Avery Yang

Death is an unfortunate habit, isn’t it?

Stories that I’ve written generally end with the protagonist, good or bad, dying at the end. In correlation, a majority of the stories I write become scrapped so I’ve decided to write a “wholesome” piece. My decisions to end a story with a character’s end is likely reflected from my creativity blocks, successor of the infamous writer’s block and artist’s block—that, or it is 3AM and I just want a conclusion to my story without any possible sequels—can’t the story just end there as a single, stand-alone installment? Though, I blame myself for needing to write something worthy of the label “wholesome,” I was inspired because of the following reasons:

• As a writer, I need to diversify what I can possibly write. The reason I put quotations around “wholesome” is because the idea of it is so alien and bizarre—what is this “wholesome” that I hear about?
• On a similar note: I’m too comfortable writing those angsty and edgy stories. Heck, a more major story I’m writing and planning to publish next, “Salaryman Yuuto” is one of the most angstiest stories I’ve ever written and I want to tone it down—I’m afraid I might come off as a sadist writer—so maybe if I write a “wholesome” piece, it would balance out. I need to stop killing off all my protagonists. Death is so edgy and angsty; it makes me want to listen to Radiohead or Deftones, System of a Down even. 
• As of writing this note on October 15, I began reading The Goodbye Cat by Hiro Arikawa (currently on page 90, lovely book) and I thought to myself, why is this book so “wholesome?” Why do I feel relaxed reading this? which prompted me to realize that’s the kind of story I want to write next.

With these statements being made, I planned to write something new and I hope I was able to achieve “wholesome” in this story.

The story begins something like this:

“A peculiar man in his thirties” Why are we beginning the story like this? Just roll with it, just roll with it.

“A peculiar man in his thirties. He owned a pet cat.”

I found myself in a stop. Why does he own a cat? What purpose does the cat have? What does the cat symbolize? Death? I ended up being edgy and told myself that the cat represented death after the ancient Egyptian gods and such. How’s that “wholesome?” just roll with it, just roll with it. 

A peculiar man in his thirties owned a pet cat. The cat’s name was Bastet—after the man’s favorite Egyptian god, Bastet, a cat-headed deity that materialized protection and good health. The owner of Bastet, the peculiar man, his name was Arthur. Arthur was an American archaeologist studying tombs and ancient hieroglyphs in Egypt who found the black cat—back then, a black kitten—alone in a cardboard box on the busy streets of Egypt. There was no collar, no owners, so he took the liberty of bringing the little fellow with him back to America. Fortunately for Arthur, airlines still didn’t give a damn about what you brought to the States, so a little dusty-nosed kitten was smuggled through Arthur’s pocket like Reece’s Pieces in a movie theater.

“Anything to declare, sir?” the slouching customs receptionist sluggishly asked.

“Nope, nothing,” Arthur replied with a smile.

Arthur was nearing his late twenties at the time and his wife, Beth, who was evolving into a fed-up medical practitioner, wasn’t just not happy about the critter being in their home.

“A cat! Really Arthur!? A cat!?” she shouted. “You smuggled a cat you found on the streets of Egypt!?”

“It’s a kitten actually.”

Beth immediately began driving “the cat” and now, “the husband” to the vet in her car after commanding that “the cat” was put inside a box since “the husband” could only find a KFC bucket from the night prior.

“I can not believe that you brought a damn cat from Egypt. Stop petting it! You’re going to get ticks!—NO! —Put it back down inside the box! I don’t want fleas to scatter around my car! I just washed it!”

“But baaaaaaaaa—” and several more whining a’s, “—aaaabbbeeee, Bastet wants out the box.”

“You named it!?” Beth said, letting one hand off the wheel to allow it to be animated. “You named it!? The cat’s not getting out of the box!”

The moment Beth parked the car at the vet, she let her index finger and thumb to smother her eyes as her palm covered her knelt face. A silent, painful but accepting oh god. Beth exited the car and Arthur followed her to the receptionist desk.

“My husband found a cat…“

“A kitten,” Arthur chirped.

“…a cat on the streets and we’d like to test for any viruses.”

To the amazement of Arthur and to the displeasure of Beth, the tests were negative, and Bastet was let into the Cunningham family. On the drive back, Arthur carried the kitten between his arms, watching the little thing in awe.

“Deity of good health. . .” astonishingly murmured Arthur.

Beth, as surprising as it might seem, was a dog person. She was so much a dog person that she hated cats. She hated cats and their dumb, pretentious faces. But truth be told, Beth had her reasons. When she was a little kid, she had a puppy named Ferdinand, after one of her favorite Disney animations as a child. Though Beth was the shy, self-reserved sort of kid, the golden retriever was a tail-wagger, excited for their walks—abrupt runs, really. It was this abruptness that Beth once appreciated that led to her hatred of cats. One walk, when neither was a kid or a pup, a cat sporting a red collar pounced from the streets. The cat had scratched Beth, but that was all really, a scar on the shin. However, sweet ol’ Ferdinand saw red and killed that cat. A loud screech led a white van being called over and a helpless Beth on her bleeding knee, hands over her face.

Now at home, Beth’s fingers pressed onto her forehead, trying to stretch out her furrowed brows above her shut eyes.

“I don’t get why you brought that cat here. Cats cost a lot to maintain, y’know. And I’m the one paying for your cat’s medical bills.”

She saw Bastet, a blind little kitten, inch towards her food bowl. Beth saw Bastet’s tiny, petite nose twitch from the stenchy, warm, canned tuna that Arthur excavated from the kitchen cabinet, and began gnawing the edges of her bowl. Arthur began giggling.

“Your cat’s an idiot.”

“Whaaat?” Arthur gasped with his eyes wide. “Don’t call her an idiot! Not in front of her ears.”

Arthur gave Beth his typical puppy-eyed pout, to which she hissingly scoffed at, ugh, momentarily looking at the ceiling and rolling her eyes. 

Throughout the weeks, Arthur catered for “the cat“ and Beth, who stood in the corner of Arthur’s eyes, stalked. Though Arthur was playful with Bastet, Bastet was graceful, like Beth was, just without the tempered angst. Her constant bickering at how Arthur raised “the cat” showed that much. The cat’s nails are too long. The cat’s being fed too much. Keep the cat inside the cage at night. Eventually, Beth got fed up and stopped reminding Arthur of these things, but ended up having to pay two thousand dollars when the cat’s nails grew inwards. Bastet was wailing about it all week.

Beth was drinking her decaf coffee on the living sofa and was staring at the lame and useless Bastet. Ugh, if only the cat was a dog.