Have You Seen My Cat?

For the first time in human history, my landlord called with good news. My cat, who had somehow escaped after two months’ tenure, was safely captured in a possum trap behind the building’s dumpster.
On my way home from work I bought a six pack of beer for the maintenance guy who found me pacing outside the building and kindly offered to set the trap. He wore a cowboy hat at all times and was generally disinclined to help with my sink, shower, and dishwasher. I got the sense he found my lack of handiness unmanly. My tale of a lost kitty, however, moved him to immediate, and eventually successful, action. I owed him something.
The Cowboy was waiting for me by the door, a towel thrown over the have-a-heart trap like a magician’s cloak. I proffered the six-pack and he said,
“I don’t drink.”
I apologized. Sweat through my shirt. Should I give him cash? I didn’t carry cash.
He told me to bring the trap back when I was done.
I released Tigger into the apartment with the same feeling of triumph I got watching videos of park rangers rewilding once-injured animals. Tigger shot out and was under the bed before I could blink. That was fine, even if the past three anxiety-riddled days left me wanting nothing more than to smush my face into his orange tabby bulk.
By the time I was done with dinner and the dishes, he was loafing in his usual spot on the couch. I joined him and asked what he wanted to watch. He looked past me to the kitchen where another orange tabby stared back at him.
Did my cat mitosis?
Neither animal appeared alarmed. The second one sauntered over and took a seat on my other side. I could not tell which one was Tigger and which was the doppelganger. Had The Cowboy somehow caught two twin cats? Doubtful, since Tigger and this cat were both what the vet dourly described as “Getting There” in size, and the possum trap was a squeeze for even one.
No, surely Tigger had just been hiding beyond my sight for three days, and I’d just introduced an interloper of approximate similar size and color. Except that was insane too, because I lived in a one-bedroom and these cats were identical. Neither bore any signs of an outdoor sojourn—cuts, mange, dirt: nothing.
One of them would have to go.
I opened a can of disgusting chicken pate, and both boys moseyed over to the food bowl. Instead of fighting, they chomped away at the slimy hockey puck from opposite ends, Lady and the Tramp-ing it to the middle.
They rejoined me on the couch and waited for the HBO dramas to start.
I gave up trying to determine who was the changeling and who was my special little boy. Maybe they were long lost brothers, and this new arrival had been caught sniffing around his brother’s home. Maybe it was a miracle. I simply had two cats now. Perhaps this was how every Cat Lady began.
I didn’t really notice at first, but over the course of a month, one cat got Bigger.
Size of a Labrador big. Winter had set in, and the cats were growing their seasonal coats, it was only normal. The bigger one wasn’t eating more than the other. He had to be the new one, right? Except he accepted chin scratches only in the exact spot Tigger always had.
I thought about taking him to the vet, but he had outgrown the cat carrier. When I came home with a dog crate big enough, he was the size of a pony at the county field days. He hid under the kitchen table, as though the checkered cloth hanging two inches off the edge rendered him invisible. The smaller cat did not regard him any differently.
That same night, I exchanged the dog crate for a harness and leash. Of course, by the time I got back he was too big for that. In all this coming and going, I wasn’t keeping close track of the regular-sized cat, and he must’ve slipped out again, because when I returned with a saddle, bit, and bridle, my massive cat was alone.
I consulted with The Cowboy. He rolled his eyes. Couldn’t believe I’d lost the cat again. Said he’d put out the trap nonetheless.
Back in my apartment, The Big Cat was lying atop the splintered remains of the couch. His tail was wrapped around the skirt—failing to conceal the damage. I fed him can after can of Fancy Feast. Reclined into his mass and turned on the TV.
“You still have to use the litter box.”
I moved it out of the bathroom and into the corner of the living room.
He obliged, but in the morning I had to take the entire thing to the dumpster.
The possum trap was back, tripped, but empty.
Big Cat—I had to call him Big Cat even if he was Tigger because sometimes things have to outgrow their names—maxed out. Too big to fit through any doorway. He lay around all day and night, groomed himself, ate pâté, and produced prodigious cinderblocks of scat.
When I tried to go to work his mewls were so thunderous and pathetic, I started calling in sick. I only went out to collect the boxes of cat food piling up by the front door. I slept in the crook of his belly because I couldn’t get to my bedroom anymore. It was nice, but also lonely. I couldn’t invite any of my friends over because someone would surely call animal control and I was pretty certain I was the only person Big Cat wouldn’t consume in self-defense.
