Pet Monologues

I woke up at 6:30 this morning to take my ex-roommate’s cat to the vet. I guess he’s my cat now. His name is Max and he’s a very skinny orange tabby cat. He came complete with a fifteen second memory span and he has only one facial expression, which is blank. I often wonder if he was somebody’s genetic cloning experiment. That or if he is suffering from fetal alcohol syndrome. He’s just a living cat with barely a hint of character.

I’m trying to give him a personality but it’s difficult. I wonder if my techniques are working. The first technique is to hold him tightly against my chest and speak nonsense to him, kiss his face really hard, and then let him jump out of my arms to freedom. This does not seem to have any effect on him. He just looks mildly bewildered. The second technique is to spank his rump playfully. Again, there’s not much response. Not even the cliché look of superiority most normal cats constantly wear. But I haven’t picked Max up in days and have hardly petted him. I’ve even locked him out of my room. I’m disgusted by him right now. To get my mind off him I think about today’s homework. My teacher wants me to write about something I know a lot about. I glance at a picture of Evan, framed and sitting on my nightstand, where I can see it every night before I go to sleep. I think about Evan’s life and its tragic ending. I wonder if I should write about him.

I made the discovery about four days earlier, that’s when I saw them. They were crawling in the hair around his ass. I woke up from a nap and his pink butt was in my face. Max’s ass. And the worms. Worms were crawling in the light orange hair around Max’s puckered anus. Crawling in and out and around. Horrific? Yes. Off-white wriggling little sections of worms. Tapeworms. Ugly and disgusting parasites that live in the intestines of cats. I’m disturbed by tapeworms. Worms from the cat’s ass: in my face, on my bed, in my room. Max with worms and eggs falling out as he runs through the house, on the couch, on the counters, he even climbs in the cupboards.

I call the ex-roommate. His name is Adam. I explain to his answering machine the horror that is happening in my home. I can hear the disgust in my voice as it begins to crack. I’m still tired from the nap, a little disoriented. I’m scared. There are live worms in the cat’s ass. Eventually, he calls me back, after what seems like forever. I ask him if he can take Max to the vet tomorrow. I have a lot of homework to do. I have to write about something I know and I don’t even know if I know anything. Adam needs to take care of this. Max is his cat. The apartment he’s renting doesn’t allow animals, so I’m keeping Max for him. I’m keeping Max and his blindly wriggling and seemingly malevolent tapeworms. The trauma of finding the tapeworms triggers a memory of finding Evan laying in pieces on my floor.

I find bloody bits of shell on the faded and dirty orange shag carpeting in the bedroom of the duplex my mom is renting. At first, I don’t know what the jagged red and green shards are. It’s 1985 and Careless Whisper, by Wham! plays on the ghetto-blaster my mom bought me for my thirteenth birthday. I had just left Evan alone in my room for a moment. I was downstairs eating Doritos and watching Live Aid on television along with the rest of the world. REO Speedwagon, Madonna, The Beach Boys, Tina Turner, they were all there. Raising money to wipe out famine in Africa. My mom is on the phone talking to one of her friends. She laughs and smokes. She loves the Beach Boys.

Evan the red-eared slider is an aquatic turtle that I keep in an aquarium on the dresser in my room. I had my dad buy him for me for my birthday, since my mother refused on the basis that I already had Chuck and how many pets does a kid need? Sometimes, on special occasions like Live Aid, I take Evan out of his tank and let him get some exercise on my bedroom floor. For a turtle, Evan is the best anyone could ever hope to have. He is full of personality and even answers to his name. He has a mischievous charm about him, making him irresistible even to people who do not believe in turtles as pets. Also, the way his mouth is shaped, it seems he is always smiling.

