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Fiction. © Copyright 2003, Jim Loy
She was a cute little kitty cat, fuzzy with gray stripes. She wandered over to my house while I worked in the garden. I reached out my hand to pet her, and she scratched me. I was surprised. Blood dripped from my hand into the grass. I said, "Bad kitty, why'd you do that?" I went inside, washed my hand, put iodine on it (which stung), and then put a flesh-colored bandage on it.
Later that day, the kitty came up to me again. She seemed friendly. I said, "I suppose you're going to tell me you're sorry." I reached out my hand, and she tried to bite it. I pulled my hand back just in time. Her little teeth snapped shut like a bear trap. "Wow, you're not a kitty cat. You're a shark, a tiger shark." She wouldn't let me touch her, but she still acted friendly in other ways.
I found out that the kitty's name was Fluff. She belonged to Billy, the little boy next door. Billy's father had given him a kitty cat, and he had given a little puppy to Karen, Billy's older sister. Billy wanted a puppy. Billy was angry. He yelled at his father and mother, "I don't want a cat; I want a dog." And Billy cried.
Billy's father said, "Listen here, young man. You've got a cat, and that's the way it is. If you can't take care of your cat, then you won't have any pet at all. Is that clear?"
In tears, Billy nodded his head "yes." But inside he said, "But you'll be sorry." When nobody was looking, Billy hit Fluff with his hand, sometimes with a stick, or with his baseball glove. And he threw Fluff as far as he could. And Fluff scratched him and bit him. It was a war. I saw Billy hitting and throwing Fluff. And I saw what Fluff was becoming, a little monster. What to do?
What Billy was doing was against the law. I could call the police. The police department has "animal control" officers. They probably would not put Billy in jail. But they might take Fluff away from him. Probably they would give Billy's father a warning, "If we get any more complaints, we're going to take this cat away from you folks." And it could turn out good, or it could turn out bad. That depended on Billy. Billy might become a good boy and be good to Fluff, or he might do even more evil things to Fluff.
Then I thought, "I could kidnap Fluff, maybe give her to some friends of mine, out in the country." That too is a crime, stealing. I could go to jail, maybe for a long time. And it would be wrong, but it was tempting. I wanted to save Fluff.
Then I thought that I really want to let Fluff decide where she wants to live. The door of my porch never closes completely; Fluff has squeezed in now and then. So I put some cat food on a plate, and milk in a bowl, and put it on the porch. And Fluff came to visit me several times a day, every day. Fluff was still Billy's cat. But I assumed that Fluff had a little better life now.
Then one day, I saw Billy looking in the window of my porch. He was watching Fluff eat cat food. Billy didn't look angry; he looked sad. He was thinking. I was also thinking. "This could turn out good, or it could turn out bad. It all depends on Billy."
Fluff almost never came over anymore, and I thought that maybe things had turned out bad. Then I saw Billy playing with Fluff. Billy was waving a string in the air, and Fluff was trying to catch it. They looked like they were having the time of their lives. And when Billy would go somewhere, Fluff would follow him. They acted like they were best friends. Fluff still scratched and bit, but she was getting better.
And I think that things have turned out good.
Author's note: There are a number of grammatical errors in the above story. This is because the narrator is one of the characters, and he says "good" when he means "well," and sometimes he uses both present tense and past tense in the same sentence. Forgive him, for he knows not what he does.