Since moving into our oversize house that hangs on our shoulders and bags at the seams, our pearly white cat, as pristine as snow before it hits the ground, hit the ground. The ground happened to be suffocated with layers of primordial dust and mysterious blue dye surrounding the tray that holds the potent food I present to him each day. His spirit brother from a camping trip to the attic, our old tom too wide to fit under the dresser without leaving a tail floundering near the floor, remained a lightly toasted golden brown, ooey and gooey and deliciously warm, with one patch of white on his neck. I think our tom is worried about the the little one; he has been disguised as yet another layer of this house, thrown over the original hardwood and forgotten.
They wait at the landing for me as I parade up the stairs bearing ceramic bowls from a discount superstore and metal spoons that melt in my hand, and then they wait at the threshold as I transfer the brown goo from the tin to their mouths. Sharp fangs have nothing to pierce, so they scrape the edge of the bowl, echoing a shriek into my inner ear. As they swallow, they have no reason to think that it is late, for they have slept all day, but I leave the tray and the dye and the cats behind, and I fade into the house, drifting away as though scraped off until translucent. My eyes close and my ears banish the meowing screams to reality as I escape.
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