I have always been more fond of pets than humans. Take my own for example, a cat that I am convinced is far sharper than most men, thus pushing my girlfriend down to the level of an amoeba. This also explains why I do not enjoy going outside, for fear of running into someone and having to interact with them. Thus, I take my cats along, cradling him like a baby the whole way, both as a deterrent to others and because he enjoys it, at least for a while. When he grows uncomfortable in my arms, Pix, my cat, would jump down and walk, uncaring of where I am heading. In my effort to follow Pix, I sometimes arrive at unexpected spots. I always catch him before he gets to far.
Today is no different, and since I am in no rush – my girlfriend asked me to buy milk if I am outside, written the message on a piece of paper and taping it to my door – I decided to just trail behind Pix. People always say they go for a run or walk to clear their mind or to think, but I have never managed. When I want to think, to actually think and come up with a solution to something, I sit by myself in my room and focus. See, instead of watching for where my cat is going, I have now lost him because I was walking. How long have I been walking or letting my thoughts slip by? I look down to find out I have forgotten my phone. How could I have? And I remembered my girlfriend was saying something. I usually blanked her out when she is in one of her moods. That explains the lack of phones. Pix was on a roof in a house in front of me, seemingly waiting for me to catch up. When our eyes met, he started moving again, running along the roof, then jumping down to street-level. I realized we are moving upward, to the top of the hill I can see from the windows of my room but never been.
It is shortly before noon and the sun is beaming hard. I have a sip of water and wonder if Pix is thirsty too. If he is, he does not show, for he keeps running ahead, until we are finally at the top of the hill, because the path was now flat. Quite a view, people would say in this situation, but again, I’ve never felt what is so great about a wider point of view of a house. A different perspective rarely helps when it matters. Thinking that, I stopped gazing at the town below, and turn ahead to see a house in the middle of the hill. Has it always been here? How much would it be to buy a house atop a hill? Imagine a child’s drawing of a wood house, and it is spot on. A wooden, square shed, gable roof, surrounded by nothing but grass. Shed, because it is not much bigger than my room. If there is a way to fit a toilet in, this house would be perfect for myself, I thought. I wonder if I can come inside. If someone lives here, I will just ask them to refill my water bottle. I can hear Pix meowing on the roof.
Can not find the door from where I am, I walk to the front. As I’ve said with walking, it blurs the mind, because I was too distracted by the act of walking itself, and seeing this house, that I barely hear until now. Suddenly, sounds start to stream in, from the birds to the trees to the wind, to the weird beating coming from within the wood walls. That is not normal. What is that? It is strangely familiar. A heart, thumping thumping thumping, but not mine. In the front of the house, where the door is, is a row of small red flowers – poppy, standing there full of pride. They are in full bloom although it was late August. Pix pokes his head out from the roof and jumped down, rolling and kicking up the crimson petals. The thumping was gone.
I knock on the door. An echo comes back, like shouting in a deep cavern, giving the impression that whatever inside was hollow. I knock again, only to hear the expected sound of finger-on-wood. The windows revealed nothing inside but darkness. Well, worth a shot. I turned around.
Thumping thumping thumping.
Wait a moment! Why did I automatically assume someone lives here? Perhaps it is merely that, an empty shed. And suddenly the doorknob (was it there before?) becomes inviting, enticing, alluring. I somehow knew the knob would turn, and I was inside before my mind realized my actions. The beating was back, and I now see where it was coming from: in front of me was a black cat, bigger than any cat that can exist.
Pix was behind me then, and the two felines had a staring contest. Could my cat be trying to protect me? But he drew me here in the first place? My brain flashed with images of people being mangled and maimed by panthers and lions and tigers, but the giant cat, with its giant claws and fangs like a sabretooth, did not seem interested in me whatsoever. Sorry for trespassing, I said, apologetic to the clear owner of the shed. I just wanted water, I stuck with the excuse. I paid me no attention, instead fixed his glare on Pix. I instinctively kneeled on one knee, like a peasant in front of the Pharaoh.
I notice that a clock is ticking away the time. Tick-tack-tock, tick-tack-tock—like the slower, foreign pulsation of the black cat’s heart. Where can the clock be? Ah, there it is, just on my left. Everytime the second moves to twelve, a figure popped out of the clock, a man licking a shoe. Each minute, he licked a different shoe. As I observe his pathetic movements, I feel my own shoulder becoming stiff. The clock, because of another tack between the tick and tock, ran slower than most clocks.
Will I come back alive even? Or perhaps like the fisherman of old, I will return to find myself years in the future, with my girlfriend long dead? Before the panic kicked in, however, I felt Pix’s soft fur rubbing against my arm. The staring contest was over, and the giant black cat was now sleeping again, the thumping lowered.
Before blacking out and waking up in the hospital, I remember myself crawling to the door, closing it with a bang, diving into the poppies, perhaps in that order. I also remember a shoe, and the urge to lick it.