The Cat is Sick by Sabrina Huang
The cat is sick? The cat isn’t sick. Okay, maybe the cat is sick. Her cat, who was named Beauty—but she always called it Baby—understood everything. It never caused any trouble, and it never needed to go see the vet. Now, of course, she knew where the nearest vet was. She knew that the sign above its door had little neon cartoon characters. She knew that since it was in the basement of a commercial building, its “windows” were painted on and had artificial lights plastered on them. And now, actually about to enter the veterinarian’s doors, the woman who had been fiddling with the lock on a motorcycle (and blocking her parking spot) now opened the door for her. Entering the waiting room, seeing all these other pets in the same situation, made her lighten up a little bit. She would soon be back at home watching TV, forgetting anything had even happened. She often reminded herself that she needed to memorize the vet’s phone number, but she still hadn’t.
But her cat, her Baby, understood everything. It wasn’t illness. It’s just that it was in the know. The past few weeks it had walked around the apartment, flicking its tail around—the thump of which was its way of sighing. Even though it let out loud mating calls, it still wasn’t a bother. Baby did not wail at hidden ghosts like other cats. It just let out little sounds. It just let its tail wrap around its neck and splayed its body open like a blossoming bud. She was a bit worried about her living situation. Her cheap landlord had taken a few boards from the hardware store and divided one room into six miniature living quarters, each housing somebody. There was a shared shower on the balcony and some hot plates (it definitely would not be considered a kitchen). Everyone avoided one another. Obviously pets were not allowed. Baby would be found out sooner or later.
Taking Baby to the vet was easy. It calmly sat in its box, unaware how sweet it was, how people would fall in love with it if only they peered into the box.
She brought Baby into the observation room, holding it in one hand and stroking its tail with her other. It wasn’t scared. It was just looking around the room, taking it all in. Baby suddenly appeared quite monstrous to her.
“Your…your Beauty—” He held its medical history in his hand.
“Baby”
“—Baby, how old is it?”
She was staring at his latex glove covered hands. She could tell that his hands were quite pale. He had doctor’s hands, “I don’t know…it’s a rescue.”
(My goodness, let me tell you: that day the rain fell in buckets; it was really dumping. I watched as it navigated the muddy slope. Its entire body was soaked to the bone, and it looked like a shrunken version of a cat. The water had gotten into its eyes and it could not open them all the way. Because you never know when a car is going to come through, I can’t just leave the booth when I’m on the clock. So I took a ball point pen and started tapping on the glass. I called to it “come kitty come here kitty you’re going to get run over by a car if you stay over there come here kitty” and I know you won’t believe me, but it really understood what I was saying! And it just came over.)
He flipped it over and examined Baby’s underside. Then he flipped it back over. It stared at him, unsure what could be done. He petted it and flipped it around again, pushing his hands into its belly, his hands—no longer young—pressing into it from behind the gloves. When she went to work, she wore latex gloves too. Every day from the little window she took cash and made change and checked IDs. Every day people came and people went. Fabric gloves were not convenient. They got so dirty from the coins.
A person’s life can be mapped out in their hands. She also wore a mask all day. When she caught her reflection in the booth’s window, she saw the mysterious beauty that a mask brought.
“About two years old. You haven’t brought it to the vet? Ever? Has something similar like this ever happened?”
“No. Never.”
(It came right to me! It never lost eye contact for a second. It didn’t even meow. Its nose was filled with water and shook itself out, the spray falling everywhere, but didn’t make a peep. I could tell this cat was a very good cat. A car came and it scurried into the booth with me. Everyone says that cats are afraid of people, but this cat was not afraid of me. I thought for a second, then I wrapped it in my jacket and stuffed it into my backpack, zipped it almost all the way—almost so it could breathe—I didn’t really care if the guy switching shifts with me watched. All my coworkers are really great. For example, once they—)
“Miss. Miss! Did you hear what I just said?”
“Uh…erm…yeah I heard.”
“As I was saying, it’s the ovaries. I’ll give you some medicine and you both can go home.” He played with the fur around its eyes, “But this is only pain relief. It’s quite likely that it will start to develop some pretty serious uterine discharge in the coming years. I suggest that you spay it as soon as possible.”
