The Smoking Cat 
Cynthia Davis Morgan
Note: Although some animals were harmed in the true events of this story, only the humans involved were actually maimed. All animals escaped with a full belly and some exercise.
It never meant to be an adventure; it started out as a humanitarian effort – a desire to avoid getting Nikki pregnant. Nikki, my little gray Siamese, had gotten out in the early afternoon while I was airing the apartment. I knew that it was bad news since Nikki had just gone into heat. My other cat, a female calico named Abby, was becoming angry at the constant squalls and was starting to swat Nikki away from the bed. I was looking forward to the veterinarian appointment the next week.
The afternoon was oppressively hot and I opened the window to create an air current in the apartment. When I noticed Abby sitting on the window looking out, and the absolute lack of noise from Nikki, I looked up from the intense manual I was editing. Only one cat was present. A tear in the screen window showed me Nikki’s escape into the red light district of the empty park behind our apartment. Frantic, I spent the afternoon searching for her.
By the time my boyfriend got home from work, the cat was still gone, and I was cold and upset. Animals were like family to me, and knowing that some dirty feline ne’er do well was having his way with my gorgeous, smoke colored, shy daughter was making me as impatient as a mother waiting for her daughter to return from Prom after finding a condom box in the bathroom. He consoled me and went about finding a solution to our missing child. I call him “he” because the atrocities of that weekend could only originate from the well meaning but ignorant mind of a male that I would date. And he never forgot the lesson learned, partly because of the scars on his body, partly from the scars on our relationship, and partly from the scars that were permanently engraved on my apartment walls and cabinets. I have since forgotten him and what attracted me to him and even the argument that caused our parting, but I shall never forget that night, or the fiery demon of feline rage that ransacked my apartment. 
After discussion, he called the police and arranged to borrow a small animal trap. Yes, the police will actually loan you a wire trap to capture an escaped animal. The policeman that brought out the trap instructed both of us in the easy release features of the wire cage. It seemed simple enough. There was a “push grate” that shut the gate behind the animal after it had put pressure on the floor of the cage. To lure the animal in, there was a spot just beyond this trap trigger where you could place an enticing treat to lure your wayward animal inside the wire box. This demonstration and the apparent ease in which you removed a caught animal encouraged me. You just reached down, pulled the latch, and rescued your beloved animal. In my mind, I could see little Nikki leaping into my arms from the cage, content and happy to be home once again.
When it was twilight, he set the trap with the expensive canned cat food that was saved for special occasions. I was sure that Nikki would smell the delicious treat and rush home to share in a delicious meal with her sister. Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Nikki that was attracted by the smell of expensive turkey scraps with catnip dressing.
The trap was first sprung about eight, right as the prime time TV shows were changing tone to a darker, more seductive plot suitable for a Friday night. The noise from below my apartment window was frightening, I was sure a small mountain lion or tiger had accidentally escaped from the city zoo and landed itself in Nikki’s prepared dinner. I sent him out to deal with the noise while I watched the unfolding drama. Had I known that the drama in my apartment would have been better, I might have grabbed a TV crew or at least a camcorder to record the intensity for my children, or possibly the man at the mental institution.
He drug the cage complete with disgruntled, dirt colored, fur mound into the living room in front of the TV. “That’s not Nikki. What are you doing with that thing in the house?” 
“I needed some help removing it from the cage. It got me.” I then saw the small trickle of blood from a new gash on his wrist. It seemed that the hissing fur mound had claws as well as teeth. I looked at him with surprise.
“So you want me to do it? I’m not touching that thing. It probably has a disease. Plus it’s upsetting the cat.” The other cat was voicing its displeasure at the evening visitor from somewhere beneath the bed in the other room. The cacophony of feline squall was quickly approaching a level that would overpower rock concerts.
“Well, at least get me a towel so I won’t get scratched.” Wordlessly, I tossed him an unfolded towel from the basket of laundry that I hadn’t gotten around to folding yet. I sat on the couch, arms crossed, waiting to see this feat accomplished. After a good ten minutes, the cat was finally mummified in the towel; he was minus some flesh and more blood; and I was still watching from the couch angry at the intruder for interrupting my night, eating the expensive bait, and angry at the him for dragging the intruder in the house. The cat was soon disappearing back into the night, and he reset the trap.
