While never officially penned, the citizens of NYC had circulated a series of rules related to the neighbouring State Park Forest. A kind of unofficial guidebook and cautionary tale for anyone who might want to venture into that unnatural and terrifying domain.
The volumes they had compiled could stretch on for several pages, though at the very top were two rules, the golden rules, the rules that trumped all others.
The first was: everything that came out of the State Park was weird.
The second?
Well the second was…
Oliver laid upon the window sill of Jenny's boutique, licking her paw and bathing in the warm summer sun. It was a good day to be a cat, though weren't they all? The weather was passable. She was well groomed. And she'd even managed to use her trickery to score a double ration, as her meal today was provided by both Jenny and Sweetie Belle, though neither knew it.
Though, like most days in NYC, she was incredibly lonely. The town had many creatures, but very few of them were fellow felines. There were a few strays at Fluttershy's cabin, though they were hardly of a high enough status to associate with her. Beyond them, the only acceptable cat was the Siamese that Silver Spoon owned, though she was an absolute bitch and Oliver would prefer to see as little of her as possible.
Alas, this was her curse, to forever live a life of luxury and to have no one to share it with.
"Meow."
Oliver's ears perked up and she looked down at the ground.
Standing there was a chubby orange tabby cat. While a little pudgy, Oliver could not deny that he did seem a little cute.
"Meow?" Oliver responded.
"Meow, meow," the tabby said.
Why a gentleman with eloquent words; how exciting. Oliver jumped down and lifted her tail, walking around him in a tight circle.
The two of them meowed back and forth, starting in on a lovely conversation about cuisine. Oliver of course praised the delicacy that was canned tuna. The tabby on the other paw was far more exotic, talking about some dish that was Italian.
Oliver had never even heard of an Italian. Who were these strange creatures? Were they like ponies, or gryphons, or dragons, or something all together new?
When Oliver asked the tabby about his home, he gestured to the State Park Forest. Now, she was not the kind of cat that got out often, but even she knew that such a place was dangerous, full of dangerous creatures that would love nothing more than to turn her into roof rabbit. This must've meant that the tabby was very brave, very brave indeed.
Bravery was a very appealing trait. It was the kind of trait that made Oliver very fond of getting to know this rugged and daring tabby.
She asked the tabby if he had an owner? Maybe he belonged to that zebra that Jenny talked about on occasion?
The tabby said he did, though he didn't know where his beloved master was. He spoke fondly of his owner, a kindly gentleman by the name of Jon? Now wasn't that a weird name for a pony? But before Oliver could inquire about the name, the tabby went on, saying he missed his master, missed him a lot.
Oliver could sympathize. She did not know what she would've done without Jenny, or even Sweetie Belle. She'd perish the thought of having to become one of the ferals who relied upon Fluttershy's handouts for survival.
As they conversed, Oliver and the tabby grew closer, intimately closer, nuzzling and rubbing against one another. Oliver purred as she felt the tabby press into her neck, and she in turn walked past him, brushing her bushy tail along his coat.
For a moment, she sensed a spark between them. This was a cat that Oliver desperately wanted to know better. However, such romances always ended in tragedy.
"Oliver, get away from that filthy stray!" Jenny exclaimed, bursting out of the boutique, bearing a newspaper. She flung it at the tabby, who screeched and bolted off, rushing back to his home in the State Park.
Oliver glared at her owner and hissed at her poor judgement.
But it was too late, the damage was already done.
The tabby came back the very next day.
It was a rainy day, which meant that Oliver was unfortunately forced to watch from a closed window as the poor thing paced back and forth, getting absolutely drenched.
She almost felt guilty, staying within the warmth and comfort of her homestead while the poor tabby was forced to endure the elements. It wasn't like he was some filthy feral. He had an owner and should be treated as such.
Her owners were home, though neither was within this room. Why had Jenny reacted so poorly to the tabby's presence? Why couldn't she let Oliver make friends with him? After all, was befriending a mere stray any different from Jenny befriending a farmer or baker? Sometimes friendships could blossom beyond a creature's status, a lesson in class consciousness that Oliver was now painfully learning.
Still, she was trapped within the home, watching as the tabby walked away. He seemed so dejected and sad, breaking Oliver's poor heart.
And as he left, Oliver hoped, beyond hope, that he would come back the day after when she could get outside and join him.
Thankfully the tabby returned, visiting throughout the week. Everyday, when Oliver was able, she would socialize with the creature. He turned out to be a fellow cultured soul, one who could talk about all manner of subjects, from fur grooming, to jokes, to topics related to hunting small game. But most importantly, he was a feline who knew the finer side of cuisine.
He would tell Oliver all about the rich and exotic dishes he had within his equally foreign and far away homeland. The tabby talked frequently of his house, of his canine companion and their human master.
