backforthmenu Dead Cat Night. It’s 5:30am. I think I just heard a cat die outside. Last night I drank 4 beers—some fake Irish stuff, and it did nothing but make me (?). So I just went to bed. The sheets were soft and cool and I felt a little better once I buried myself in them. I was awakened the first time, at 2am. The sound that woke me was a combination gunshot and slapshot. The percussive thud of a gunshot tied to the slap of a hockey stick against a puck—about 12 times, very mechanically timed (approximately 2 seconds between “shots”). Three hours later a loud cat fight just below our open bedroom window woke me up. I waited patiently for it to stop so slumber could take me again. Then I realized what I heard was one cat whose screeching had gradually turned to wails that were guttural and human. “The neighbor should get up and check on his cat.” Kelley said, she was up too. “I think it got hit by a car—did you hear that car speed by?” “No...” Outside the cat continued. We waited for the neighbor to get up. “They keep odd hours.” Kelley remembered. “Really?” I had no idea. “Yeah, they probably aren’t even home. I hope it’s not the black and white cat.” I didn’t say anything, but agreed. I like that cat. He’s always lounging around our yard and has never once tried to get close to us. Sometimes, if I’m up in the night and look outside, I’ll see him sprawled out on our table in the backyard. He’s been doing this for years and we don’t even know his name. We don’t even know the neighbor’s name. Just when I think the cat has passed—though, remember, I’m not even sure his life is in question here—his groans return. Shorter and quieter each time. Then, they eventually stop, but not until after I’ve mulled over various scenarios of how I might (or should) react; I see myself standing over the cat and realizing that, indeed, it was mortally injured and suffering greatly. I see myself picking up a large rock and raising it above my head, only to be stopped by thoughts of doubt... should I judge whether it’s time to take this animal’s life? What makes me the final authority on this cat’s existence? And then, the sudden feeling that nothing made me the final authority, that this was just random circumstance and I could choose to do anything. I just happened to be the only person, besides Kelley, in the entire world, hearing this cat’s—what I believe to be, but can in no way be sure of from my bed—final death throes. Or was I? What could I do? I decided on nothing... While having this self-centered, half-baked philosophical discussion with my partially asleep self, the cat finally stopped making any noise at all. No action needed now. I would now fall back asleep... but of course not. Now what? I begin slowly stirring ingredients in my head. The cat had ejected me from a very strange dream in which I was a teenager having a love affair with the British actress from ER—or is it Chicago Hope? She told me about her dream of being a hog farmer and pulled out a model of the barn she wanted me to build her. Then we had dinner with friends, one of whom pulled a pan of hot burritos from the oven with his bare hands. He yelled, but did not drop the pan. Then he started to take another hot pan from the oven and I shouted at him to “use the oven mitt, you idiot.” Why had the neighborhood dogs stayed silent while the cat wailed... was this out of respect for his plight? Wait, the neighbors have three dogs and none of them made a sound. Did I take my meds yesterday? What if I had to go off the stuff—how would I do? Hell, I’d be fine, just depressed. I have to piss really bad. Should I get up? Should I piss knowing this cat may be in trouble just feet away? Is that disrespectful? My father-in-law was raised on a hog farm. What is that British woman’s name? Maybe I should just get up... I press the tiny light on the clock and stare at it for a long while before I can decipher the hour; 5:30am. I’m getting up. 8/30/00