Kathy Prokhovnik

It was a couple of months ago when Tom came slinking around and started caterwauling outside the house. ‘She’s gone,’ he wailed. ‘Queenie’s left me.’

He’d been scrapping again, new scratches on his face and an ear in tatters. I went outside and sat with him, let him lick his wounds in peace. The bats were flying dark above us, soft clouds of furry rat bodies, elongated fingers stretched and bound. Drop, I purred to them. Drop from the sky to me. Then Tom and I rolled around a bit and – you know. He’s not the tiger he was once but I prefer him this way. 

A pity fuck is still a fuck so when Queenie turned up the next morning she was all types of spit and rage. I was every feeling myself, one sorry state after the other. If they’d been colours I would have been a disco ball, flashing rainbow. Actually, mainly a sort of ‘oops’ indigo.

Queenie can be a bit catty so I sat quietly, stared at a point on the wall and waited for her to sheath her claws. We went out into the garden then and found a good place to sit on the fence.

I tried to be penitent and sisterly but honestly, what with the sun coming out and spilling all over the place, there was so much going on in the street. Tasty little birds hopping around in the salvia, d*gs straining at leashes, something rustling in a corner of the gutter. She whined on about Tom and his straying but I was all ripples of stealth and indignation and curiosity. Eventually she waved her neat little paw at me and prowled down the street, keeping to the shadows. Out on the road the sun caught at sparks in the tarmac. I swatted some dancing leaves for a bit but someone came up the path and I had to assume statue pose.

A few weeks after that

So oops again, this time in more of a shit-brown sort of colour, or maybe blood-red. That old familiar shuffle in my belly, that shifting of tiny, embryonic embryos.

I went looking for Queenie. I had an idea I thought she might like. I had been listening after all.

This morning

Here they are. Five darling balls of mewling, feebly pushing and scratching in the cradle. One’s even got a torn ear. Queenie turned up to help out and between us we carried them over to Tom’s place, laying them at his door – literally. He came stalking around the corner almost before we could get up the tree. We watched as he did the classic double-take – looking at the wriggling worming babies then spinning around. Queenie laughed so hard she nearly lost her grip. His desperate eyes found us and forced us down. Anyway, I was anxious for the bubs by that stage. I’ll take them back to him when they’re teenagers. They’re adorable now but then, when they’re screaming and raging, he can have them. Might slow him down a bit, keep him in at night.

What Kathy said about the prompt:
Dedicated to every cat I’ve ever known and loved, but particularly to Festy the wonder cat.

Kathy Prokhovnik writes fiction (long form, short stories, microfiction) and nonfiction. Her podcast series, Seeking Sydney, started life as a social history of Sydney, travelling from east to west. She is currently finalising her second novel, Safety in the Home. Highlights of her writing life include a fellowship at the Perth KSP Writers’ Centre and a Newcastle Lighthouse Arts residency. Her short stories have had some wins, some shortlists, some publications. She blogs at http://kathyprokhovnik.com/
Social Media: Instagram

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