Fun Times With a Cat

I was walking down the road yesterday. I’d just done a 4-page essay in college that I hadn’t prepared for, and I was feeling mentally and emotionally drained.

The road was empty. I pulled a pre-rolled joint out of my pocket and lit it up, inhaling deeply the precious smoke. I smiled like a snake, the intoxication and euphoria overpowering me.

Drugs, y’know. They’re bad. I stubbed my toe on the pavement whilst toking, and totally fucking flipped out. A white cat walked in front of me, so I lifted up my leg and kicked it like it was a football. It yelped, and skidded across the road like a piece of meat, blood showing through on its pure, delicate, white fur. It lay slumped next to a lamppost. I strutted over to it.

A car drove past, so I loitered briefly, whistling, blocking out the cat from the car’s view. I took another drag on my spliff and lifted up my boots, looking with dsisgust at the blood on the front and the mangled creature underneath. The cat made a quiet, pained purr. I smiled, before stamping on the cat’s head and sending brains and goo across the kerb.

I flicked the end of the joint down a grid, and began rolling another one next to the cat corpse. Flies quickly began to gather around, like it was a fresh dogshit. I crumbled the weed with the due care and attention it deserves, put the tobacco on top – Cutter’s Choice – rolled it, and licked it, with the speed of a hobo. I poked it down with my clipper lighter and lit it up. Sucking in the smoke again, I took a penknife from my pocket and jabbed it into the crushed torso, straight through the ribcage. I pulled it down, tearing through skin and bone, shoved my hands in through the slit, joint in my mouth, and ripped its body in half like an autopsy.

I spotted a police car coming down the road, so I stubbed out the joint and put it in my pocket. It cruised past, an officer looking out of the window and seeing the cat. A look of bemusement appeared on his face before he drove along. I lit up the joint again.

Flies had already infested its insides, and, when I removed a kidney, after sawing through a confusing amount of tendons, it was crawling with fat, black houseflies. Its little cat lungs showed no evidence of any smoking-related illnesses, I thought, before realising I actually knew what its cause of death was.

“Snowy,” its collar read, followed by an address. Attacked by pangs of guilt, I scooped it up, blood dripping down my shirt and half of its head still lying on the kerb, splattered in a modern-artish way.

I took it to the address on the collar, and dropped it on the doorstep. I rang the doorbell, reasoning it would be wrong for them not to know of Snowy’s untimely demise. After half a second’s reasoning, I decided it would be more sensible to run away, leaving them with the cat.