The sink got backed up because no matter how well I kept up with brushing, his fur got everywhere. I couldn’t call The Cowboy to come fix it, so I watched YouTube tutorials that didn’t help, until he came knocking because water had started to leak into my downstairs neighbor’s place.
Through the slightly cracked door I asked if he’d found my cat.
He held up his toolkit as evidence to the contrary.
“Could you come back later? It’s just not a good time right now.”
He assured me that time was of the essence. I let him in and expected the Little Shop of Horrors scene to play out. He ducked into the kitchenette, got underneath the sink and spent twenty minutes cleaning shit out of the grease trap, then a few more resealing a hairline fracture in the pipe, and then he was gone again. I looked over to Big Cat, who did not appear at all surprised.
I said, “I’m imagining you,” but that did not banish Big Cat.
I called what friends I had left and invited them over to watch some show’s season finale. I promised six packs and snacks.
Everyone arrived and one by one they fell in love with Big Cat. They texted their friends, and said you’ve got to come see this, and soon there were so many people at my apartment, the TV forgotten and everyone clambering all over Big Cat’s belly as though it were a Chuck E. Cheese’s Ball Pit. Big Cat soaked up all the attention, accepted chin scratches with a rake someone brought from outside. No one could get enough of Big Cat. They asked me his diet, his grooming routine, and his social media handles. I said he wasn’t on the internet because I didn’t want him to get a big head. My friends said I was leaving good money on the table.
Only when Big Cat took a shit the size of a newborn giraffe did the crowd find reasons to head home. Alone, I dragged the doozie of a dookie to the dumpster, where I found The Cowboy smoking a cigarette.
“Thought you lost your cat again.”
“I found him.”
“Oh, good.”
“Do you want to meet him?”
“We’ve already been introduced.”
“He’s gotten really big.”
“It’s a cat.”
“I think maybe you caught the wrong one.”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Like too big.”
“Feed him less.”
“That’s cruel.”
The Cowboy shrugged. He did not strike me as a cruel person, and I wondered if I struck him as one. Could I really maintain Big Cat’s quality of life?
Friends kept trying to come over after the party. They offered new boardgames, beverages, and in one particular instance their body. I knew they only wanted Big Cat, so I feigned illness, busyness, and uncleanliness.
I told Big Cat, “I resent you,” and he blinked at me slowly, which the internet told me was how cats smile/kiss/say, “I Love You.”
I fed him less. I starved Big Cat, hoping he would shrink.
He stayed the same size, and radiated a sadness so potent I woke up sobbing in sympathy.
“I can’t feed you anymore.” I’d lost my job and the unemployment checks were too slim.
One morning I looked out the window to see my friends picnicking at a park across the street. They waved and invited me to join. Slices of cheddar sweating on a handmade cutting board atop a gingham blanket someone’s grandmother had gifted them. Brown bags barely concealing bottles of cheap wine. I waved back and said I had a cold. I’m sure I looked a mess.
The next week my friends were back with protest signs. Their cause? Animal cruelty. They demanded I release Big Cat. He was a gift from God, and to keep him shuttered away from the world was an evil thing. There was no way for Big Cat to get out, the doors all too small, and his legs had surely atrophied, unused beneath his weight.
I told them their demands were unreasonable, and they said contractors had already volunteered to intervene. My landlord had signed off too. The lease did not allow for animals over 120 pounds. I argued that no one was sure Big Cat was over 120 pounds as they could not find a scale to properly weigh him. This technicality did not deter action. They removed the roof of my apartment building, and secured a harness around Big Cat’s belly—the same technology utilized when airlifting orcas at SeaWorld. A crane carried him out over the assembled crowd. His girth eclipsed the sun. People cheered.
Two helicopters carried him to the zoo, where he was placed in an enclosure once reserved for a family of snow leopards who had all caught herpes from each other and died.
The zoo had never seen so much business. There was a year-long waitlist to visit Big Cat.
I applied to work there. Didn’t get the job.
I bought a ticket and when it was my turn I muscled my way to the front and beheld his hugeness, curled scallop-like, asleep.
I told the child next to me, “That’s my cat.”
The child’s parent shot me a dirty look, and covered their kid’s ears.