I name Evan after the nerd who lives down the street. The nerd who pokes his head apprehensively out of the turtleneck sweater he always wears. Evan is Chuck’s turtle brother by divorce. Chuck is my dog that I got while I was spending the summer in Omaha while my parents clawed their way out of their marriage. I thought Chuck and Evan were best friends, but…

I hardly notice Chuck as she slinks by me on the stairs leading up to my bedroom. Upon entering my room I can sense that something is not right. I scan the orange shag for Evan and that’s when I find the turtle gore on the floor. Pieces of Evan. The rest of him lies upside down a few feet away, chewed up and thoughtlessly discarded. I rush over to Evan and grab him off the floor; there is dog slobber, hair and lint stuck to a gaping wound in his side. Evan writhes in pain and I scream hysterically to Chuck that I’m going to kill her and run down the stairs with Evan. My mom looks up from her phone conversation and say’s, “Oh gawd. Kathy, I’m going to have to call you back. Eric’s turtle is broken.” On television Duran Duran is singing “Hungry Like the Wolf,” which seems oddly inappropriate for a famine relief benefit, but soundtracks the eating of Evan perfectly.

The vet is nice. His name is Dr. Riordan. He doesn’t have much turtle experience, but is awed by Evan’s gumption and will to survive. During Evan’s brief stint as a chew-toy Chuck had somehow managed to not puncture the turtle’s soft inner-flesh. This is good news. Dr. Riordan advises us that Evan might have a chance at survival if we approach his recovery using the latest medical technologies. Because Evan is a water turtle, he is at a high risk for infection. Evan will require plenty of care if he is to recover He also warns us of the expense and after brief negotiations with my mother, where I forfeited all future weekly allowances, seemingly into my thirties, the doctor was given the go-ahead to try to save Evan’s life.

In a pioneering medical procedure that has never been attempted before or since, Dr. Riordan glues pieces of fiberglass cloth over Evan’s ragged gash. I got to hold Evan during the entire procedure and it was during that time that I decided I wanted to work in an animal hospital, maybe even become a veterinarian myself.

For a moment the operation was touch and go, we weren’t sure if the glue would hold; Evan had lost quite a bit of blood and was very weak. I felt like I was on the set of an animal version of Trapper John M.D. Finally the last piece of fiberglass gauze was put into place. The vet pulled his gloves off with a satisfying snap and asked his assistant to make up some liquid antibiotics for Evan. My mother inquires about the dispensing of any pain-killers, winking at Dr. Riordan.

Max and I arrive at Rose Village Veterinary Clinic, neither of us have ever been here before. I overheard somebody recommend it once. It’s conveniently located across from the 24 hour Hotcake House. Inside, the smells endlessly layer themselves over one another. Bleach, urine, antiseptic, air-freshener, fear, feces, and suffering along with the strategically placed glade plug-in compete in an orgiastic assault on the nose. I introduce Max and myself to the receptionist. Her name is Becky. Peeking into Max’s kennel she half-heartedly mutters the obligatory, “Oh! What a little cutie!” She pushes a clip-board into my hands and asks me to fill out the attached forms.

Because I did eventually work in a vet clinic I know the medical abbreviations used in the industry. For example, domestic short hair=DSH, NM=neutered male. I use the lingo on the forms. I also make a note on the form that Max is “fractious” (an industry favorite), it means the cat is mean as hell. I honestly don’t know how Max will react; we’ve never been to the vet together. But…better safe than sorry. I think I’m smart to use the abbreviations because it signals to the vet that I’ve been on the inside, that I know the tricks of the trade. This makes it less likely for them to try to take me for a ride. Veterinarians are just like mechanics. Believe it.

In the exam room, Max is examined. The doctor doesn’t bother to introduce himself, he’s pissed because I used the industry’s abbreviation. He’s mad cuz I’m not a sucker. Maybe his next client can pay for his kid’s braces, but not me.

“You’re seeing tapeworms,” he asks, “Long like spaghetti?” It’s a trick question.
“No, like crawling bits of rice.” Duh. Tapeworms are long, but they break off in segments and come out the cat’s ass looking like demonic orzo.
“Any questions?”
“No.”
He walks out of the room. Becky comes in and seizes Max in her clutches. Holding him against her body, she pries open his mouth and with her free hand drops two yellow pills down his throat. She clamps his mouth shut and blows into his face, forcing him to swallow the pills. I can tell she likes this part of her job. Max doesn’t make a noise, but let’s loose a stream of urine down Becky’s Mickey Mouse print lab scrubs. In the car ride on the way home I brainstorm other dead pets I’ve had.

