She had a wild premonition that this day would come, but not this soon. It is inevitable that whenever the going gets good; life has a way of reminding you, not so fast. For the first time, since the Great Recession, she had a healthy relationship with freedom. She finally had a place of her own. No more roommates, no more abusive drunk boyfriend, excluding two nights ago, and in general, no more nonsense.
Beatrice, or Bea, found herself immobile staring at the spinning, wobbling ceiling fan above her, lying flat on her back. She was as good as paralyzed, for any movement caused aggressive excruciating pain. For the hell of it, she said, “Alexa, call 911.” In a sit-com that may have gotten a laugh, but here, it was just short of tragic. If ever there was a need for Life Alert®, it was now. Note to self: they should consider advertising to a younger clumsier demographic. She closed her eyes.
Moments ago, she slipped on a fresh puddle of cat vomit. For the briefest millisecond, she thought she had it under control. Adrenaline took over, as her body flew into the air. She instinctively tucked, like a high diver, and performed the perfect back flip. It was incredible. But in this fight against gravity, friction, force and all that whatnot, the mortal body usually fails. As she landed on her feet, there was an ice cube under her right foot, she slipped again, and this time she flew up in the air landing flat on her back. The horrifying crunch upon crunch indicated broken bones, maybe punctured organs. The impact knocked the air and the living bejeezus out of her. Her mouth filled with the taste of blood.
The cat door flap opened. It was Brewster, a sassy Siamese cat, named after Punky and not the craptastic Richard Pryor movie. Bea felt relief. She tried to say, “Brewster… Mommy needs some help.” Instead, she gurgled up blood. Cats have been known to display feats of strength and ridiculous courage when their owner is in mortal danger. Bea was sadly betrayed, as the cat dropped a twitching baby rat next to her head. It took every ounce of ignoring pain for Bea just to turn her head. The cute little vermin spasmed, thrashed and finished with complete stillness. Bea shrieked, as Brewster casually walked over her body, each step a stab of exposed nerves. Brewster sashayed into the room, which housed the box of litter. The sound of paws scratching sand followed by the scent of fresh cat excrement assaulted Bea’s senses. Her face wrinkled, part in pain, mostly out of disgust.
Bea was livid. She had just read that cats gift you with dead animals if they believe you are incapable of providing their own food. In short, the cat thinks you are pathetic! Because she died with such a bitter thought, she was refused entry at the gates of heaven by a more surly than usual St. Peter.