A Mad Mad Mad Monday Night
It was a Monday night, during the Summer 2016. I’d just made myself a wee brew and was sitting down to watch the fitba. England or Wales or suhin were playing. What was aboot tae happen put the fitba right out ma mind. So I get masel settled, feet up, fitba on. I have a wee glance oot the windae and see my next door neighbour walking along. “Aw naw.” I think. He’s heading my way. “Naw, don’t be silly.” I try tae tell myself. Then I see his head swivel like a wee owl to peek in the windae. And there I am, staring back out with ma tea in hand. Caught rotten. I’m in.
“Yer cat’s deid.” That’s what I’m greeted with when I open the door. Nae hello. Nothin. Just, “yer cat’s deid.” I stand there in silence. He says it again. “Aye, that’s yer cat deid in my drive there the now. Ye want tae come pick him up?”
Now, look, I’m nae Joe Exotic right? The stringy mullet and that wouldnae suit me. But I dae like ma wee cat. Part of the family ye know? So I’m a bit stunned. I hear my wife shout from the room, “What is it?” I struggle for the words, still trying to process it. Nae matter though, cos my friendly neighbour Florence Nightingale helps me. “THAT’S YER CAT DEID IN THE DRIVE, CAN WAN O YEEZ COME GET IT? I NEED TAE GET THE CAR OUT.”
A few minutes later, and we’ve went and got the cat, sure enough, looks like the wee fella has gone. We wrap him in a wee blanket and put him in a basket on the bed. My youngest son knows now and he’s raging. Gutted. I tell him not to worry, I’ll phone the vet, see if they can help.
“Poke his eye?” That’s what the vet says when I get through. Poke his eye. “Has he naw been through enough?” But no, we take the advice and poke his eye. Apparently it’s the cat equivalent of taking yer pulse. When nothing happens, the vet confirms that he’s gone. “Here’s something? I ask. He’s a lot smaller than I remember. Bit of a different colour as well, now I look at him.” “Aye,” the vet says. “They contract when they die and change colour cos of the blood.” Sorry I asked now. She asks me if there’s anything else I can help with, and I say no. One cat related tragedy is enough for one night.
By this point, my youngest son has turned into a bounty hunter outside in the street, looking for the car that got him. So I phone my eldest son. “Aye, listen, pal. We’ve got some bad news. It’s Ringo , mate. He’s gone. (Pause) “Look calm down.” He’s started greeting, I didnae realise he was at work. “Calm down, just come home when yer done and say-” he’s telt me to be quiet. I can hear him running and greeting. Christ, he’s speaking to his manager, family emergency I can hear him say. His manager says to go. Be with your family. I cannae believe he’s done that. “What are ye daen, if they find out it’s the cat you’ll get – look yer about to drive, ye need tae calm down. Stop greeting. Go get yer girlfriend and she can help ye get down the road. Calm doon – naw, there’s no such a thing as a cat paramedic Chris, there’s nothin we can dae.” And he’s away, in hysterics.
This is getting out o hand now. My other boy’s turned into a bounty hunter ootside and my wifes got the rosary beads out, saying a prayer, blessing the cat. It’s just no the kind of thing ye expect from a Monday night.
So anyway, my other boy and his partner arrive in record time, and he comes in, greeting and he faws to his knees. Which is mental cos the cat never really liked him that much tae be fair so I wasnae expecting this reaction. The cat woulndae be arsed wae all this really. I tell him to go in and say goodbye. His partner, she gives me a wee hug in the hall bless her. “He keeps asking for a cat paramedic,” she tells me. I shake my heid. “They don’t.
“That’s no oor cat”. Christ, he’s in denial. I go in the room. “That’s no our cat,” he says again. I put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. We’ve been through this son, I tell him. The vet says they change colour and contract when they die – which in hindsight sounds mental but I was dead serious at the time. “That is not our cat” he says again, adamant. Then all we hear, is my youngest boy outside scream. “RINGO”. Christ, this is going too far, I’ve got one in denial and one screaming the cats name havin a breakdown in the street. So we go out and check on him, expecting him to be on his knees an aw, and what do we see?
Ringo, wandering along the street. Alive. We run tae him, trying to get him in the house. We get him in. We are all crying happy tears now. “He’s alive, he’s alive.” It was like Easter Sunday in the hoose that night! Until we realised something….”who’s cat was that in the room?” Turns out it was the neighbour a few doors down. She came, said, “awk, she’s had hunners of deid cats, nae another one” and left wae the basket. We couldnae believe it. All on a Monday night.
If anyone asks me now, mind that time yer cat came back frae the dead? I can say aye. Ma wee Jesus cat. Never did get the basket or that cup of tea back though. But at least we got oor cat back.
Watch the story being told by the brilliant James Keenan as part of Short Attention Span Theatre’s May Monologues here.