Oh, how the tabby missed his human, seemingly utterly absorbed and devoted to this individual and his ability to provide the tabby with his favourite cuisine. Oliver could only hope that one day this tabby would feel that level of devotion to her. Still, she enjoyed his stories, his adventures and comical hijinks.
Unfortunately, Jenny was always there to ruin things. She repeatedly warded off the tabby, taking on increasingly terrifying methods. During her last attempt, she had even hit the cat with a shoe, sending him fleeing.
Now, Oliver listened as Jenny talked with Sweetie, discussing turning Oliver strictly into a house cat.
She didn't quite know what that meant. Wasn't she already a house cat? Though she had a feeling, judging by Jenny's tone, that she would not be seeing the outside world much longer.
How would she break the news to the tabby? That is, if she was even given the chance.
She was right about not seeing the outside world again.
The boutique's windows were no longer left open, and for a long week, she watched in misery as the tabby returned, unable to talk with her and see her.
But while the first week was torture, the second was even worse. The tabby no longer returned, no longer attempting to visit Oliver. He must've given up on ever seeing her again.
For all the loneliness Oliver had once claimed to feel, it was nowhere near as potent as the current bout she endured.
Would she ever see her beloved tabby again?
It seemed less and less likely with each passing day.
A month passed since Oliver had last seen her beloved tabby, when she realized something. She had never gotten the cat's name. He must've had one, for he had an owner, and it would be most improper for an owned cat not to have a name.
That's what she disliked about the ferals that Fluttershy fed. None of them had names, instead using physical descriptions to talk about each other. It was all so confusing, especially when you had brown with white splotches and white with brown splotches being two separate cats.
There was a knock at the window, jerking Oliver out of her thoughts. She looked up from her roost upon Jenny's ottoman and reeled at what she saw. It was a fleshy appendage that looked sickening and unnatural.
Oliver meowed in concern, hopping away from her spot. When something like that presented itself, it was best to find Jenny and get her to deal with it.
As she left the room, she glanced over her shoulder, noticing that the appendage was no longer at the window. But she still felt a little frightened by the whole display, prompting her to spend the night with Jenny at the very least.
As she walked into the darkened hallway of the second floor, she heard a mighty crash from down below, making the hair rise on the back of her neck.
In an instant, Jenny burst out of her bedroom. She looked bleared eyed and wore a green clay mask.
"Was that you, Oliver?" she asked, blinking away sleep. "Or was it…" she would've paled if it were not for the clay, "oh no."
Jenny illuminated her horn, grabbing a pair of fabric sheers. She then, very carefully, tiptoed towards the stairs.
"Stay up here, Oliver," she said, before grumbling under her breath. "Who's ever heard of a home invasion in NYC?"
As she approached the stairs, she descended them out of sight. A moment passed and then there was a shrill and guttural scream, which soon turned wet and gory.
Oliver tensed and very carefully crept towards the stairwell herself, slowly climbing down.
There was a commotion on the first floor, the sound of things crashing, of ripping, of the wet rending of flesh. A pot clattered in the kitchen at the same time that a vase shattered in the living room. They were on opposite sides of the house, alluding to two intruders.
Oliver reached the bottom of the stairs, her eyes widening in horror.
At the doorway was a mass of flesh, of torn skin, of bones and muscle. It was constructed of exposed organs and membranes, held together by webs of fluid and puss. Tentacles sprouted from the monstrosity, weaving through the boutique.
Oliver watched in horror as she saw tuffs of white fur and purple mane within the organic mass, then she saw a horn, before finally seeing Jenny's head, or at least half of it. It had been ripped forcefully in two and then absorbed into the mass, with exposed scalp, skull, and brain sticking out. Yet, somehow the one remaining eye was opened, alive and frightened.
Though, before Oliver could cry for her desecrated owner, she saw what was atop the mass of flesh and gore. It was the head of that adorable little tabby. Though he was no longer so adorable, his mouth now opened to some impossible degree, showing off rows of razor-sharp teeth. Not two rows, but hundreds, if not thousands of them, all gleaming with blood, gore, and a black pustule substance.
"Meow," Oliver whimpered, begging this thing to explain to her what it was.
"Meow," the tabby responded, his voice wet, alien, and sadistically deep.
Garfield.
That was his name.
And.
He had not taken the news of being denied her company especially well.
While never officially penned, the citizens of NYC had circulated a series of rules related to the neighbouring State Park Forest. A kind of unofficial guidebook and cautionary tale for anyone who might want to venture into that unnatural and terrifying domain.
The volumes they had compiled could stretch on for several pages, though at the very top were two rules, the golden rules, the rules that trumped all others.
The first was: everything that came out of the State Park was weird.
The second?
Well the second was: everything that comes out of the State Park was to be avoided at all costs.