Battlecat

A havoc making cat so fiendish it is called a "Battlecat."

Tim Buckley

Word count--1,703

©2013

 

 

 

 

BATTLECAT

 

            I was visiting Mom's when I saw it. Pure white, sitting on a brown dirt patch, a lone snowball in the desert. It stared straight at me with fire blue, Asian eyes. "Fire-eyes," I named it.

            "Here little kitten, don't be afraid." I gently called.  A slow blink, but otherwise it sat as still as Aunt Ruth in rush hour traffic.  Not wanting to scare it, I got down on hands and knees.  Big mistake.  As I inched closer, I could see it wasn't afraid at all; in fact, it was targeting vital areas for attack.  When I was arm's length away, it launched, claws and teeth exposed, hitting me like white lightning. Surprised, I fell backwards as it proceeded to carve my face and hands with the precision of Chef Boyar-Dee slicing celery. Length wise. Blood flew, and so did I, back into the house.  "Your mother wore a flea collar and still had fleas!" I yelled at the unpet  before going inside.

            "What kind of crazy cat is THAT!" I called towards Mom.
           "A wildcat." she replied.
           "A wildcat? Well thanks for telling me sooner!"

            As I bandaged myself, Ma explained how this cat was the only survivor of a kitty litter born under the house.  With the furnace there, it was a warm place.  When my folks discovered the babies, they called animal control, who took the whole kitten-kaboodle to the pound.  Except the furry fiend Fire-eyes. It got away. Too crafty.

            To survive, as a young-un’ it had to kill food.  First, bugs, mice, shrews and an occasional Kit-Kat bar.  Now, though only a juvenile, it had developed into a warm blooded, heat seeking, cold cocking carnivore, killing or chasing away anything that lived: other cats, squirrels, dogs; why, one time it attacked a passing 18-wheeler Mack truck and pulled the bulldog hood ornament off to chew on.  Animals were so terrified they refused to enter our yard. Not even horseflies dared circle Fire-eyes cow pies. But no matter how hard anyone tried to catch it, sly eyes escaped. It had developed into a "Battlecat." That is, a cat linked directly to the extinct saber toothed tiger; an animal so fierce, it knew only battle.

            "I'll get it for you Ma." I said, reaching for Pa's shotgun hanging over the fireplace.  "That white fur will look great draped over your shoulder. Grrrreat draped!"

            "No son, no killing!"  Mom scolded.  "You have to outsmart it."

            Me, outwit a nitwit animal?  Witted!  So, I decided to stay at Mom's a day or two until the cat was nipped.

            That night there was a terrible wail under my window, the kind made by the first girl I had ever kissed.  I looked out to see Battlecat battle cry. She (it turned out) was taunting and teasing me.  All night she kept it up.

            Come to find out, this whiskered whiner was the neighborhood teen terror, a juvenile delinqcat.  She led a group of Tom cats down the street and held the whole block hostage.  They beat up Baxter, Sylvester, Garfield--anything with padded paws--smoked catnip and played tricks on dogs.  Was I afraid? Yes! But I would not be a Gilligan, trapped on an island of fear. She must be stopped!

            Because of her upbringing, I began to feel sorry for her. So, I decided to try counseling first.  Yes, I'd get a "counselcat."  From a catalog, I purchased the smartest puss money can buy. Also called "Witty Kitty," it had a Flea H.D. in therapy.  When it arrived, I put it in the yard, hoping it could purr Battlecat into the straight life--to be a normal house cat.  Nothing doing.  That night I found counselcat tied up on the porch.  Battlecat had carved a peace sign with a "NO" above it in my smart cat's behind, and had whittled its tail.  (If you've seen a cat with a stumpy tail, that was it.) Enough! The clock was tick-tocking for that flea and tick talker.  

            Since Battlecat easily stole food from regular cat traps (and used the traps herself on other animals) I decided to try a dog, next.  But not a normal dog--I wanted a monster.  So, off to the dog breeder I went.  The mongrel maker told me, " You know dogs are called 'K-9's,' right? Well, the 'K' in 'K-9' means 'kill,' and  the '9' means '9 lives'; therefore, a K-9 can kill all 9 lives of a cat.  However, it sounds to me like you need a 'K-12.'  It can kill 9 lives plus 3."

             Yes, I thought, a K-12!  I bought it instantly.

            My K-12 was everything the breeder described. His name was "Murder,"  and he was a mix: 1/4 wolf for mean, 1/4 Doberman for power and speed, 1/4 German Shepherd for brains, and 1/4 tyrannosaurus for large teeth, claws and size (and a wee bit Mexican hairless for a bad, bald head).  Murder generated such power, insects fried the second they buzzed by him. And, when he walked, military marching music played. No kidding. And now, no Battlecat!