“Uterine discharge?”
“Yeah if there is build up, we’ll need to operate. We’ll cut its stomach open. It really is a hassle and can be quite dangerous. Does it matter to you if it can have kittens?”
“Kittens? Mhm. I haven’t really thought about it. I guess not.”
“Then you should just have it spayed. A kittenless cat.”
Baby was wrapping its tail around his waist. It didn’t have any of the fear that most animals have of larger creatures. He looked at it with interest, his thumb pressing into the fur around its eye like he was planting a seedling into the soil, his other four fingers scrunched around its neck, causing Baby to melt into him.
“A kittenless cat. Ovaries, eggs, the entire sexual system is just superfluous. No use to it anymore. Just something to carry around.”
“Can I have a couple days to think about it?”
“Of course! You can also get a second opinion if you’d like.”
It was late. Walking out of the vet, the street was quiet. She held the medicine in one hand and held Baby’s box in the other. She took a few steps out the door, then turned around and saw the neon sign turning off for the night, each character—cat, dog, mouse—closing their eyes with a final flicker of light.
—
She followed his directions exactly “Sprinkle the powder in a can of food. Do this once a day.” They did this for three days. Each day, after eating, Baby was quite agreeable. The medicine just did not seem to have any effect. There seemed to be no end to Baby’s yearning, and it pranced around their nine square foot room. She sat on her twinbed, grabbing her knee, watching Baby roll around, picturing the vet’s hands rubbing it.
His body was not spectacular in any way. He had wide wrists. She wasn’t sure exactly what his hands looked like under the gloves, but they were probably the soft, studious hands of a rich man. But then again, maybe they were festered with bites from people’s pets.
From her spot in the parking booth, she became an expert in hands. The fingernails, the backs of hands, the veins running up to join the rest of the arm. The gloves blocked her from feeling the warmth of other hands, but day by day she gained insight into the secrets that the drivers’ hands were exposing. The hands were the clues to unlock the person. Sometimes you didn’t need the hands, the asshole said, “How much? 120? For an hour? You fucks are robbing me blind.” and the really rich said, “no change and no receipt I’m in a hurry.” Of course, not every interaction was such a performance. That’s why she needed the hands. It was rumored that the department store which owned the lot was considering shifting to a fully automatic parking system. But those were just rumors. All she could do was sit in her little booth and wait quietly—either for the next car or for the rumor to come true.
If she could see his hands, she would understand him a little better. She really wanted to see those hands.
Baby was stretched out over the bed and she took her hands and traced its body in the same path that he did: chin, eyebrows, the top of the head, the back of the neck, then sliding down the back and grabbing the tail, and ending at the paws; all the while whispering, “Good girl, good girl. You’re such a good little kitty keeping your claws away like that.”
She buried her face into Baby’s fur. She had some deep desire to smell every inch of it. He had said, “When a female cat goes into heat, every male cat in a few mile radius can smell her. Do you want her to be the reason two cats duke it out? Do you want her to be out on the town?”
Baby flipped over and she felt the fur, ruffled from the bed. Baby wasn’t scared. Baby smelled good. It was a happy child in her arms. Its sandpaper tongue reaching for her neck. The blood in her body jostled around audibly. She closed her eyes if only every day passed like this. Her eyes jolted back open and she could not stop trembling.
—
When she was younger, did she really think it would be like this? Watching her life slowly fading down, like a candle with wax dripping off the side until it meets its dry, definite end. There is no way she could have foreseen this perpetual sinking she was enmeshed in.
For one, she knew that at this age, if she eventually met someone, he definitely was not going to be tall, dark and handsome. He might not even love her that much. Maybe he would just help her get through this life, otherwise she might end up alone. She had never really been in a hurry. She still wasn’t.
For another, she knew she was a slightly—okay not slightly—incredibly pragmatic person. She had worked this job for many years, before that she was in retail, and before that she had a short stint as an accountant. All jobs that require pragmatism. One day, she had finally saved enough and bought a 20 square foot apartment in an old building. This was what a woman of proper education, of polite appearance, who had emerged from youth properly developed did. Not long after, both of her parents developed cancer and dementia. This combination is not uncommon and scientists are still researching the relationship between the two. What was this properly developed, older single daughter to do? She sold her house. She moved in with her ailing parents. They died shortly after. So she found somewhere else to live. She roomed with a college student for a few years. She was like a caged bird, watching them live their free, young lives. Naturally, they did not like her.
