One-shot time.
Kinda sad.
Oh wells.
Vann
Eli's P.O.V
I've always hated that fucking cat.
From the day Clare picked him out, as a 6 week old kitten, he caused me nothing but pain and irritation.
The day we picked up that obnoxious little fur ball is implanted vividly in my memories, the importance and devastation hard to forget. We'd just left the doctor's office after receiving news that Clare was unable to have children. She was completely crushed, sobbing into my chest for an hour in the strip mall parking lot. I had no idea how to make her feel better, especially since I was completely shattered by the news as well.
We were sitting in my car, a sad song playing quietly on the radio as my wife was curled up into a ball of hysterics in my lap when I saw the sign that changed it all.
Free Kittens.
I opened the door to the car and she clutched onto my jacket, begging me not to leave her.
"Don't go. Please don't go."
I kissed her gently and told her she was coming with me, and that she wouldn't regret it. I had to practically carry her over to the entrance of the pet store, where a man sat lazily with a box of small kittens at his feet.
"We'd like a kitten, please."
I'll never forget the way Clare's face lit up at my words, a grin playing at her swollen, tear-streaked face.
"You hate cats, Eli."
"But I love my beautiful wife."
She picked up each cat individually, convinced that when she found the right one, she would just know. After rejecting a gray cat with a white spot on her back, a tiny black cat that bit her as soon as she lifted him up and an orange ball of trembling fur, Clare found what she liked to call her "kitty soulmate."
As she grabbed for a tiny, multi-colored boy cat, he meowed cutely and plopped down tiredly in the palm of her hand. He was cute at first, I must admit. But as soon as I went to touch the little bastard, he dug his stupid claw into my finger. I bled for a good ten minutes and decided that Pierre, the calico kitten, was my new worst enemy.
We brought him home after stocking the trunk of my car full of litter boxes, litter, Meow Mix, cat treats and endless cat toys. I knew that I would have to pretend to love that stupid, stupid cat. After all, it was the only thing keeping my wife from having a mental breakdown. And she deserved a ray of sunshine, even if it was the devil in feline form. If she was happy, then I was happy.
He used to scratch at our bedroom door in the middle of the night, caterwauling until I would let him in, since Clare sleeps like the dead and conveniently never heard his screeching. I'd open the door and Pierre would climb into our bed, making himself comfortable right at my head, biting my scalp throughout the night and making it impossible for me to get any rest at all. I locked him in our living room one night when I was just too overcome by tiredness to deal with his bullshit. Consequently, he pissed all over everything and I spent my Saturday morning trying to de-stink the furniture.
But Clare loved that stupid cat, even when he became morbidly obese and lay on the heat vents, keeping our small house at freezing temperatures during winter.
"He needs to be warm too, Eli."
"Too? Who says I'm warm? I can't feel my hands!"
He would follow her around the house, purring contently and rubbing himself up against her legs. She allowed him to sit on the table while we ate, refusing to make her "son" eat on the floor while he stole nibbles of her meal and laps of her milk. They watched television together while Clare scratched behind his ears, and would occasionally take naps together in our bed.
Four years to the day that we adopted Pierre, a miracle happened.
Clare realized that she'd missed her period.
She'd been nauseous and moody and her breasts were beautifully engorged.
We just knew.
And we were right.
The doctors were wrong about her infertility, and we were having a baby.
We never thought the day would come.
It was the most emotional, beautiful day of my 27 years on this earth.
Clare was absolutely convinced that Pierre deserved the credit for our little miracle, though I'm certain that it was my seed that contributed to the fact.
Either way, we couldn't have been happier.
That is, until two weeks before Clare was due. She was huge at that point, and I mean that in the most loving way possible. She was practically waddling everywhere, her feet were consistently swollen and her mood was sour.
As we were leaving the house to go to a doctor's appointment, Pierre made a break for it.
He ran straight into the road.
