“Stupid cat,” I mutter as I yank my hand back, inspecting it for blood.
Thankfully it is clear. No puncture wounds. No trip to A&E.
My assailant jumps down from the wall and sprints back down the garden path, disappearing onto the road like nothing happened.
I pick up the temporary cat food bowl and throw it into the recycling bin.
It has been like this for a month now. Every day. Sometimes twice.
She just appears.
A little fluffy white and grey cat. Small. A bit overweight. She yells for food, meowing until I give in and put some out. Then she eats and vanishes. Sometimes she lets me fuss her. Sometimes she hisses. On bad days she takes a swing. She is only friendly when food is imminent.
She is not even mine. I call her Tiny, but she is not my cat.
I do not know who owns her. I keep seeing posts on Facebook and local forums about people going missing. I wonder, briefly, if her owners are among them.
Probably nonsense. Those groups are full of nutters making things up for attention.
Still, here I am, feeding a cat that barely tolerates me.
The next day she shows up while I am taking the bins out.
Yowling. Loud. Demanding.
I ignore her.
The yowling gets worse.
“You are not my cat,” I tell her.
She moves to the exact spot where I usually put the food and sits down.
“No,” I say.
She grumbles and jumps onto the stone wall beside the door.
Maybe she just wants attention, I think. I extend my hand.
She hisses and bolts.
Figures. She will be back later to harass me for food.
But she does not come back.
It gets late. Proper night. No sign of her.
Good, I think. Maybe she has gone home. Maybe her owners came back.
Then I hear something from the back garden.
There is no path back there, so I cut through the living room and open the French doors.
Something is standing in my garden.
It is taller than me. Black, but not solid. Its edges blur and ripple, like smoke trapped in a shape. The outline suggests a dog. Or a wolf. Or something meaner. Every instinct in me screams to run, to slam the doors shut and lock them.
Something in me recognises it.
I start to back away. It has not seen me yet. It is facing the fence, looming over the corner of the yard. I can still escape. Call for help. Be safe.
Then I hear it.
A pitiful meow.
The creature shifts. Between its four legs I see her. Tiny. Cornered. Pressed against the fence. The thing lowers its head, mouth opening. It looks canine now, unmistakably so, and I swear it is smiling.
Tiny hisses and cries, switching between defiance and terror.
Mean cat. Always stubborn. Always fighty.
She is not my cat, I tell myself.
I scan the garden.
She scratches me. She hates me. She only wants food. She is not my cat, I say again.
I grab the shovel from the flower bed.
She is not my cat.
Tiny sees me. Her eyes are wide, terrified.
She is not my cat.
I raise the shovel.
“GET AWAY FROM MY CAT,” I scream, bringing it down as hard as I can on the creature’s neck.