An anole is the real name for what most people call a chameleon. There’s a difference. My older brothers have anoles for pets. They give them names like Iron Maiden and Rambo. Anoles are stupid wild lizards that hardly ever tame down. They’re really not that much fun as they hate being kept by teenaged boys. Sometimes, there will be an anole who is not afraid and who will readily bite you and not let go on its own accord. The first time they bite you it can be quite scary, but the bite doesn’t hurt at all, it is barely a pinch. Anoles don’t even have teeth. You can show how brave you are by willingly letting them bite you. But most anoles are skittish and will make a run for it the first chance they get.

I’m often blamed for letting them get away. I’m the youngest. I’m the slowest when it comes to closing the lid of the plastic anole home. When I let them get away, I never tell anyone, but my brothers always seemed to know it was me.

Weeks later, while playing in the toy room I find one of the anoles that escaped. It is shriveled and dried up and sticking to the sleeve of my sweater. Its hollow eyes are quite startling.

I’m still in the car on my way home from the animal hospital. Anoles are hardly worth writing about, boring insipid creatures. My cell phone rings, it’s Adam. He has a flat tire. He wants me to help him fix it. It’s pouring down rain. I’m mad at him for not making time to take his cat to the vet and leaving me to deal with the worm situation alone. I tell him that Max went totally fractious at the vet’s office, biting and scratching and pissing on the staff. I want him to feel bad. “The bill was like, totally outrageous.” Even though it wasn’t, because I used the lingo. I say, “Adam, I have a lot of memoirs to write about dead pets I used to have. I need to get some work done.” But I agree to help him anyway, just to prove that even though I am busy I can make the time to take the cat to the vet and play mind games with the doctor, fix a flat tire in the middle of a downpour, dredge up melancholy memories of beloved animals just to satisfy a homework assignment, and that I still have it together enough to help him out. Besides, I like to think of myself as someone who can be called upon when friends are in need. I guess that’s how I ended up with brain-dead Max. I realize that it’s my own fault and that no good deed goes unpunished. I remind myself that these selfless acts will look good at my funeral.

I take Max home and let him out of his pet-caddy. He seems glad to be free. I know the worms are still crawling around inside his bowels and falling out his stupid cat ass. I wonder how long it will take for the medicine to work. I regret not asking the vet that question. Max has been locked out of my room for days. I wonder when I will have time to clean the rest of the house of the worms that Max is dropping. I spend no time in the main part of the apartment now. Not until the worms are gone and I can clean the place from top to bottom. My current roommate does not seem bothered though. I leave the worm infested apartment to go help Adam with his tire.

“What are you writing about,” Adam asks while we’re on the way to change the flat. His Volvo station wagon with the deflated tire is just ten blocks from his house. He normally doesn’t ask much about what I write, but feels he should humor me since I’m helping him fix his tire. I tell him that because I know a lot about the subject of dead animals that I’m writing about that. He looks somewhat shocked and maybe a little worried about Max. He asks if I have a lot of dead pets. “A ton.” I try to recall some of them:

Caesar - one of nature’s anomalies, a black-lab and wiener dog mix. Very skilled at going over and under fences. Habitual run-away. Found dead caught in barbed wire fence.

Murphy - My mom’s one-eyed shih-tzu. Liked to bite small children in his old age. Supposedly went to live on a big farm in the country to live out his golden years.

Digger - a mutt also known as a Heinz-57. My dad dumped him thirty miles from our house out at Big Creek State Park. He was building a swimming pool in the backyard and didn’t want the dog to fall in. Miraculously returned home within a few weeks only to disappear again shortly after.

Jumpit - my beloved lop-eared rabbit. Answered to his name and was very friendly. I found him dead one winter morning. He had bled out his nose. Cause of death still remains a mystery.

