4

I woke in the morning to find Gato’s two, saucer-shaped eyes staring down at me from about an inch away. Gato was a cat in the traditional sense, but you wouldn’t know that upon first inspection. She belonged to my ex-girlfriend Leslie and I had been pet-sitting the temperamental feline for a few days while her owner was out of town. The cat was a calico, a fact that was not easily identifiable due to the military-style haircut the hapless thing sported. Leslie loved Gato up and down, but she was highly allergic to the dander that seemed to manifest itself in the cat’s heavy coat, so she opted to scalp the meowing marvel into a hairless feline freak instead of getting rid of her.

Leslie was kind, and attractive, though she did score a check in the negative column with her perpetual bad breath. She always blamed it on her love for garlicky foods, but I’m certain there was something else going on beneath the surface that she would have had diagnosed if she just saw a doctor about it. Needless to say, doggy style was my favorite and only position with Leslie. She was the first woman to ever confess her love to me from over her shoulder. Once I tried to spice up our relationship by introducing a firm slap on her ass during doggy sex but afterward she cried the entire night. The next day I decided to end our arms-length union and told her things were not working out but it was a clean break and we remained good friends.

The pussy had only been staying with me for a few days and she was already traumatized. This is a cat that knew nothing other than a life of being spoiled and pampered, and here she was tossed into

the belly of hell itself with demon-like cockroaches crawling out of every crack and crevice, and a serpent as unforgiving as Lucifer himself slithering to and fro and fro some more. Since Gato arrived she had taken nothing but the high ground, spending the majority of her time atop the fireplace mantle, only coming down to wake me for her breakfast or to squeeze said breakfast out of her system. Even when she came to see me in the mornings, she leaped from furniture piece to furniture piece, doing whatever she could to avoid giving the bugs and hungry reptile the upper hand.

I greeted Gato with a pat on the head and she let out a pathetic meow that sounded like a newborn’s weep for hunger. I righted myself and stretched, allowing time for the blood to flow to my legs before I traveled on them. I wiped the sleepies from my eyes, flicking them on the floor below as one of my daily good deeds. I figured the cockroaches were stealing all of the most delectable foods, so I’d give a little something to the dust mites to choke on.

I picked up Gato and was about to make my way into the next room to feed the hungry cat when I felt something that made me squirm. My fingers had brushed up against an inflammation on the belly of the domesticated feline and the unnatural nature of said clam neck-like bump startled me. Had the cat been attacked by a horde of angry cockroaches in the middle of the night? I pictured the hairless creature pinned down to the floor as various mandibles poked and prodded its body like an alien abduction in a sci-fi movie and I slowly began to panic. What would Leslie think?

Quickly I flipped the cat over for a closer look, only to find what I could unscientifically hypothesize was a mass infection attacking Gato’s body. Not just one, but multiple growths of questionable origin were bulging from the underside of the cat and sweat began to bead on my brow. I promised Leslie I would take care of her precious Gato and now here I was holding it in my arms, watching as its health deteriorated due to my mistreatment. Without thinking, I placed the cat on my bed and reached for my cell phone, cycling through my address book and dialing Leslie. The phone rang three times before she picked it up.

“Hello,” she said in an almost incoherent voice.
“Leslie? It’s me. I’m sorry to bother you, but I had to call.” “It’s…,” she said before a thunderous shuffling drowned out the

rest of her sentence. She must have been reaching for her watch because she returned with a somewhat bitchy time-related statement. “It’s four in the morning here.”

“I know. And I’m sorry to wake you, but…“
“What is it? Is it Gato?”
“She’s fine, it’s just—she has some kind of rash and I’m not sure

what it is.”
“What kind of rash?” a concerned Leslie responded. “It’s, well, there are bumps and, they’re kind of big. I really don’t