By one in the morning, we had caught six cats – none of them being my precious Siamese. He wore Band-Aids and antibiotic cream. I wore an expression of true frustration and exasperation. The late night movie was just about over and I wanted to call it a night when once again a deafening din disturbed the soft jazz tune of the closing credits. 
Once again, he brought the trap inside.  This time the trap shook and rattled, the dark shape inside of it seemed to drop dirt and dust with every movement.  The cat didn’t just hiss, it snarled much like a small mountain lion;  the eyes glowed a sinister yellow that matched the deep hatred eminent from the growls.  I backed away into the kitchen, knowing that I did not want to be close to that creature.  “Don’t let that thing loose in my house.”  My voice crashed with tension and fear.  Tired and exhausted, I didn’t want to deal with another angry feline.  Sleep seemed a much better alternative than trapped and rabid cats destroying my house.  
Heedless of my warnings, he set down the cage and started undoing the latch.  In almost slow motion, I saw the claws rip across his knuckles and the latch drop down unfenced.  As he took his hand away, the cat streaked out of the trap and made for the darkest corner-my computer.  Later I swore sparks had flown as disks and manuals became airborne in the creature’s search for escape.  
He took the towel that had been used as a shield earlier in the night and stanched the bleeding.  It didn’t quite look like a war wound, but I knew the cleaning was going to hurt.  Wrapping the towel around his hand, he approached the hissing corner like a nervous boxer, using the towel, like a boxing glove,  to catch flailing claws and ripping teeth.  Hearing the other cat squirm her way into the box springs of the bed, I wish that I could join her and escape from this unfolding disaster.  From my vantage point in the kitchen, I could only hear thuds and crashes intermingling with broken cusses. 
Alarmed, I peeked around the corner as I heard the unmistakable crash of a head against the top of my desk and screamed as the cat defied gravity and shot the living room into the kitchen.  I watched in amazement as the irate creature inhabited itself in my pantry. Clouds of baking dust-flour, sugar, baking soda, chocolate chips and finally cocoa, filled the small area. Short moans came from my significant other as he watched the ingredients hit the floor. “Get that thing out of my house, my kitchen, and my life.” I was on the verge of  a hysterical fit as I turned on the cold water to stop the immediate bleeding.
“Get me the broom. I’m not touching that demon,” he muttered through clenched teeth. 
“So you’re going to make it madder.” I kept glancing at the now quiet pantry.
“We can’t leave it there. I can’t throw it out.”
“Just open the door and let it find its own way out,” I suggested.
“It’s not going to move. We’re going to have to get out. Plus, you don’t want it in the house while we’re sleeping, do you?” his accent became pronounced as the stress of the evening began to wear.
“Fine. Just get it out.” I handed him the broom. He looked beyond determined when he took the broom from my hands. His approach to the closet was reminiscent of war footage  the body steeled with aggression; the eyes betraying the weakness within.
Each attack caused a minor rainstorm of baking supplies. The kitchen floor was covered with Christmas sprinkles and cake fixings.
Finally, the cat conceded his sanctuary and flew out of the narrow cupboard, finding purchase between the shelf ledge and the attacking broom bristles. I watched dumbfounded as the cat darted across the wall leaving cocoa paw prints like a chain border. Instead of splashing into the sink of soaking dishes, it landed in the small mountain of flour on my now dirty floor and rounded the corner into the bathroom.
With agility an astronaut would envy, it ascended the shower curtain, scurried across the bar and jumped onto the lighted medicine cabinet. It then glowered at me as I snagged another towel for a shield. Peering from behind the terry cloth like a devout Muslim, I considered my options. My living room was scattered with computer disks, my kitchen looked worse than the day after Christmas. My shower curtain hung in shreds, and a demonic being now inhabited my bathroom.
Just as I thought the night couldn’t possibly get worse, Murphy struck one last time. The smoke alarm began to shriek As I slammed the reset button, I looked for the cause. I checked the stove and then realized the smoke smell came from the bathroom. Confused and checking the curling iron, I looked up to see wisps of smoke rising from the crouched haunches of the cat. Its eyes changed quickly from sullen yellow to fearful green as the comfortable seat became a scorching hell. I dived for the bedroom door as I yelled for him to open the front door. Smelling its roasting fur, the cat fled the apartment leaving behind only the unpleasant smell of smoking cat.