Jenny Hart

On Tuesdays we teach the cat karate. Martial arts were Sadie’s idea. She thinks it will help ameliorate Mr. Timothy’s low self-esteem, caused by a casually cruel comment from the vet while checking his testicles prior to castration. 

“Well…they’re there. They’re very small, but they’re there.”

We promised we loved him anyway as they took him off to ensure he’d never get into fights with the full-faced toms that decapitate pigeons in our garden. Even so, he has some aggressive traits which he takes out on the sofa.

Lesson time. Sadie isn’t here. I try to slot Mr. Timothy into his little keikogi. I want to take a photo of him proudly wearing the green belt we awarded him last week around his tubby little belly and send it to her. But he says, Just try it Gina, and you’ll learn what life is like without opposable thumbs. Instead, I gather his astrophysics books. I read that cats need both physical and mental stimulation and thought science would stretch him academically. Mr. Timothy and I share a fondness for the idea that everything in the universe will ping back on itself like overstretched elastic, time reversing until all we’ve lost comes back to us. But that means returning to a time before we ever met each other.

Recently I have given more credence to the theory of an accelerating universe where the stars and planets spin further and further away from each other until there is nothing left but a faint red glow that fades to black. Mr. Timothy notes, you won’t be there to see it Gina, so what does it matter?

“It matters, Mr. Timothy, because you are an eternal soul, and should be preparing for the end of everything. “

When we first brought Mr. Timothy home, I told Sadie my thoughts about his everlasting nature. 

She sprawled on the bed, rolling onto her elbows to make a warm cavern for the tiny orange kitten to explore.

“If he’s immortal,” she teased, “why trap him inside?”

I thought of Mr. Timothy’s predecessor and my throat sharpened with grief that left my voice a broken whisper too insubstantial to make Sadie understand I wouldn’t survive another morning where my summer smile is stolen by a soft still body by the side of the road. And I couldn’t bear the thought of his reincarnated little soul out there with someone else. They might not love him like we do. Sadie rolled her eyes, but Master Timothy placed a tiny pad on my cheek and said, I understand.

We have finished our lesson. As a treat we play with the laser pointer I use for the white board where I’ve drawn the solar system, and Sadie has smudged kata steps. She’s still not home. I check my phone. No message. No offer to pick up dinner or a bar of Fry’s Chocolate Delight from the petrol station. I could text her. You know it won’t do any good.He’s right. It won’t. And the knowing unleashes an ache which rips my bones apart, filling my throat with sorrow from deep inside of me, coiling upwards like a snake that spews from my mouth in a choking flurry of spit. Then there is a quiet purr, and the push and pull of Mr. Timothy’s paws kneading my shoulder with just enough claw to let me know I am still alive. I understand, he says. I understand.

What Jenny said about the prompt:
The piece is inspired by both my cats, Jeff supplied the testicle anecdote and Jason the uncanny knack of knowing just when you need a bit of comfort.

Jenny Hart is a writer from England who loves a dark or unusual short story. She has previously contributed to ‘Trash Cat Lit’ as well as ‘Urban Pigs’, ‘Frazzled Lit’ and ‘Hotch Potch Literature and Art’. When Jenny isn’t writing, you can find her walking in the local countryside. Probably lost. She lives across the road from a cemetery, with her two cats, Jason and Jeff.
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