“No. Of course not. Gato has never had a rash in her life. You have to take her to the vet.”
“A vet?” I asked, as if the idea was the most foreign I’d ever heard.
“Yes, a vet! If anything happens to that cat, I don’t know what I’ll do. I’ve been with her for eleven years. That’s nine more than I’ve been with any man.”
“Okay. Okay. I’ll bring the cat to a vet. I didn’t mean to panic you. I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t something she got all the time.”
“Promise me you’ll call me when you get the results!”
“Of course. I’ll call you right away. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”
I spent a few more minutes on the phone reassuring Leslie that I would make sure Gato was in peak physical health before I said good-bye and hung up the phone. Knowing that I’d be running late to work now that I had to take the cat to the pet doctor, I dialed up Rooster about the situation, making it clear in my voice message that I’d be at work before noon. I quickly showered and threw on a pair of jeans and an old pocket t-shirt, the kind that gets more comfortable the more times you wash it. I retrieved the pet carrier that Gato first arrived in and spent a good twenty minutes trying to coax her inside. After a number of bloody scratches and one hell of a bite, my frustration got the best of me and I forcefully shoved her inside, slamming the cage-like door shut before she could leap out. I grabbed my keys and headed for the door, stepping over Charlie en route to the outside world.
As I made my way to a veterinarian’s office a few blocks north, I came to a stop at a red light positioned on a corner renowned for its reputation. If you needed to get high, wanted a fix, or had a vein that craved a feeding, this was the place you came and the man you spoke to was known, according to Mikey, only as Jamal. Last names were unimportant around these parts and it served you best not to dig too deep into anybody’s past. Day or night, Jamal stood on the corner waiting for customers to buy his special brand of happiness. I had yet to meet the man face to face, but had witnessed him in the act of making a sale on many occasions as I waited for my light to turn green. We made eye contact once, but that’s the closest I’ve come to a formal introduction.
Gato was screaming as if she had a sixth sense as I pulled into the parking lot of the veterinarian’s office. The building was small and painted to resemble a Dalmatian dog with a white base and black spots scattered all over. Like most businesses around these parts, bars covered all of the windows. I did my best to avoid potholes as I parked the car behind the building next to a dumpster filled with various bags of toxic trash, each covered with numerous biohazard stickers. I exited the car, coming close to stepping on a half-eaten doughnut, unloaded Gato and headed for the front door in hopes of finding out what was infecting the underside of the otherwise healthy cat.
I entered the office of Dr. Miles Felton and stepped into a waiting room filled with pet owners sitting with various sick animals in their arms. I checked in and described Gato’s problem to the receptionist. She made no attempts at diagnosing the cat and handed me a form, a cracked clipboard and a ballpoint pen. “I need you to fill this out,” she said, never once taking her attention off of the computer screen in front of her.
I collected my homework and took a seat between a very darkskinned, big-boned African American woman with a small black poodle and a tall, thin Haitian man with a pit bull. I smiled and nodded at each and placed Gato between my legs. Both dogs inspected the pet carrier at a safe distance as the feline inside wailed at the dramatic turn of events in its life. As I filled out my required form, the pit bull lashed out at the little pooch to my left and within seconds the waiting room had transformed from a quiet stop on my way to see the doctor, to a battle royal with barking dogs and barking humans all going at it for alpha greatness.
The large, scary-looking black woman with hair extensions piled up on her head, who looked like the star of a “Women in Prison” television special, screamed at the Haitian, “IF THAT DOG GOES AFTER MY DOG AGAIN, I’M GOING TO BITE THE BALLS OFF BOTH OF YOU!”
“That ain’t no dog!” the tall man barked back. “Dogs ain’t supposed to look like no stuffed play things. That mutt belongs on a shelf. My dog just got confused and thought it was a chew toy.”
“That’s ’cause your dog is a retard,” the large woman retorted.
The pit bull must have sensed the insult because it got up on all fours and started barking at the woman. Not one to back down from an interspecies fight, the prison lady stood up on her equallyas-muscular legs and asked if I could hold the poodle’s leash, which I did for fear of telling the behemoth no.
“You know, I’m actually curious to see how many human bites it would take to remove a dog’s balls,” I told her.
I turned to the Haitian man, instigating things even further.
“I supposed if you’re going to be castrated, it might as well be in a doctor’s office,” I told him.
As the big woman headed for the big dog, the Haitian yanked the pit bull back, spinning it half around in a 180. Seeing daylight, the poodle protector raised her right, leather-booted foot, aimed for the goal post that was the canine’s hind legs, and kicked her stiletto tip hard into the pit bull’s hanging scrotum. The dog let out a highpitched yelp and the once baritone bark had now turned into a permanent soprano squeal.
Pointing her finger at the sexually-maimed animal, the prison lady said, “Don’t you EVER fuck with me or my dog again, ya hear?”
The Haitian opted not to retaliate, and I couldn’t blame him. It was clear that the fiercely protective woman meant business, and with one male down already, he became solely interested in guarding the family jewels he had direct contact with on a daily basis—no doubt a smart move on his part. I gave the leash back to the prison lady and she uncharacteristically politely thanked me as she sat down. Meanwhile, I found it highly unusual that a quiet street thug sitting across from me, with what appeared to be an alligator in a Tupperware container, never so much as glanced up during the entire incident. He had probably seen so many similar skirmishes in his life that he had become immune to public displays of hostility, only flinching when bullets or blades were added into the equation.
The tension in the waiting room seemed to have subsided and most eyes were now on a stumbling, middle-aged white guy that practically fell through the door. Looking like a Vietnam vet, he was dressed in fatigues and had a beard that stretched down to his chest. Balding on top, but long and scraggily in the back, his hair was clearly unwashed and it was graying all over.