For yet another one, she already knew her tragedy had not exactly amounted to “ruins”. She had decided pretty early on to give up on life. Perhaps “surrender” was too strong a word but she knew she did not have the necessary personality or skills to really succeed in this life. She couldn’t step on someone’s throat. So now she just wanted to find someone who would not walk all over her, maybe someone who could handle a fifty-one year old who had nothing. After all, her life wasn’t all bad—if you don’t have anything then you have nothing to lose. At her core she was a fifty-one-year-old with a messy bathroom (but who doesn’t have a messy bathroom when you do not expect anyone to stop by?).
She never thought rescuing a cat would amount to rescuing herself. When she first stuffed its wet, stinking body into the backpack it had curled up and fallen asleep. It had awoken in a daze and scratched and flipped over in the backpack as she drove home from work. She stopped at the convenience store near the port and bought some cat food. It came when it was called and did not pull out its claws at all. She brought it into the shower and scrubbed it with antibacterial soap. Its true colors appeared as if walking through the mist. It actually had a white belly and its face and back was a light calico. (she could hear the vet tell her “the black, white, and tangerine colored cat is called ‘calico’, and if it has a mostly white or gray face we call it a ‘light calico’. Calicos are often female.”)
She had also never thought about how much work a cat was. She had to buy a litter box, keep it clean, leave out a bowl of water, a bowl of food. These mundane tasks belied her sentimentality. Life was totally different. She was happy. She played little games with Baby and turned on the TV to drown out her laughter. Every day when she got home, Baby was waiting for her, perched on the edge of the counter, and would let out a little welcoming trill. Once she watched as Baby stared at a mosquito buzzing around the ceiling, considering where it could jump to launch out and nab the little pest. She watched Baby decide to let the fan blow it away, and it perched over by the window to chirp at the birds passing by.
And she certainly had never thought that Baby’s youthful vigor would be what she used to attract him.
—
He nodded without answering. He grabbed Baby with both hands to inspect its eyes, then methodically and with great care flipped its ears and paws to inspect them. His expression was soft and when he opened his mouth to speak, the words dripped out pleasantly, “I remember you. You’re Baby. Good kitty. You look so much better.”
Now her turn.
“You don’t absolutely have to spay her,” He turned around and started rifling for her file in the cabinet; his voice cascaded over his turned back, “but I should have explained last time, her health will most likely deteriorate. The medicine can only do so much.”
“I see. Well she seems a lot better. She isn’t even eating the medicine every day.”
He shrugged his shoulders, “If she doesn’t need the medicine then that’s great. To be honest, your cat is very healthy. At her age, unless something big comes up, you only need to bring her in for a check up once a year or so.”
“Whoa…a year?”
“After they turn five or six, we recommend they come every six months.”
Not two weeks later, she brought the supposedly healthy Baby back to see him. She walked with Baby in her arms right up to the vet’s door, but then chickened out at the last second. She walked up and down the street—and why shouldn’t she? It’s a busy thoroughfare. But she did not even dare look over at the clinic. She took on a ridiculously rigid posture, of course anyone who noticed her would think her suspicious. But no one looks at old women. When women age, they turn into men…no, that’s not true. When women age, they turn into something that is not even human. She was cloaked in old age.
She was worried that it was not deep enough or that Baby would run away. She needed more force than she thought. The blood dripped out and stained its leg. Baby screamed and went limp. She rushed her to the clinic. She pushed open the glass doors, the chimes rang. The A/C was on high. The fluorescent lights were bright. He was there.
“I don’t…I don’t know what happened, she must have stepped on something…”
He did not say a word. He did not even look at her. “Baby is a good kitty. Don’t worry. I’m here to help you Baby.” Baby looked back at him and let out a loud yelp. His face jerked back and he held Baby’s foot down. He sprayed disinfectant, applied medicine, and patched it up. He flicked the bandage wrapper into the trash and started to wash his hands. This meant that the injury had been dealt with. The medical assistant came over and cleaned the rest up.
