The wedding has just ended, the guests have gone, and our daughter has moved in with her husband. The flat feels empty. After a week of sitting in the silence, my wife and I decide we need a petto fill the gap left by our child and to keep our parental instincts alive: feeding, training, walking, and cleaning up after something. I also hope the animal wont argue with me, steal my cigarettes, or rustle around the fridge at night like my daughter used to.
We havent chosen the creature yet, so we plan to decide at the market.
On Sunday we drive to the bird market in Brixton. By the entrance sit a bunch of cute guineapigs. I look at my wife skeptically.
Those wont do, she says. We need something that walks on land.
The fish are silent, and the parrots, bright and noisy, set off my wifes allergy to feather dust. A small capuchin monkey catches my eye; its restless squirming reminds me of a teenage daughter. My wife, however, threatens to sleep on the floor like a dead weight, so I give up on the monkey. After a few minutes with the monkey Im already accustomed to my wife, so I let it go.
That leaves dogs and cats. Dogs require constant walks; cats bring their own hassles, and I cant picture myself hawking kittens at a tube station. So we go for a cat.
We spot our cat immediately. He lies in a clear acrylic tank surrounded by a litter of tiny, dampnosed kittens poking at his fluffy belly. The cat is dozing. A little placard reads Milo. The vendor tells a touching tale of a hard childhood: a dog that grew up with the cat nearly killed him, leaving no room for the feline in the house.
Milo looks like a pedigree British Shorthair with a sleek grey coat, but theres no paperwork to prove his flat nose isnt a defect. The seller says the missing documents list him officially as Caesar, yet he answers to Milo. We buy him.
The ride home is uneventful; Milo quietly purrs from under the passenger seat. As we pull into the flat block, my wife, ever teasing about my aversion to mutilation, asks, Are you sure he isnt neutered?
I tense upnot because Im against any group, but because a neutered cat reminds me of a badly scarred animal. I pull Milo onto the stair landing and give him a quick check. In the dim hallway the fur hides his genitals, and his plump belly is covered in tangled hair. I try to summon some strange curiosity, run my hand over his rear, and he yowls, but the sound stays inside the flat.
Later that day our daughter, Emily, drops by with a halfeaten birthday cake. She spots Milo, abandons the cake, and grabs the cat. Together with my wife they thrust him into the bathtub, scrub him with childrens shampoo, wrap him in a towel, and blowdry him with a handheld dryer.
Once Milo looks presentable, my wife starts combing out the clumps of hair. Milo twists and turns, making a mess. I step away with a pint of lager and head to the kitchen.
The peace shatters with a sharp, gutwrenching meow and a crash of broken glass. I set the bottle down and rush toward the sound. My wife sits on the sofa, shaking, her hands smeared with bloodied scratches. Scissors and tufts of cat hair litter the floor. Emily and I stand over her.
What happened? I ask.
She looks at us with watery eyes and shrieks, Iaa
Its the?
The eggs ripped
From where?
From Milo
Im no doctor, but Im convinced something like that doesnt just fall off. Especially not from a cat.
We sob and try to piece it together. Im a gentle soul, yet a dark thought flickersto strangle my crying wife out of pity, to end her suffering. I push it aside.
Finally my wife opens her clenched fists. In her shaking, bloodstained palms lie two small, fluffy bundles. Their grey fur glistens with drops of blood. She explains that while she was trimming the matted hair between Milos hind legs, the cat jerked. She had the scissors aimed at the tangled mass, and by accident she sliced what turned out to be his testicles.
Through tears and a runny nose we realise Milo roared in pain, dove under the sofa, clawed my wifes hands, and knocked over a vase. If Id been a brute, I would have torn his head off and wrecked the flat, and I tell my wife that. She wails again.
Emily and I grab a mop and crawl onto the floor. Under the sofa, in the darkest corner, Milos eyes glint like amber. He hisses, ignoring our offers of sausages. I understand him nowa creature in pain.
Emily gently nudges Milo toward the edge of the sofa with the mop, while I try to grip his trembling limbs. Milo proves unusually clever; he scratches at the wooden armrest, leaving deep gouges. At last he claws the mop, pulls himself closer, and his eyes burn bright yellow. A web of dust clings to his whiskers, centuryold grime covers his tail. In half an hour hes gone from a sleek British Shorthair to a ragged, castrated mess. The sight makes me grimace.
I hold the nowquiet animal close, stroking behind his ear. Slowly his breathing steadies, his legs relax, and he lets out a hoarse purr, covering his eyes. My wife, on tiptoes, declares, Is he in pain? Should we call an ambulance?
Milo opens a cloudy eye, sees his tormentor, and falls silent. He seems ready to croak. I usher the women out and carry Milo to the kitchen.
We share a pint and chat, trying to blow off steam. I tell my wife how hard life is for a man surrounded by women, and Milo purrs in agreement. After a while Milo stretches his belly across my lap, warming me with his rumble. Trust builds, and I, politely, spread his paws. I want to check whether my wifes cut will affect his future breeding. But the genital area is already absent; theres nothing left to examine. I take another sip, rake his fur, and find no signs of any remaining reproductive parts. It appears they never existed.
Instead of confronting the shopkeeper about the false claim, we bond over our shared bewilderment. Milos new name is no longer Milo. Yesterday, the neighbors cat gave birth to four fluffy kittens. Our flat is once again full of children.
Michael Grayson.