“My dog has a broken leg and he needs some tranquilizers,” he declared to the receptionist behind the glass wall.
This was a common occurrence at doctors’ offices on this side of town. Addicts looking to score but unable to pay Jamal or Jamallike dealers would often try to finagle their fixes using smoke and mirrors. Unlike magicians who work the crowds in Vegas however, these sleight of hand artists were extremely transparent and often off their rockers when they decided to try and pull the wool over their victims’ eyes.
“You’ll have to bring the dog in and let the doctor decide what he needs,” the receptionist chimed in what appeared to be a template response.
“He can’t come in. He’s got a broken leg and can’t walk.”
“Sorry, sir. You’ll have to find a way to get him in here because there’s no way you’re getting any drugs out of this office otherwise.”
Sensing defeat, the desperate junkie tugged on his own beard and pounded on the glass wall protecting the receptionist. “Please,” he begged. “Just a little something to get me—I mean him—by. What do you say?”
Still never taking her eyes off of the computer screen in front of her, the receptionist fought back using a common threat.
“Don’t make me call the police, sir.”
As the vet was leaving, grumbling to himself, the prison lady handed him five large packets of pills. His eyes widened in disbelief and he thanked her as he opened them, exiting through the front door and tripping over his own feet.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said as politely as possible to the volatile ball-kicker. “I know what those were and it’s not what he’s expecting. You gave him birth control pills.”
“That’s right. I found them in my thirteen-year-old girl’s underwear drawer. Can you imagine that shit? Thirteen-years-old!”
“There were about one hundred and fifty pills there. You know that they contain estrogen, right?”
“So?” she asked, starting to get defensive.
“They contain estrogen, which is a female hormone,” I told her, covering my nether region with my hands in case of a sneak attack. “That guy could grow breasts from swallowing all those.”
“Then he’ll be able to sell his ass easier,” she assured me.
“Jackson?” the receptionist yelled. “The doctor will see you now.”
The prison lady stood, sneering at the Haitian and the subdued pit bull as she made her way into the examination room. I quickly finished my standard form, using mostly bullshit information to fill in the blanks, and returned it to the receptionist. When I came back to my seat, the Hatian was staring into Gato’s pet carrier.
“What is that thing in there?” he asked me.
“It’s a cat,” I responded.
“That’s a cat? What did you do to it?”
“Nothing,” I said with anger in my voice. “That’s a special hairless breed is all. It’s a purebred.”
“Well, whatever it is, I’ve never seen anything like that before.”
I made no more conversation with him or anybody else as I waited for my turn to see the doctor, and upon getting the call to head into the examination room, I high-stepped my way through the swinging door.
The first person to greet me inside was a veterinarian’s assistant with little to no personality at all. She was a cute Hispanic girl with a petite frame and a nice set of breasts, which pushed themselves out from her pink scrubs. Her job was the menial stuff. She pulled Gato out of the carrier and weighed the cat on an oversized scale where she clocked in at eight pounds. With a pen in hand, the would-be doctor then asked me a few questions about what was bothering Gato. I explained my concern regarding the bumps on her belly and she made a few notes in a file and informed me that the doctor would be in to see me in a few moments.
As I waited for said doctor to show up, I read through various pamphlets explaining the benefits of vaccinating your pet for rabies, and one particularly entertaining one about heart worms. Five minutes passed and then ten more before I was joined in the room by the pet physician. Dr. Miles Felton introduced himself with a firm handshake and promised he’d get to the bottom of what was bothering Gato. After some standard eyes, ears and teeth examinations, he flipped the cat over and searched for the sinister growths that were plaguing its belly.
“I don’t see anything abnormal down here at all,” he told me, placing the horrified cat back down on the cold, steel examination table.
“Are you blind?” I responded, picking the cat up by the front paws and displaying the bumps in question to the esteemed doctor. “Look at those things. They’re monstrous.”
The doctor pointed to the nubs. “These?” he asked.
“Yes, those. They’re freakish!”
Doctor Felton’s eyes glazed over and he stared at me as if I had three heads. “Actually, they’re nipples.”
I stood dumbfounded for what seemed like an eternity. I’ve studied plenty of boobs on plenty of women. How could I mistake the cat’s tits for a rash?
With the cat still on its hind legs and its belly exposed, the doctor pointed to each of the nubs, one by one. “That’s a nipple. And that’s a nipple. And yes, that one there is a nipple too.”
The doctor looked at me as if I was wearing a helmet and eating apple sauce from an oversized spoon. I wasn’t slow, but I sure felt like it at that moment and to save face as quickly as possible, I packed Gato back into the carrier and hightailed it out of the examination room. I can’t be certain, but I thought I heard hysterical laughter coming from deep within the belly of the veterinarian’s office as I waited to pay my bill. In the end they charged me thirtyfive dollars for the cat anatomy lesson and I sprinted out the door for fear that the doctor would call a state agency of some sort and declare me an unfit pet owner.
I decided to drop the cat off at home prior to heading to work. There was already one animal in that office and Rooster would blow a gasket if it became anymore of a zoo than it already was. As I pulled down my street I noticed Jennifer watering the flowers in front of her aunt’s house. She was wearing a pair of tiny shorts and tank top that displayed her slim, small body.
I honked my car horn to get Jennifer’s attention and smiled widely when she looked up. She waved to me slightly, almost flirtatiously, and I watched her in my rearview mirror as I parked the car in the driveway. I noticed the girl next door pause before going back to her urban gardening and if I wasn’t mistaken, that pause was a moment we shared together without either of us even knowing it.