She saw his hands.
There was some light scarring, but otherwise elegant. They were waxy white under the faucet. His fingernails were the ideal width. His wrist looked strong. She could not turn away.
“Your cat is so well behaved. And it really understands things. I’ve never met a cat who understands like Baby does,” he stared at her, expressionless, and with the force of a man ten years younger than her, “Baby did not do this to herself. You better take good care of her.”
“I will. I will. I’ll pay close attention. Thank you doctor. Thank you.”
Since the cut was not too deep, Baby was moving around like normal within a week. It must have decided that this was simply an accident, and its demeanor did not change at all. It slept in the same spot. And she still clutched her knee and watched as it romped. One night, she took a couple of glass bottles, smashed them, and mixed the broken glass into Baby’s paw pad. It was just an experiment. Baby seemed fine overall. It didn’t seem to cause too much pain.
About ten days later, it was Baby’s right paw, “Doctor! Oh I’m so careless. I was trimming its nails and it just…I whittled too much.”
He glared down at her. How can you be so careless? A cat’s nails are just like ours! They have two sections and if you go down to the second it hurts—a lot! Baby’s claws are nearly ground away. How could this possibly be an accident? He placed his tweezers down on the counter.
“You are absolutely unfit to look after an animal! You have brought it in with foot injuries three times in a month! The next time your cat develops one of these odd little injuries, bring it to another clinic! You don’t want to see me the next time this happens.”
Baby stared up at her. Everyone in the waiting room was staring at her. The middle aged man wearing athleisure and tugging on the leash of a big dog stared at her. The medical aid stared at her. The animals and the people all stared at her. Except for him. His back was turned to her as he prepared the bandage for its paw. She knew the look he would give her the next time he turned around. She had gotten this look her whole life.
She clutched Baby and walked out. It was dusk. The streets were beginning to flow with people, the street was loud with honks and voices. One of which was the medical assistant chasing after her, “Miss! Miss! The doctor says that in order for the—” he ran a few more steps, “oh forget it.”
He turned around and headed back to the basement, and as he did, he turned on the lights for the sign, the cartoon creatures lighting up, their eyes fixed on the other neon signs littering the street.
—
It was Friday night. She had called in sick today. Other than her, none of the other six tenants were home. Just her, standing on the balcony, cooking dinner. Walking back with her bowl of food, two of the girls who lived there were just coming back, “Oh, Auntie Chen. You’re here.”
“You two aren’t out on the town tonight?”
“We just came back to take a shower, then we’re gonna head out.”
Baby never stopped trusting her. Not once. She had no other recourse but to believe that Baby had been sent with some kind of mission for her. Why else would it be so compliant, so uncomplaining. She pressed her hand into Baby’s neck, and of course was not met with claws.
She had the TV on as she stirred her pig blood soup. 1 She had to get the ratio just right. Just like how her mom used to make it when she was a kid. Her job had been to run down to the market and get the pig and duck blood. When she returned with the little baggie her mother would dump it and repeat the saying, “An ounce of living flesh is worth more than a pound of dead meat.”
When the two girls finished showering, they knocked on a third girl’s door down the hall. They lowered the voices so their complaints would only be heard by each other, “Of course it was Auntie Chen! Every time I go to shower I have to wash out her period blood first. It’s disgusting.”
Before, she might have strained to hear these whispers. But now she only saw light. Her heart was full. She had a secret: she didn’t want to die. But something was brewing inside of her. Baby’s call. The way Baby melts. Baby’s hormones floating for miles at a time. She eats one bite at a time and it’s my stomach that is bubbling, my head throbbing. Make me bleed. Can you see that I’m sick? Doctor, look, are sure the cat is sick? What if I’m the one who’s sick? Doctor you love Baby right? You like her, don’t you? Then you’ll definitely like me. Baby. Baby. Next time we’ll go see the doctor together, okay?
- This is a super common thing to eat in Taiwan and it’s actually good. Boiled pig blood tastes like chewy tofu which I know also might not really sell it more but it’s good. You actually often use pig blood and duck blood[↩]