Cat Call

“She didn't love you anymore, Paul — how many times do I have to say it? All your life you put everyone else first, especially her. Every warning I gave you, you ignored. ‘You don’t understand her,’ you’d say. ‘She’s the only one who ever really loved me.’”

Knock, knock.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Alvarez? It’s the police, sir, may we come in?”

A pin drop could be heard before the deadbolt retracted with a metallic THUNK, unlocking the door. “Come in, gentlemen. How may I help you?”

“We got a complaint. Someone walking by thought they heard screams coming from your basement. Our lieutenant asked us to follow up. Do you mind if we take a look around?”

“Not at all. It’s kind of nice to have company. It’s just me here now. Violet passed away a while back… well, me and Felix, our cat. I had the TV turned up this afternoon when I couldn’t find one of my hearing aids. I took them out to nap and must have misplaced one. That’s probably what they heard.” He smiled nervously. “Coffee? Tea?”

“No thank you, sir. It would be helpful if you could unlock that door. I presume it leads to the basement?”

“Yes, of course.” His hand trembled as he found the key and fumbled to insert it into the keyhole, eventually opening the door. One officer descended down the creaky stairs: the other wandered through the kitchen and living room. He almost tripped on a tiny cat toy in the hallway — the only evidence that a pet might live here.

“Mr. Alvarez, you said you had a cat, Felix? Other than that toy, I don’t see any signs of him. Is there any chance he slipped out, or your wife rehomed him and you forgot?”

“No, he’s here somewhere; he just gets scared around strangers.” He shrugged. “My wife had terrible allergies, so I got used to tidying up after him quickly. To be honest, she never really cared for him.”

“Well, okay, sir. I think we’ve taken up enough of your time,” the first officer said. Out on the porch he lifted his radio near his mouth to speak. “Dispatch, this is Foxtrot One. Nothing to see here, just an old man who could probably use a wellness check. The noise reported was more than likely the TV. Over.” A crackle, then the reply: “Copy that, Foxtrot One. Proceed back to the station.”

When the door shut and their boots crunched down the driveway, the house fell silent. Paul walked to the fridge, opened it and peeled back a piece of foil to reveal a finger. “Felix, it’s dinner time,” he whispered.

No feline wandered in. No whiskers twitched. Only the familiar voice of silk and sandpaper, purring inside his head.

Felix — Anyway, back to what I was saying earlier: she didn’t love you anymore.