Leah Mueller

Word Count 1538

As I climbed uphill from my house to an abandoned hospital, I noticed a pair of eyes in the underbrush. A feral cat crouched amongst the thorns, its bent tail twitching. The creature was jet-black and emaciated, with streaks of mud embedded in its matted fur. I’d seen the animal before, but this time it looked different, like it recognized me for the first time.

Late-afternoon heat seared my face and shoulders, reminding me that I’d forgotten to apply sunscreen.

Lately, I forgot everything. When to pay bills, what time to get up, even the day of the week. My husband had been dead for only a month, after a two-year bout with colon cancer. He’d closed his eyes and gone to wherever escaping souls reside. I had no idea where that was.

Everyone tried their hardest to tell me. People seemed so certain about the afterlife’s heavenly reward. Easy enough, since they weren’t the ones grieving.

Russ and I took many walks to the hospital during his final months. The three-story building perched on top of a nearby hillside, staring malevolently like an image from a Stephen King novel. Despite its gothic creepiness, the structure hadn’t always been a hospital. It went through a variety of incarnations—most recently as a low-income housing project.

At first, the abandoned building appeared pristine, waiting for tenants to return for their remaining possessions. Bedframes, wooden chairs in perfect condition, canned foods arranged in neat lines on countertops. A chirping smoke detector gave up the ghost of its battery.

A couple of months later, people arrived at night to vandalize the property. They shattered windows with bricks, stole furniture, left bloodstains on the nearby sidewalk.

I grew to despise the building, but the more it fell apart, the more Russ loved it. I think he identified with its deterioration. Despite my protests, we continued our evening walks to the structure. We poked around its perimeter, then strolled downhill to our house. The entire trip was less than a mile, which was all my husband could handle.

 The two of us noticed the cat several times. It always crouched in the same spot, staring at us with slitted eyes. If we tried to get the creature’s attention, it vanished into the underbrush. After a while, we gave up and walked past without looking, like wild animals that had learned to coexist.

Today was different, however. The cat emerged from its hiding place and made its way in my direction. I watched, amazed, as it brushed against my bare legs. After fifteen months in the Southwest, I still wore sundresses, even though the prickly foliage threatened to lacerate my skin.

“Hey kitty,” I whispered.

The cat continued to rub against my calves, staring up at me with an adoring expression.

The suspicious creature had avoided me for months, but now it wanted my attention. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Russ and I owned two cats while our kids were young. One of them ran away, and the other went to live with another family after we moved to an apartment that didn’t allow pets. In both instances, we were devastated.

 Eventually, we bought a house in Arizona. Though neighborhood cats often lounged in our new yard, we never had time to get another of our own. My husband and I were preoccupied with his illness—biweekly trips to Tucson for infusions, followed by hours-long preparation of high-calorie meals. A valiant battle destined to be lost.

I reached down and scooped up the cat. It slumped into my arms and allowed me to caress its dirt-encrusted back. The poor thing was half-starved, and bare patches of skin showed through its dark fur. Somehow, it found the sustenance it needed to remain alive.

A line of metal sheds ringed the edge of the parking lot. They held an assortment of abandoned tools, broken toys, mattresses, and other junk. Obviously, the cat resided in one of the sheds and emerged during the day to hunt. Though desert pickings were meager, it was determined to survive.

The two of us had a lot in common. Both of us alone, forced to scramble for whatever we could find. My own situation was new, however. I had spent most of my adult life in one relationship or another. Since the cat had gone out of its way to befriend me, I sensed it hadn’t always been feral. Someone had probably fed it food from a designated bowl and provided a comfortable bed.

“I’m going to take you home. Would you like that? I bet you’re hungry.”

A friend gave Russ a can of salmon after his diagnosis, but we never bothered to open it. It would be best to feed the cat small portions, so the poor thing wouldn’t become sick from calorie-heavy cuisine. I couldn’t deal with another illness, let alone a death.

