Beth sat on the couch, fluttering a feather toy as if it were a dog’s tail. Bastet laxly pawed the feather 1, 2, 3 then stepped the other way in pretentious defiance. Ugh, so rude. Beth scooped up Bastet from beneath its lazy limbs. She softly groomed Bastet’s fur with her hands as Bastet laid on her lap. There was a purr, but not as warm as when Arthur pets Bastet. Still, the black-haired woman of Arthur’s life sat on the couch.
“Why couldn’t you have been a dog?” Beth muttered.
That day, like each and every day, had been full of childish moments. Beth woke up to Bastet’s humbly loud yawns and sighs. Arthur! Don’t let the cat sleep here! You’ll be rewarding its misbehavior! In Beth’s eyes, Arthur, a klutz, had forgotten to fully close the bedroom door and Bastet snuck through. To Beth’s alarm, Arthur pretended to be sound asleep, thumb in mouth, hugging Bastet as if she were his own teddy bear. Infuriated, Beth decided to just allow it; she turned the other cheek and furrowed the blanket towards her.
Beth slept longer than usual after that and woke up to a spilled cup of water on her side of the nightstand, some protector, Beth thought. She heaved her body from bed and put on her bedroom slippers, tied her hair and washed her face, brushed her teeth and rinsed it out. She didn’t have work that Wednesday morning, but kept herself to the morning time discipline. She returned back to the bed, set the pillows to the side before evening the bed covers and tucked in the blankets, removed any pockets of air—and remnants of cat hairs on Arthur’s side of the bed—God, this cat. Her final touch was to then set the pillows in symmetrical fashion.
Beth walked downstairs to the kitchen and caught Arthur slowly fitting a diaper onto Bastet as if the diaper were a tight pair of pants that needed extra effort to put on. Beth’s eyes furrowed.
“What are you doing!?” Beth shouted. “Where did you even get the diaper from?! It looks ugly on the cat, take it off!”
Arthur frowned and begged, “But my baby needs pants!”
On the kitchen counter was a tuna sandwich with bites that vary in small pecks and chomps. Arthur gave up pulling the diaper further up the cat’s body and presented the tuna sandwich up to Bastet’s mouth. Bastet hastily began nibbling on the sandwich.
“Are you serious Arthur? We cannot be feeding the cat tuna everyday!”
“But cat kibble is so nasty! I hear they use horses in the ingredients. I bet Bastet prefers nice fresh tuna over dead horse, don’t you, Bastet?”
Arthur spoke with his exaggerated babying voice to Bastet that annoyed Beth. She already knew that Arthur was like a child, she didn’t have to hear it. Beth looked away and saw that the clock’s hour hand was due west.
“Arthur, it’s nine, you’re late for work.”
Arthur, in his Superman pajamas, opened his eyes and he gallantly rushed to the bedroom door and immediately returned with proper clothes. He pecked a kiss on Beth’s cheek and chirped an I love you before going outside.
Later that day, when Bastet laid on Beth’s lap, the front door opened and Bastet leapt from Beth’s lap and began to purr at Arthur’s shoes. Bastet closed her eyes and warmly sighed. Arthur leaned down to pick up Bastet like a wee baby in his arms and sat down on the couch. He stuck his index finger out as if he were playing with a wee baby, softly poking Bastet’s nose. Though Bastet was five years old, 36 in cat years, Arthur cuddled, smothered the kitten with attention. He sat on his armchair, rocking the cat back and forth, endearingly tilting his head as he did so.
Seven years later, there was one rainy night Beth awoke from her sleep, still in black garments from yesterday’s long, exhausting day. It was Bastet, she was crying. Beth rolled out from the middle of her double-size bed before stepping out of her bedroom. The hallway was dark, so she turned on the dim lights that Arthur was going to—was supposed to change. Beth wiped her dry eyes as she stepped downstairs. Poor cat had a nightmare. Beth gently picked up Bastet from the cold, empty kitchen counter and laid the cat down onto the rug floor. She brushed the cat’s head with her fingers. Shh shh shh, it’s okay. I’m here. Arthur was on his couch, peacefully—secretly—watching the two bond. Beth thought of what Arthur would’ve said to the cat—his annoying chipmunk-like baby voice—and tried to imitate it. Her attempt made her seem like a copycat, but it was appreciated by Bastet whose cries became coos. Beth allowed the cat to sleep on Arthur’s side of the bed that night.
A few weeks later, Arthur sat on his couch, awaiting for his cat. A dead cat lay on the living room floor.
“I’m… I don’t know what to say,” Arthur whimpered to Beth. “Bestet, she’s. . .”
“It’s okay, I hate cats.”
It’s okay, I hate cats. A hand covered her mouth and her eyes were watery. It’s okay, I hate cats. She thought of the little nose twitch Bastet had, how Bastet chirped her meows, her hello’s. Arthur’s hand laid on Beth’s shoulder. Dumb cat. Dumb, idiot cat. Beth’s voice became a quiver.
“Dumb cat!” she whispered and twitched.
She’s a surgeon, she’s seen death. Beth slowly, yet feebly picked up Bastet and laid Bastet on her lap. She moved her shaky fingers down the black cat’s fur. The silky serenity. Her smooth fingers felt cool smoothness. Beth’s lungs went from exasperated to exhausted.
“Dumb cat,” she whispered. “Watch over Arthur for me, will you? Guard him, Bastet, deity of protection and good health.”
It may have been Beth’s imagination, but she heard a silent purr. Bastet rose and sprung into Arthur’s arms. Good girl! and Bastet delightfully rubbed her head against Arthur’s chest. Arthur sighed and gave a small smile. I haven’t seen you in a bit. Bastet gracefully leaped onto the ground and guided Arthur outside where the light was, The cat said her goodbye. Mreah-! A tear dried on Beth’s cheek, not needing to be wiped.
Beth soon packed up her things and left the once home of a witty professor, a medical practitioner, and a deity of protection and good health; The house was too big for a single person. She, a nostalgic person, sometimes talked to her peers about the misadventures in life: how Bastet would screech in the morning, when Arthur got fired from his archaeology job, when the two were partners in crime.
“Those were the days, when I’d wake up to some mayhem, some catastrophe; I really was living life.”
A/N: I admit it, I can’t avoid writing death in my stories. It’s an unfortunate habit, but maybe not an edgy ending. Cheers-
