Cotton is our neighbour’s cat. And she’s a demon. And I love her. She’s grey, and has the fluffiness of a
Persian, without any of that flat-faced indignation. And she’s a ball of unadulterated rage.
It would be safe to say that there’s something very wrong
with her. Or at least the aggression
part of her brain has been painstakingly sharpened into a blade of charming
malice. Cotton will fight anything. Dogs, trees, rocks. . .anything. We come home to her engaging in
tireless battle with the decorative stones in our front yard. This is even more disconcerting, when you
take into account that she is the same color as the stones, like she’s out to
eradicate all imposters, regardless of creed or animal-status.
She seems to regard her fluffiness same way Napoleon felt
about his height. She jealously
guards her fluffy fur by arming herself in prickly burrs. Never pet her if you want to keep your hand
in tact, and you must never, never pick her up by her middle. Her once soft underbelly is just a minefield of
fur and burrs.
She has no sense of personal space. Late one night, you’ll be in your house,
wondering what to do with your life, and you’ll hear a soft jingling sound.
You’ll continue analyzing and re-analyzing that awkward social-interaction you
had weeks ago, without realizing the jingling is getting louder. Finally, the jingling is a pounding at your
door and lo, Cotton has infiltrated your house, giving you a look of bubbling
ferocity, like she’s caught you burglaring her house.
Cotton comes and goes as she pleases. Sometimes she’ll disappear for weeks, and
we’ll worry she finally tried to fight the ocean or that she was crushed by a
boulder, and then she’ll just appear on our second story porch, taunting the
dog.
And sometimes, I see her stalking around the neighborhood
covered in bright chalk. I’m not sure
why, but I guess that’s what demons do after they’ve successful terrorized a
neighborhood.
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