad this time, and my hands will grace the pages of magazines all over the country. I almost had him, I think as I clasp the watch on my wrist. Just wait till I get home.
