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“It’s not my fault!”


(Oh yes, this is your doing.)


“How can you say it’s not your fault? You’re the one who left the door open. Now, there’s a cat in the house.”


(If I fits through the door, I sits on the floor.)


“Does it have any tags?”


“I don’t see any. Does it have one of those microchip things?”


(No, I do not. I am a free roaming cat. ‘Tis so quaint how the humans developed the practice of claiming ownership of us, simply because they abide by a tax code, operate motor vehicles, and can inaccurately quote movies at will.)


“She’s so friendly. Listen to her meow.”


(Why can’t humans tell the toms from the queens? It is so blatantly obvious I’m male. I shall swat at the next human to call me “she.”)


“She does have a cute meow, I’ll give you that.”


(You just made the list, you loathsome oaf.)


“Do we need to talk to the landlord about keeping a cat?”


(Is that another human you are subservient to? The lord of the land? Amusing.)


“Whoa, who said ‘keeping?’ She accidentally walks in through the open door and now we’re keeping it?”


(Capital idea, human.)


“C’mon, how long have I been talking about wanting a cat?”


“Long enough for me to ignore it.”


(Perhaps he is the problem. Let’s get rid of him, ma’am, and you and I will be happier together.)


“I think this is a sign. I work from home and I’m all by myself—”


“Ignoring my fish tank, again. Thanks. There’s a dozen fish in there keeping you company.”


(Delicious appetizers!)


“I can’t interact with the fish!”


(Allow me to teach you, my dear.)


“Irregardless, you know why I don’t want a cat.”


(That’s not a real word, you dolt.)


“She seems to like you. She just hopped up on your lap.”


“Gah! Get it off my face.”


“Aww, so sweet. She likes you. She’s so affectionate.”


(You will succumb to my manipulative ways, male biped.)


“I didn’t tell the cat to show affection,

I didn’t make the cat show affection,

I didn’t WANT the cat to show affection, and yet,



“If we take the cat to a vet, and it’s unclaimed, we can adopt it.”


“You’re forgetting one important point. I’m allergic to cats!”


(That sounds like a “you” problem, not an “us” problem.)


“You didn’t have a problem with the cats at my aunt’s house last Christmas.”


“They are Siberian cats. They’re as close to

hypoallergenic as cats can get.

At least that’s what your aunt said.”


(All part of our master plan for global domination.)


“Maybe this cat is too.”


(I’m not.)


“Doesn’t look the same at all.”


(Congrats, genius. I’m a Bengal. Don’t these stripes strike fear in your heart? I’m a tiger. Rawr!)


“What are we going to do?”


“What do you mean ‘What are we going to do?’”


“We can’t get rid of it.”


“Just open the door. Let it back out.”


(I don’t go both ways. This is me, progressing my life forward.)


“Time for it to explore the world. Think of the birds it’ll chase and eat. The possum’s it’ll play with. The—“


(The dead cat that will come back and haunt you, menacing you with my ghostly presence, and dead mice on your pillow.)


“The dogs that will attack it, the raccoons that will give it rabies.”


(Rabies? How dare he assume I will fall subject

to rabies. My immune system is heartier than…)


“Crap. You’re right. Remember that feral cat last year we had to call Animal Control about?”


(If you named me “Mr. Whiskers,” I’d go mad and break out as well. He was an odd one.)


“That’s why we can’t get rid of Molly.”




(Sorry, did you just name me “Molly?”)


“She looks like a Molly to me.”


(Damn you woman, I’m a male cat! A tom, a dude, a bro. I’m an XY-chromosomal feline. Get it right!)


“Well, Molly has to go.”


“Why won’t you support me on this? I’ve adjusted my life in so many ways to make things work for you.”


“Not this again.”


“Everything I see here is by your design.

Your apartment, your furniture, your schedule,

your stupid art on the wall.”


“So now it’s my fault I have a job located in a specific city and this dump is all we can afford?”


(Sounds like you two need some time to talk.

Where’s that fish tank you mentioned before?)


“I haven’t had one say in anything

in the two years we’ve been together.

It’s all you, you, YOU!”


“But there’s room for your mom, your mom, YOUR MOM!

You seem to spend more time with her than me.”


“That’s because she makes the time.”


“Oh, and I don’t?”


(I found the fish tank!)


“When you’re not working, you’re either

vegging in front of the TV playing video

games, or you’re out with your buddies.”


“Because you never want to do anything.”


(Eww! The fish look emaciated and the water is green. If you can’t keep a fish alive…)


“All I want to do is something, but whenever I do, you’re wrapped up in something else.”


“Well maybe I’d rather be doing something else.”


(I’m starting to have second thoughts…)


“Then go do something else, for all I care.”


“Fine, I will!”


(This was not a good idea on my part.)


“Molly, why did I let him leave?


(It’s not my fault.)

Jay Heltzer

Jay Heltzer writes attention-challenged fiction, plays bass trombone, digs sloppy fountain pen sketches, and is in pursuit of the perfect cheeseburger.

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