            As I led Murder to Mom's, Fire-eyes sat and watched. Now, I would do the taunting. "In this corner," I yelled, sissy sounding, pointing at B-cat, "weighing a measly ten pounds and standing about--ha, ha--two inches off the ground, is bah, bah, Battlecat!  And over in THIS corner (I voiced murderously) weighing one hundred ten pounds, standing four feet ten, a mean, maniacal, montage mutt with massive muscles and mandibles meant for mayhem, mysteriously making military marching music when mad, is MURDER! Let's get ready to rrrrrrrrrrRUMBLE!"

            The fight lasted, oh, 26 seconds.  All I saw was white fur, fangs and claws in a flying dust cloud.  When Battlecat walked away unscratched, she left K-12 a can of dog food; no, Battlecat didn't give K-12 a can of dog food, she made K-12 into a can of dog food.  Funeral music mysteriously played from the air around the can. My Murder murdered by that murderer!
            Next, I tried the old "cannon cat food" trick.  I got a howitzer canon--about school bus size--and put it in the yard. Being a girl, she liked pretty things, so I hung curtains, made it look like a fancy ma’mmal restaurant and stuffed it full of food.  Now, when the B-ster entered the "Kitten Café," I would raise the cannon and raze her to oblivion (which is just north of nowhere).

            Here she comes, sniffing the food.  She looks around and enters the barrel. The cat was in the bag! KABLAM! I fire the cannon skyward.  But when I put the binoculars to my eyes, I can’t believe it.  Battlecat has a parachute. I holler a pair of "shoots!" as she floats slowly to earth like a single, starving snowflake, devouring the cannon's food as she descends.
            What next?  I know--poison!  But I don't want to kill her, so what can I

use?  Hey, my brother once disguised a box of ex-lax as chocolates which I ate, and my intestines did the twist for a week. Yes, I'll try a laxative.

            The drugstore had MANY laxatives.  There was Pooper Producer ; Super Pooper Producer ; Super Duper Pooper Producer ; Super Duper need a Shovel not a Scooper Pooper Producer ; Super Duper throw you for a Looper Pooper Producer ; and, finally, Super Duper need a Shovel not a Scooper throw you for a Looper maybe through the Roofer Pooper Producer.  That last one was it!  On back of the box was a man pictured in sitting position floating four feet above the toilet.  It was coming out so fast, the gas held him aloft.  Under the picture was this warning: "Never digest more than one half tablet at a time or this could be you!"  Half a tablet? WOW!  I bought 20 boxes containing 10 tablets each. I got Italian flavor, because spaghetti was B-cat's delight.

            When I got home, I made the meal and dumped the 20 boxes of kidney kickers into it. Then, I put it outside and waited.  Here she comes, wary, creeping cautiously to the spaghetti like it was a lit firecracker waiting to go off.  But, after a taste, she chow, chow, chowed down. Now to wait until Battlecat wages a battle of the bowels!

            An hour went by. Nothing.  But Fire-eyes was so fantastically fat from food, her stomach was square. It made me want to go. I left to the bathroom.  When I came back, Battlecat was in the house--Mom had let her in!  I ran to get my fish net to trap her and throw her out, but it was too late.  I heard a faint rumble from her tummy, and she began to lift off the carpet.  Slowly at first--like a space shuttle after ignition trying to free itself from the launch pad--then roof high, as if a cat-shaped cloud, blowing in the wind.

            I swung my net at her but missed.  Good thing too, because her afterburners switched on.  If she were in the net, she would've dragged me along. Since behind her was not a good place to stand, I ran by her side as she "Ka-bammed" through the house.  Into every room she flew, gaining speed all the while.  Finally, she shot up the fireplace. When she left the chimney, she broke the sound barrier with a giant "Boom!"

            That night as I watched Battlecat orbit the moon (and they thought it was a cow jumping over) I felt both good and bad.  The cat was gone--good; but, I felt bad we couldn't have been friends and worked it out peacefully.

            Next day, as I walked to my car to leave, I heard a faraway whistle.  A girl who likes my looks?  No!  It was Battlecat re-entering the atmosphere.  The whistle got loud, louder, LOUD….smash!  The cat crashed, knocking me to the ground.

            Well, Fire-eyes and I never became friends, but a truce was called.  She would stop her evil ways if Mom put food out for her, and if I promised to leave her alone.  I did leave her alone. Pure white, sitting on a brown dirt patch, a lone snowball in the desert.

 

Reviews

[Marie]

THis is funny and well written. I really like cats, and I couldn't help but like this one.