The cat squirmed, then became still. I continued to run my hands through its fur, trying to soothe its anxiety. The four blocks to my house would seem interminable. Neighboring homes looked ramshackle and drab, their front yards cluttered with trash and automobile parts.

Several yards contained untethered, vicious dogs. They were nothing but glorified burglar alarms, barking incessantly at cars, falling sticks, and passersby. Why did people in poor neighborhoods own so many dogs? These folks owned few material possessions and had little love to bestow upon their hapless pets.

As I picked my way along the street, numerous dogs threw themselves against chain-link fences, trying to leap over the enclosures and tear out my throat. Boredom turns dogs into monsters. They need constant attention. I’d always avoided canine companionship, preferring feline independence and detachment.

The cat became increasingly anxious. It flailed wildly, trying to escape.

“It’s okay,” I said. “We’re almost home.”

One of the yards had four enormous dogs. Six cars in various states of disrepair ringed the edges of the fence. A vehicle’s bumper sticker read, “They were fools to let me out.” All four of the dogs attacked the fence, and the cat almost escaped. It thrashed and clawed my arms. I kept a firm grip on its bony torso until the writhing subsided.

“They can’t get us,” I hissed.

When I reached my own porch, the cat stopped struggling and submitted to fate. Shifting its body to one hip, I fumbled in my purse for my keys. The cat surged upward, catapulted in midair, and landed on my porch. It stood stock-still for a moment, regarding my yard with confusion. Then it took off running towards the abandoned hospital.

The whole thing happened so fast. I contemplated pursuit but figured the cat would only run faster. Besides, I’d look ridiculous. Not that the neighbors would care. No one pays much attention to absurd behavior in a low-income neighborhood.

Why did I care about the neighbors, anyway? I unlocked my door, collapsed on the couch, and burst into tears. I’d tried so goddamned hard to rescue the cat, but it didn’t want salvation. The cat refused my promise of security. It preferred the uncertainty of scrambling for stray rodents and food scraps.

How ridiculous for me to think that I could nurse the cat back to health. Its fate had been sealed, just like my husband’s. Arizona summers were brutal – unrelenting heat followed by an eight-week monsoon season. Despite its tenacity, the cat wouldn’t survive.

At least it would die on its own terms. That was the best anyone could hope for. My husband hadn’t had that luxury. He didn’t want to leave me and had stayed alive for as long as he could. I kept feeding him until he could no longer eat. In the end, none of it mattered.

I poured myself a glass of wine and contemplated another rescue attempt. Perhaps I could drive up to the hospital and toss the cat into the back seat. That way, it wouldn’t be frightened by the dogs. I would only need to hold its squirming body when I opened my car door.

Once the cat was inside the house, our mission would be complete. A couple of bowls of canned salmon would transform the feral cat into a domestic pet. We could nurse each other back to health.

I reached for the bottle and sloshed more wine into my glass. The couch was exactly the right size for a feral cat. One of my bowls was chipped and would make a perfect food dish. Maybe, after enough socialization, the cat would sleep beside me in my king-sized bed. Russ and I never allowed our pets to do that.

Two glasses later, I changed my mind. The cat was unlikely to grant me a second chance. Its lack of trust kept it alive. I needed to respect its barriers. Why was that so hard for me to understand?

My husband never found the courage to set boundaries with me. When I offered him a home, he took it without hesitation, even though I had two fatherless children. Now he lived somewhere else, in a shadowy land where no one could tell him what to do.

Like the cat, I would need to learn how to be alone.

Leah's work appears in Rattle, NonBinary Review, Brilliant Flash Fiction, Citron Review, The Spectacle, New Flash Fiction Review, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, etc. She has been nominated for Pushcart and Best of the Net. Leah appears in the 2022 edition of Best Small Fictions. Her fourteenth book, "Stealing Buddha" was published by Anxiety Press in 2024. Website: http://www.leahmueller.org.