FICTION

SCAT!

by
Caucus de Bourbon

FEEDER OFTEN IRKED the cat, Willis Wiggin Boyo being his given name. The other cat, the fat, nasty cat, too. “Tonker,” the feeders called her. “Lady Tonk,” the fussier feeder, who’d inexplicably gone away, preferred. She kept things in check, that feeder. She understood that Willis had never eaten before and made certain to open a tin each morning at the proper time so that he could, for once, ingest food. Wet food, in particular. She’d then follow up with a generous shake of crisps scattered across his most favorite skulking mount near the upstairs window to nosh on throughout the day. Not that they ever lasted beyond his needing an urgent poo, but the effort did not go unappreciated by Willis. The crisps were crunchy. Tasty. Consistant.

This feeder, apparently now his only feeder, seemed defiant in understanding that Willis had never eaten before, every morning, at a very specific time as determined by the sun’s placement in the sky. Not when a clock declared so, or by whatever means feeder deigned to nourish him.

Claws drawn, Willis Wiggin Boyo swiped at Tonker. The nasty cat hissed and waddled off to a corner. Her throat rumbled. Reedy tail twitching spasmodically.

Willis hunched low once more, returning to the wet food, chewing furtively, as was his way. He daintily plucked out moist bits, tugged at viscous strips, ignoring the brooding fat cat. She’d ventured too close to his meal, knowing full well that he’d never eaten before. Not that he was worried she’d be able to steal some away from him. He simply didn’t like her and she didn’t like him. They shared a history, these two cats. And while the house could accommodate both, neither wanted to necessarily be in the same room with the other if they could avoid it.

Avoiding is what they were both good at. At least until recently. Apparently, feeder couldn’t be bothered to serve them enough distance apart anymore that they could not glower at one another while dining. But Willis could sense her plotting, the fat cat, could feel her looming presence, her sullen silence. He understood that Tonk was merely waiting for him to have to poo. Biding her time. Then she’d sweep in and eat his food–all of it!–so that he might never ever eat food again.

That’s why it remained Willis’ priority to finish this wet food at once, because wet food remained his favorite. Each delectible delight he chewed meticulously, allowing sufficient time to savor the flavor, regardless of texture. Whether it be shreds, flakes, pate, or the runny, mushy stuff scooped from an envelope, the one thing feeder did do well was provide a variety of flavors and texture for Willis’ fussy palate.

Dog dammit! Willis thought to himself. He needed to focus. He had to focus now. He had to finish this wet food now, before it’s too late, else Tonk would sweep in like a viper in his absence and eat it all. So as the warm feeling in his belly began traveling its circuitous path to his bum, Willis chomped with renewed vigor, determined to at least finish off the meat before too late. Doing so, hastily, he licked out the last of the gelatinous fluid and slunk wistfully up the stairs.

In the litter box, Willis mercifully began expelling the wet food he’d never before eaten in his life. It was a nasty poo. Powerfully stinky poo, in fact. Lady Tonk would unlikely ever again enter the litter box after this poo, Willis believed. That’s how powerful his poo got.

Bowels refreshingly vanquished, Willis Wiggin Boyo dutifully covered his poo, scraping at the plastic walls just to be sure. Then he made a mad scramble through the upstairs. Doing so made Willis feel free and feral, while at the same time cleansing what filthy litter bits still clung between his immaculate paws, yet allowing just enough bacteria to remain to raise welts on the feeder’s skin after kneading the soft flesh of his body. Why such pitiable torture of his feeder delighted Willis, he did not understand. He paused at the top of the stairs near a dried sludge of hairball that Tonker disgorged days ago onto the light carpet, where it still remained uncleansed. Unacceptible, Willis harrumphed. Filthy Tonk.

Tonk! Willis suddenly remembered. She’d been lurking downstairs, waiting to snatch the food he’s never eaten before in his life. He eyed the stairwell, tail swishing sharply at the sight of her. The fat cat clenched with her back to him, fiendishly trying to pick out what remaining wet bits he may have missed before his poo. Brindled ditz, Willis thought, with her coarse, short fur, unlike his own long fluff, soft, some might say even silky, to the touch.

He descended the seven steps, stealthily; predator silently skulking its inevitable prey.

On the landing, Willis yowled and Tonker jumped, hissing. He lashed at her, sending the tabby tub scurrying downstairs and out of sight. Relieved, he settled contentedly into his haunches, returning attention to the most urgent matter at hand: food.

Willis purred contentedly at what he observed. As suspected, the dual cavities flanking the feeder’s nose were indeed devoid of any remaining matter, all juice and glutinous tissue licked clean over many hours of diligent feasting. He focused on the fleshy wedge of plumb-colored meat protruding from the feeder’s word hole. It remained untouched and oddly inviting. He eyed it dreamily. Afterall, Willis Wiggin Boyo had never eaten food before in his life. And he’d certainly never tasted tongue.

Willis took his first bite.