When I was a teenager, I had a “friend”
named Barry Tell. By “friend” I mean someone who hung around the
house a lot and never seemed to leave. He was a crackhead and he
lived in a camper behind an abandoned warehouse. He cooked Ramen
noodles on a kerosene stove.
My family had a cat named “Velma.”
She was a calico. When she was a kitten, she had a twin named
Daphne. However, Daphne died young from an allergic reaction to a
flea medication, and Velma turned mean. She was one of the meanest
cats that I ever met.
Barry came over to the house one day,
and he tormented Velma. I told him, “Barry, don’t fuck with the
cat! She will rip you apart!” He laughed and carried on.
When I was in another room, he put a
shower curtain grommet around Velma’s front paws, so that she was
handcuffed. She fussed and squirmed, rolling around the floor,
trying to break free.
Finally, Barry reached down to release
the grommet from her paws. As soon as she got one paw free, Velma
wildly swung her paw through the air, claws fully extended, and
ripped the flesh from Barry’s hand. Barry screamed madly as jets of
blood shot onto the linoleum floor.
“I told you not to fuck with that
cat,” I told him. “She’s mean. You’re lucky she didn’t go for
your throat.” He went to the hospital, and he had to get 17
stitches. I still chuckle about it to this day.