I dug through the things in my Dropbox after rebooting my computer, so I’ll be posting a few things from there while I’m busy with midterms.
There’s a, um, a cat. The cat sits in a chair. The chair is bigger than the cat, but not too much bigger. It’s roughly cat-sized in both available surface area and ability to support weight. Maybe it can support much more weight, but we’ll never know until something heavier than the cat tries to sit on it.
Anyway, it’s fortunate for the cat, the chair, the chair’s owner, and the cat’s owner that the chair is big enough. Had it not been, I mean, shit, do you expect the cat to care? Trial and error would leave the cat comfortable somewhere else, but that chair would be ruined forever.
The cat is licking its front paws. It has, uh, something on them. It could be blood. It’s probably blood. The cat is a natural-born killer. Most of the time it kills small creatures it finds when it sneaks out at night.
I’m tired of this “it” business. The cat’s name is Mittens.
Most of the time Mittens kills small creatures he finds when he sneaks out at night, but, in feline dreams, he kills larger prey. Other cats. Great Danes. Humans. Horses. Once, a dinosaur. Dream Mittens cannot be stopped.
He’s licking blood off of his front paws. Specifically his right front paw. The left front paw also has blood on it, but it’s questionable whether Mittens has noticed. That should tell you what a natural-born killer he is, not even noticing blood on his paw. He takes pride in those paws the way a prize fighter takes pride in his, I don’t know, pectorals, except instead of doing tricks with them to impress ladies (ha, “prizes”) at parties, Mittens does tricks with his paws to murder, and the blood on his left paw still hasn’t attracted his attention.
He pays great attention to his task. It is, after all, his right paw, and he is a right pawed feline.
There is, in addition to the cat, the chair, the paws, the blood, and the callous unconcern, a corpse. The corpse lies in front of the chair in a pool of blood, kind of. The corpse once lay in front of the chair in a pool of blood, but the blood has dried, leaving a filled outline of a pool of blood in red, blood red, specifically, with tinges of rust. The blood on Mittens’ paws originally was blood inside the corpse doing blood things, like circulating, keeping the corpse’s (then not a corpse of course, but how else should we call it?) brain well fed with oxygen, inadvertently transporting pathogens to different parts of the corpse’s body. It was fairly effective blood, as far as blood goes, but outside the corpse the only thing it could do was get on Mittens’s paws.
The corpse was, when alive, the owner of the cat, the chair, but not the paws, but also the blood on the paws, but not the particular callous unconcern having to do with the blood on Mittens’s left paw (but some other callous unconcern). This story is not a fight-the-power parable. Mittens was not responsible for the corpse. Mittens was only on his way to the chair and there happened to be blood on the ground between Mittens and his destination. He could have walked around it, but I think we’ve discussed that he is a natural-born killer, and thus a little blood did not faze him. With time on his paws, he was unconcerned about cleaning same before his night out with his lady cat friend.
Having finished his task, Mittens stood up, leaped over the corpse and now dry blood puddle, and left. He had a date, after all.
Since stories are supposed to have morals, here is a moral: not every cat with blood on his paws is a killer, or at least not every cat with blood on his paws killed the original source of the blood on his paws.