Poot-Tail Cat, or Phoebe's Lament Made Flesh & Fur

Last Wednesday, the missus and I took our two indoor pets, Kit-Cat and Grey, to the Neshoba Animal Clinic to be put to sleep. Oh, it was a sad day. That morning, Penny and I discussed whether or not we were doing the right thing, whether or not we should feel bad about the "procedure" that the cats would soon undergo, reassuring each other, telling ourselves that it was all for the best, that the children would eventually understand. We had been mulling, justifying, and ultimately postponing this decision from almost the moment we discovered the two kittens four months ago.

I had been sitting in my office, nearly napping, pondering over many a quaint and curious etext of how Kool-Aid-dyed hair effects the brain's frontal lobe (even after ten years of first contact), when suddenly there came a meowing, as of someone gently mewing at my sanctum door. "'Tis mearly the missus entreating entrance at my sanctum door--this it is and nothing more," I said. But presently the sound grew stronger, and so, "Dear," said I, "truly your forgiveness I implore; but the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came mewling , and so faintly you came mewling, mewling at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; --stray pieces of stray-cat food there, and nothing more.

Deep into that driveway peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before, but the silence was unbroken, and the driveway gave no token, and the only word there sounded was the shrill sound, "Meow!" This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Meow!" Merely this and nothing more. This started my suspicions churning, all my soul within me burning, and soon again I heard a mewling somewhat louder than before."Surely,' said I, "surely that is something 'neath my back-deck lattice;Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -"Tis surely my wife and nothing more!"

Right then I stepped to the stairs, when, I saw a tiny creature sans lair. Down there lay a runt kitten, whom its mother recently bore. Not the least movement made he; not a minute pawed or clawed he; just mewed, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony cat beguiling my strange fancy into grimacing, by the piteous decorum of the countenance it wore,"Though thy stature be small and frail, and," I said, "your health not hearty and hale; you ghastly, whiny, and puny feline wandering from your mother's tet--tell me why I should keep you as a pet!" Quoth the kitten, "Nevermore."

Okay, the cat didn't say that, but you get the idea. I hollered up to Penny, "Penny!" She came rushing out the door, peeling one child off her leg and beating the other one off with our handy new dustvac. "Thank you," she said, "I needed that. I swear, Andy, that if you ever even think about having another kid, much less mentioning it to me, that I'm going to take you to the vet to get neutered. I love 'em, God knows I do, but sometimes, sometimes...feeding 'em, cleaning up after their mess, and then having them claw all over me when I try to relax, it's just too...."

"I found an abandoned kitten," I said.

"Ooh! Really? Where? Let me see. I want--we need to take it in and take care of it, Andy."

"But you just said...."

"Where is it?" I tried again, but I was too late. She heard it--and saw it. Sure, she tried to put it next to its mother, but--and I told her this before she took the kitten to the mama cat--that the mother would have nothing to do with it. I was right. The kitten's mother didn't want it; therefore, the kitten had a new mother. Go figure, huh?

The black kitten--soon to be named "Kit-Cat"--was very frail; it had trouble eating, it had trouble seeing, it had trouble walking, and it had trouble going to the bathroom. Oh, my, did it have trouble going to the bathroom. It even shat where it sat--and cat's just don't do that. "It's probably just because he's little and was mistreated." Sounded reasonable to me at the time.

A few days later, we found Kit-Cat's sister--henceforth known as "Grey." Why? Guess.

Grey's early life in the Hardy household weren't as troubled as Kit-Cat's, as Grey seemed to adjust to life and litterbox fairly well and fairly quickly. Grey grew to be the favored feline, and I (who had a soft spot for Kit-Cat) understood why. Grey was fluffy, Grey was cute, and Grey was normal; Kit-Cat was not. Kit-Cat ran into doors and walls, Kit-Cat jumped and grabbed at air, and Kit-Cat thought a quarterback was a refund; yes, Kit-Cat was stupid. Those qualities should have become cute, charming, and enduring--and they would have, except that Kit-Cat stunk. Literally. Kit-Cat used the bathroom in every corner of the house, under tables, behind chairs, in closets, on MY NICEST SUIT, and--most repugnantly--on himself. Kit-Cat, you see, was a Poot-Tail Cat.

I'd long heard terrifying tales of such vile creatures, villains to the olfactory, omens of odious odors, but I'd thought them legendary. I was wrong. The Poot-Tail Cat is no mere myth. It attracts its prey by feigning sweetness, putting on an affectation of adorability, all to lure its unsuspecting victims to take it to its quarry's lair, wherein it can wreak havoc, all under the guise of a cute little kitten. Kit-Cat employed these same strategies, and havoc did he wreak.

The decision to put Kit-Cat (and Grey) to sleep was made (though acting on that decision didn't come, as I mentioned, until a few days ago) about two months ago, when a friend visited our house, and she brought some uninvited company with her. One of our friend's guests walked into the house, sniffed, and whispered to her other friend, "This house reeks of the funk; I can't stay in here. Let's go back outside, sit in the truck, and text each other about how cute we are." The two left, and my wife was left aghast and embarrased.

"The time is coming," she said. "It may not be today, and it may not be tomorrow, but I promise you, Kit-Cat's days are over. As God is my witness, The Poot-Tail Cat will rule my life no more."

I felt sorry for the beasts (Grey was taken, too, though the fault was never his) when I had to trick them (with a can of open 9 Lives) into the cat carrier. I put them in the hatch, and I went and put the children in the Jeep. "Where Kit-Cat go? Where Grey go?" my daughter asked. My wife looked at me, and I believed she was beginning to have regrets. She told Georgia that we had to take them to the doctor. "Okay," Georgia said. She turned her head and said, "Bye Kit-Kat. Bye Grey." I looked over at my son, sitting next to Georgia, and I saw a tear roll down his cheek. He sniffled.

We took Georgia to day-care (for she was too young, just too young to bear any sort of witness to the tragic hand-'em-over), and we went to the vet. "Can I say goodbye," asked my son, "please?" We told him it would be best not to, that he needed to remember Kit-Cat and Grey as they were at home. "At home? They stunk, Dad. He's the Poot-Tail Cat."

We went inside, and we did the deed. I--I'll just leave it at that. We drove around before we went to pick up Georgia, and no one talked during our ride. After Georgia joined us, the bad feelings started to dissipate, and soon, over the course of the past week, the ills that the cats wrought were nigh forgotten. The house smelled now of roses, of elderberries, of fresh. No more stepping out of the shower and having litter stick to wet feet, no more come-home-from-supper surprises in the fireplace, no more funk.

Until...three days ago, when the cats returned. Scarred. Lethargic. The tint of evil gleaming in their eyes. What happened? We called the vet, and they merely cited to us, in whispered tones, the amount of the bill. This we heard and nothing more. And the kittens still are sitting, still are sitting, and their eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming....