Matilda the Mad

The cat came with the house. The cat came, possessed by demons, with the house.

She was a normal, scrawny tabby and white alley cat, and she came with the house. She purred affectionately, ate copiously, and would occasionally erupt into madness and possession by a demon, all teeth and claws. She was, in short, stark, raving bonkers.

We had named her "Matilda," before we all started sporting welts and scratches. It was voted, among the tenants, that the cat had to go. It was also voted that I should be the one to make it so.

I called the proper shelter, and was told to "bring her in." This was in the days before cat carriers, and well before I ever owned a car. I found a friend of a friend who had a car, who agreed (reluctantly) to transport the cat to the shelter.

So there we were, me and the cat, in the back seat of this nice person's nice car, and the damn demon decided it was time to appear. The cat exploded in a whirling dervish of razors, while simultaneously exuding bodily semi-fluids from any available orifice in a peculiarly projectile manner.

In short, she made a mess. After the trip to the shelter, I spent several hours cleaning out the car, under the exacting and disapproving gaze of the car's owner.

I gotta tell ya; that'll spoil your day.

And, to add insult to injury, the damn cat came back! She showed up in her usual spot on the back porch, sending me to the phone to ask the shelter volunteer just WHY the cat came back. Her elucidating answer was, "Gee...it must've got away..."

Right. I know what happened. She was possessed at an opportune time, and scratched the hell out of somebody, who proceeded to let her go.

She lived out her days with us, and we kept an uneasy distance from each other. Never again did I attempt to transport her anywhere by car.