Fulvia’s cat hissed at Fulvia's father and backed away, farther under the sofa.
“Leave her be,” said Fulvia’s mother.
“I gotta take her to the vet,” said Fulvia’s father. “Been awful cranky lately, and peeing a lot.”
“So?”
It’s Fulvia’s, he thought, but said instead: “Gonna cost a fortune in kitty litter.”
He got on his knees, and reached for the cat. The cat hissed again. What was it Fulvia used to say? Squooshie squooshie? He sneezed from the dust, and the cat bolted under the display cupboard. The souvenir plates rattled, and he looked up to make sure none had fallen. There was still an empty spot in the middle of the top shelf. The photo that once stood there was still missing, and no one to ask about that now.
“Use the laser,” said Fulvia’s mother. “The damn cat is crazy about the laser.”
“So where is it?”
“Same as always,” said Fulvia’s mother. She took a breath as if to say something else, and let it out in silence.
He hobbled to the rightmost kitchen drawer, took out Fulvia’s key ring, with two keys and a small silver cylinder. He pointed it at the ceiling and clicked; a red dot appeared. The cat must have heard it, because when he turned around, she was behind him. He bent down; she arched her back but held her ground. He placed both hands on the cat’s back and squooshed.
The effect was much like Fulvia’s mother kneading dough. The cat collapsed to the tile floor, her fur bristling between his fingers, and he looked around for the carrier. It was, predictably, out of reach.
“Drat,” he said. “Bring me the carrier, would you?”
Fulvia’s mother rose, shuffled to the hallway, and returned with the carrier which she placed in front of the cat. Fulvia’s father slid the cat into the carrier. She tried to resist but her claws slipped on the tile. She squeaked in protest and turned around in the carrier to level an accusing stare at Fulvia’s father.
“Oh look,” said Fulvia’s mother, and pointed to the smeared puddle where the cat had been.
“I’m sorry,” said Fulvia’s father.
“I’ll clean it up,” said Fulvia’s mother. “No one said it was your fault.”
He reached for his truck keys on the hook, then thought of the gas prices, fished for Fulvia’s keys in his pocket, and went outside.
Her compact started reluctantly, as if in protest. Just like Fulvia used to.
§
He drove downtown the way he always did, without thinking, a longer route that took him past shiny homes sporting the Senator’s reelection slogans on manicured lawns, with only a few “Next term: Prison!” signs his eyes slid off of. Again without thinking, he circled to come in and park just north of Fulvia’s vet’s office, to avoid passing Fulvia’s doctor’s office immediately to the south. His gaze fixed on the VETERINARY ARTS sign, sliding off both the OB-GYN ASSOCIATES awning next door, and the “Next term: Prison!” sign on the fence between them.
“I know this cat!” exclaimed the vet tech at the desk, and beamed. Then her eyes darted to Fulvia’s father, her smile slipped, her eyes misted briefly before she blinked it away. “You must be…” she trailed off, and turned away quickly. “I’ll get the doctor,” he heard, as she disappeared down the corridor.
The tech held down the cat in a squoosh, much like Fulvia’s father had, but somehow better. He stepped up to get a closer look. The tech turned her face away.
The vet picked up a shaver and an alcohol pad and bent over the cat. He bared and disinfected a patch of skin on the cat’s hind leg, then picked up a syringe and drew a bit of blood. He put a drop of it on a glucometer strip and waited. A number appeared on the screen.
“Just as I thought,” he said. “Diabetes. She’ll need insulin. I’ll give you a vial and show you how to administer it.”
“Gonna be expensive?” said Fulvia’s dad.
“Vial is forty dollars, should last a cat her size and with her disease severity… about six weeks,” the vet said. “Give or take.”
“Severity,” said Fulvia’s father. “Guess I should have come in sooner.”
“No one says it was your fault,” said the vet.
§
“How did it go?” said Fulvia’s mother.
“Lousy,” said Fulvia’s father. “Cat’s got diabetes.”
“She gonna die?”
“No,” said Fulvia’s father. “Not now, anyway. Vet gave me insulin. Taught me how to give her shots and everything.”
“That’s got to be expensive. We can’t…” she started, and trailed off.
“About a buck a day, the vet says. Sure we can.”
He put down the carrier, and the cat crawled out, her tail straight up and her ears twitching. He pulled out Fulvia’s keys and pressed the laser button. A red dot appeared in front of the cat, and she pounced.
He led the cat to the litterbox. Several clumps sat in the thinning layer of litter. He scooped them out, exposing a glossy paper at the bottom of the box. The Senator’s trademark smirk, and the smudged autograph, just barely showed through the litter.
“Will you look at that,” he said. “This is where it’s been, all along. I thought she threw it out before she went… out of state…” He trailed off, then turned around at the shuffling noise behind him.
Fulvia’s mother stared at the litterbox, her eyes rapidly filling with tears. Her hand flew to her mouth; she made what sounded like a hiccup, then another, then broke out in full on giggles. “Oh, Fulvia,” she said, forcing the words out between peals of laughter. “Oh Fulvia,” as she bent over. “Oh Fulvia,” as she collapsed to the floor, still laughing harder than he’d ever heard her laugh. “Oh Fulvia,” as her tears pooled (he thought, and could not stop thinking) just where the cat’s piss puddle had been.
Anatoly has been a recurring contributor to Stupefying Stories since his story “Picky” appeared in issue #1. More recently we’ve been happy to publish stories from his ‘Brandenburg Accords’ series, including such gems as “The Sound of Music” and “The Cool War.” Check them out!
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