I never heard Clare scream as loudly as she did when she watched her Pierre get hit by a semi-truck.
I hated that fucking cat, but my heart broke in two as I watched my pregnant wife fall to her knees and clutch onto the lifeless body of the creature that had once given her hope, love, comfort and light in the darkness days of her life.
"No! No, no, no! Baby, wake up! Wake up, Pierre, please? Please don't die, babycat! Mommy loves you, Pierre, please? Please don't die, please don't die! Please?"
I practically had to peel her away from the sight when I noticed the puddle of water underneath her quivering legs.
"Clare! Your water broke!"
"No it didn't! Just leave me alone. "She sobbed.
"Look at your legs, Clare. It's time to go to the hospital."
"I can't leave him here. I can't leave his little body in the road."
"We have to go-"
"No! I'm not leaving him here. I'm not leaving Pierre in the road to be eaten by vultures. Just take him inside or I'm having the baby on the sidewalk."
12 hours later, my son was born, in a hospital, of course.
Pierre Elijah Goldsworthy.
One day, I'm sure he'll ask where his name came from. I'll probably let Clare explain that he was named after a cat, since it was by her insistence that he be named after, "the two most important boys in her life."
()()()()()()()
Today, Clare and I stand in our backyard, our three-day-old bundle of joy cuddled tightly in her arms. All I can see is a swirl of black hair sticking up from the blanket where my son is sleeping soundly.
A large shoe box sits at my feet, and a shovel is clutched in my right hand.
Gently, I bend over and place the box in the bottom of a freshly dug hole. I look up at Clare and tears are spilling down her cheeks as she softly rocks Baby Pierre back and forth in her arms.
I begin to cover the box with dirt, remembering all of the times that Pierre had dug his claws into my back, and swatted at my face, and left mice on my side of the bed.
I can't help but remember the way that Clare's face would light up when the cat waltzed into our room, and how she would baby talk to him while dangling cat nip in his face, or how she would rip threads off of my shirts and used them to entertain her feline friend. One day, she bought a laser pointer and aimed it at the wall for hours while Pierre tried to catch the dot. And when the battery ran out, she kissed him on the nose and promised that she would by another one for him to play with soon.
He meowed at her in response, provoking the largest grin on her beautiful face.
As I pat the top of the makeshift grave, packing the dirt down firmly so that it blends into the rest of the yard, sobs begin to shake Clare's body.
"Please say something for Pierre." She begs tearfully, trying not to wake the baby with her emotions.
I don't know exactly what to say, since I hated that cat with a burning passion. But the way Clare is looking at me, I know I need to say something nice, and I need to do it now.
"Pierre," I begin, feeling slightly ridiculous that I'm talking to a dead cat. "even though you were a cat, you were a big part of our family. Your mother loves you dearly, maybe even more than she loves me." I look up at Clare and see a slight smile on her face. "I don't really believe in heaven, but I'm almost certain that you are somewhere better now, with a giant pile of catnip and endless boxes of Meow mix." I drop my voice down a bit so Clare can't hear as I whisper, "Thank you for making my wife happy, you flea-ridden ball of fur." I feel myself get emotional as I finally realize that our surly Calico won't be stalking the house for prey, or waking me up in the middle of the night, or plopping his giant body down on my lap, rendering me unable to move. He was really gone.
"Rest in peace, Pierre…" I say, my voice thick with emotions. "Meow meow meow meow meow."
I look up at my giggling wife. She smiles at me through the tears and closes her eyes, whispering, "Bye bye, Pierre kitty."
I walk over to her and take her into my arms, hugging her gently so I don't squish our little boy.
"Eli, can we get another kitten?" Clare asks me; her eyes filled with innocence and need.
I sigh, knowing that it will be a pain to deal with another rude pet that favors Clare over me, but also knowing that, deep down, I miss that stupid cat and maybe, just maybe, I need to fill the hole he left just as badly as she does.
I nod, "Anything for you."