Jumpit2 - A replacement for the original Jumpit, bought at the local pet store just days after Jumpit’s death. Since Jumpit had died I spent my free time shadowing my mother, cutting into her phone time. She sent me into the Pet Ranch with a blank check while she waited in the car. “Pick out a cute one and make it quick. We need to get back home.” She puffed on her Winston’s from behind the steering wheel of our station wagon. Jumpit2 died from apparent heat stroke on one of the hottest days that summer. I tried to cure him with the biggest carrot from our garden and misted him with cold water. His chest heaved as he breathed open mouth in the shade of our sundeck. It took hours for him to die. My mom talked on the phone the whole time. “What do you want me to do, honey,” and then into the phone, “God, he is so dramatic.”

Schools of goldfish - I killed my first one when I put hot water in the bowl. Killed countless others through over-feeding and over care.
Loads of anoles. Oh well.

Tons of tropical fish - at the hands of me and Alice.

Ornamental goldfish - more expensive, easier to kill.

Alice - My mother’s beloved Siamese cat. Bitchy and independent. Died of lung congestion after 16 years.

Chuck - My beloved little black mutt. Was backed over by the neighbor’s car while sleeping in the driveway. She was old and deaf. Lived 13 years.
Buddy - A German Shepherd my mother adopted once all the kids were out of the house. They went everywhere together and Buddy was in love with my mother. Died jumping out a second story screen window as my mother backed out of the driveway.

On the way to fix the flat tire I explain to Adam, Max’s original owner, the story of Evan the amazing turtle.

Evan had survived his brush with the jaws of death and I was taking care of him, hand-feeding him and making sure he took his medicine. Evan had a really good appetite and his courageous attitude was an inspiration to all those who had met or had even heard about this miracle turtle. Christmas was coming up quick and it looked like Evan was going to live to see another new year. I was spending the holiday weekend at my dad’s house. I was leaving Evan in my mother’s care. I took Chuck with me so I would have some company.

The holidays with my father’s relatives went according to tradition: eating, drinking, smoking, cussing, and watching football. The spirit of the season would seemingly never end. Chuck and I wandered around the foreign neighborhood in the frosty chill of Christmas day, looking through windows at other families watching television, their gift hangovers with sports. The Christmas lights were already losing the luster they held. Now they were becoming obsolete. I had called several times to check on Evan and remind my mother to administer his meds. She assured me he was fine and was basking under his heat lamp.

The clock neared five and this signaled the end of my visit at my father’s place. Surviving another holiday, I returned home, anxious to cuddle with Evan, to lovingly give him his nightly dose of pink liquid antibiotic, to exchange stories of our holiday apart.

My mother greeted me at the door talking on her new cordless telephone. A technological advancement that would allow my mother to become a better parent simply because she could roam the house while on the phone, doing laundry or dusting if she felt like it.

Opening the door to my bedroom, the only lonely light in the dark was that which emanated from Evan’s heat lamp. It had been moved. The heat lamp had been moved so it was blazing directly down inside the tank, just above the rocks which had been moved to barricade Evan into this corner of the waterless aquarium. I picked Evan up, his long limp neck lolling to the side, his shell hot under my touch. Evan had been thoroughly cooked.

“That’s terrible,” Adam said as we put the donut on his car and lowered it back to the ground. “But do you think it’s interesting enough to make a story out of? I mean it’s tragic, but people’s pets die all the time, it’s nothing out of the ordinary.” Just then my cell phone rang. It was my mother. Since I’d left home, we had become quite close and would talk on the phone for hours. “Hi, Mom.”

“Hi,” she said. “I was just looking at this picture of you and that funny turtle. Whatever happened to that little guy?”

by Eric Hawxby of Portland, Oregon. Eric is a Creative Writing student at Marylhurst University.

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This entry was posted on Tuesday, May 8th, 2007 at 10:45 am and is filed under Death, Editor's choice, Fish, Gross, Mammals, Reader's choice, Stories. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.