"Bob the Cat" by Tina McFarlane

Bob the Cat

by Tina McFarlane 

I woke up to Bob licking the stained snow off my face. I wondered if the taste of blood gave it some flavour. 

Either that, or he was just thirsty.

He had stayed on my chest long enough to get his own dusting of winter, undisturbed by the drop in temperature. Bob had been used to going outside. He was a rescue. A senior cat from a local group that appeared on my Facebook feed.

It was the typical tale. The owner had to move to a nursing home or something. Couldn’t take him with him. 

Bullshit.

I knew he had been abandoned the minute he stepped into my house. His thick ginger coat and bulky frame made him a sight to see, tearing around as if he were possessed. Checking out every nook and cranny as if he expected to find something. While I’m no Martha Stewart, my small country home was clean. Never even had a rodent problem, just the occasional backyard deer and a curious raccoon. 

But Bob thought otherwise. I offered treats, catnip, and even changed his food a few times, but he never settled. He only slept once he was too exhausted to do much else. 

At first, he would patrol inside and out, while I tried to act like adopting him wasn’t a mistake. I wanted an old cat who would cuddle with me and watch TV. Instead, I got a paranoid guard dog. 

He tolerated visitors, just as long as they didn’t try to overstay their welcome. And forget it if they came at night. He didn’t need to bite or scratch; the glare they would get from the top of Mom’s old hutch was enough to make them want to leave.

And that was how we lived. Over time, I came to accept his quirky nature. Living alone in the country, it became strangely reassuring to know I had someone looking out for me. 

Occasionally, I would find him acting like a normal cat. He would sleep in the window that overlooked our front yard, enjoying the warmth of the sun’s springtime rays. 

It was only a matter of time before his patrols were regulated to the indoors. I wasn’t going to test his fearlessness against the creatures that roamed outside in the early winter. However, my bet would always be on him.

“So,” I said, trying to stand, “That was exciting.” I tested my limbs to make sure nothing was broken. Bruised and scratched, maybe, but I was in one piece, which was more than I could say for what was in front of me. Bob jumped off with a grumbling meow and followed me inside. I left the sawed-off shotgun behind. It wouldn't do much without bullets.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the hall mirror. I was covered in blood, though none of it was mine. Bob was quite the sight, too, his fur splattered with what could only be described as pulverized entrails. 

But the house was fine for the most part. My shelf of plants that stood against my back window had been smashed, and broken glass was everywhere. And the floor was wet and sticky. The other windows had been boarded up for a while. But I was determined to try to keep my herbs and vegetables alive.

I shooed Bob to the couch while I grabbed a broom. I didn’t want him to step on the broken glass. And a good mopping cleaned up the rest. We could see the sun begin to rise, so I picked up what was left of my plant shelf and went to wash up and get changed. We were getting low on water, so we would have to rely on the snow from now on. I used some to clean Bob, who was less than impressed with my gesture. Anyone who thought washing was a frivolous waste of resources never had to deal with the smell of the dead.

They say animals have an instinct about disasters. Birds fly away; cattle and horses get restless.

And Bob? He stood watch, just like he always did. Like he did from the first day he arrived. I don’t think his previous owner understood.

But I do.

Tonight, I’m opening our last can of tuna, and Bob can have it all.