alive in the wild.
motherfucker.
that’s all that i could manage to think.
mother.
fucker.
how did this happen?
they took the television. my brand new television. 50 inches of “holy shit that’s awesome” and it’s gone. and my cat’s head is wrapped up in the telephone cord. i don’t know if they did that or if my cat did that to himself. maybe he got tangled up trying to run and hide in the laundry hamper. or maybe they were trying to send a message. “fuck with us, we’ll kill your house cat.” either way, he’s dead.
but seriously. my television? come on.
i walk over to the telephone where baxter is wrapped like an egyptian mummy, only in a black telephone cord. his tongue is protruding to the right. his eyes are open and bulging and there is a small blob of cat vomit in front of him. it looks like reese’s pieces and hair. probably is. the receiver has fallen off of the hook and is lying ear end down in baxter’s oral afterbirth. i try to delicately untangle him from the cord. he is wrapped up pretty tight. i pull the cord straight and hold it slightly above my head. this lifts baxter off the ground. baxter starts spinning clockwise as the cord unwraps itself. his tail brushes against the leg of my pants. this was the best way, i thought, to untangle this mess. the cord finally frees itself of baxter and he lands on the floor, his head making a small thud against the linoleum.
i kind of poke baxter in the stomach with the tip of my shoe. nothing. damn. poor guy. poor television.
i grab the phone cord about four inches away from the end of the receiver. i hold it up, examining the cat puke covered end as it slightly twisted about. fucking gross, bax.
i pick up a red dish cloth and wipe the phone as clean as one can expect to get a vomit-covered phone. i press the hook three or four times, i don’t know, it’s insignificant, until i get a dial tone. 9-1-1. wait. do i call 9-1-1? is this an emergency? i mean, the damage has been done. i don’t think they send ambulances for cats, do they? maybe a fire truck if he’s in a tree, but i live in new york and there are a fucking million stray cats and about three trees in the whole city, so i don’t think the FDNY would appreciate that. do i just call the regular cops then? or do i call best buy about my tv? i knew i should have bought insurance on that. i still have the receipt somewhere. better reasoning prevails and i dial 9-1-1 only because best buy doesn’t have a police unit.
the phone rings about nine times before someone picks up. if this had been a real emergency, i probably would already be on fire or have a broken hip or something.
“9-1-1. what’s your emergency?”
“uh, yeah, uh, someone broke into my apartment and stole my brand new television and killed my cat with the telephone cord.”
“are you sure, sir?”
“what? wha…yes, i’m sure. i don’t think i’d kill my own cat just because he pisses in the closet every now and then.”
“is there anyone still in your apartment?”
“i don’t think so. i mean, i haven’t really checked. i’ve been too busy, you know, untangling my cat’s head.”
“okay, sir, stay on the line with me while i send help.”
sigh.
“okay.”
i wait probably two minutes before i hear anything else from the lady on the other end. i was beginning to think she hung up on me. can they do that? maybe she was taking a moment of silence to mourn for my cat. i don’t know. whatever.
“okay, sir. the police are on their way.”
“okay, great, wow, that’s fantastic.” my voice was drenched with sarcasm.
“do you need me to stay on the line? can i go? i need to do something with my cat.”
“no, sir, but it is important that…”
i hang up before she can finish. what the fuck does she know? i need a drink. i dig in my pocket for my cell phone so i can call harper because i can’t remember her phone number and i swear to god i don’t know why i have a land line. it’s late, but i know she’s still awake. i hit send and it tells me to wait while my party is being reached. fuck, she has one of those annoying ringer things that play a song while they are being dialed. i fucking hate john mayer. she picks up after half a verse.
“hel-hello.”
“hey, you awake?”
“i don’t know. no? what time is it?”
at that moment, i realize i have no idea what time it is and it’s like time is this abstract concept that never really mattered.
“oh, shit. i’m sorry. it’s like 3:30.”
“what’s wrong?”
i can tell she has no clue what is going on.
“can you come over? someone broke into my apartment. i already called the cops.”
i could hear her eyes opening. wide, wide, wider.
“what? really? are you okay? what did they take?”
“yeah, i’m fine. look. can you come over?”
“yeah, i’ll be there as soon as i can.”
i don’t tell her about my television or about baxter especially, because i know she loves that cat more than me. i could tell she cared though. not because she was my girlfriend, but because she has stuff here too, and she is probably worried about whether or not they took some of her stuff like her kitchenaid mixer that she bought from williams-sonoma for like $300.
i shut my phone and lay it down on the counter top. what the fuck am i supposed to do now? i stare at my refrigerator. i stare at baxter. i stare at the faucet. i stare. i stare, hoping that silence will become something tangible that i can touch.
i quickly turn from a state of confusion to a state of vehement fury.
my face is hot and i can see my future in front of me and there is absolutely nothing there. i can feel my nails digging into the palms of my hands.
