“Pierson, please go check on the cat to make sure she doesn’t escape,” said my mom. “We don’t want her running across the table in the middle of Christmas dinner again.”
I took the steps two at a time for no reason other than my overabundance of energy, which only happened at home during the holidays. I knocked on my parents’ bedroom door and called out, “Chessieee,” but the mound of black fur did not stir from the back of the chair. The cat had been there since noon. “Fat piece of lard,” I muttered to myself. I was just about to poke the cat when I accidentally bumped the back cushion she occupied. The obese animal slid slowly down into the chasm.
I threw myself down the stairs. “MOOOOMMMMMM!” I somehow tripped over nothing as I slid into the kitchen. My two aunts and my mother were staring at me, completely bewildered. They stood there in festive but tacky Christmas sweaters adorned with crocheted reindeer and Santa Clauses with strange, empty eyes and disproportionate limbs. I suppose my aunts had coordinated; they both wore red acrylic readers with rhinestones and matching earrings that looked straight out of How The Grinch Stole Christmas movie. (I mean the original cartoon movie, not that creepy Jim Carrey one. Although I suppose I could have just meant the actual book.) Anyway, there they all were, waiting to pull the beef tenderloin out of the oven. After all, we had a dozen guests over.
“Mom, Mom, Mom,” I panted, even though I was hardly out of breath. “Mom, Chessie is literally dead.” I started to laugh uncontrollably. It wasn’t funny.
The gazes of my relatives intensified. I couldn’t stop my hysterical laughter. I didn’t find my poor pet’s death amusing—I suppose it was just the ridiculous fact that my cat had died on Christmas that made me lose it.
“Pierson, don’t be ridiculous. That cat isn’t dead.”
The shrill buzzer interrupted us, and the women rushed to pull out the pricey hunk of meat out of the oven. They slid the slab onto the stovetop, and my mom turned back to confront me. Just as she was about to say something, she hit the button that made the downdraft rise up out of the counter.
The beef tenderloin hit the floor with a slap. We all just stood there looking at it.
“Oh, it will be fine, we’ll just wash it off,” my mom said resignedly. “Beth, go take the dead cat from my bedroom and put it in a box in the garage.” My mother’s older sister wobbled away, unsteady on her red DSW kitten heels. She tried four different boxes before she could find one that fit the cat: it was so fat that we had to put it in the box for the tall riding boots I had received only earlier that morning.
I then offered to go tell my brother the tragic news. For some reason, we always said the cat was his, but in reality, I was the only one that ever cared about it. Quite honestly, he and the cat did not get along for various reasons, but I guess you can’t speak badly of the dead. I trudged down to the basement where my 12-year-old brother and his longtime girlfriend were, along with an assortment of our guests.
I made my way over to my brother, and he could easily tell something was off. We made prolonged eye contact.
“Bro, Chessie died,” I said comfortingly and placed a hand on his shoulder.
His eyes didn’t even widen. “Oh, I thought you were coming down to tell me that Grandma died. That’s fine.”
Now you may be asking yourself, “what on earth did I just read?” Well, this was all I had time to come up with, to be honest.
This has no intended higher significance. You may find some in it, but it was not intentional. The truth is that I wrote this for my Global Online Academy class in Creative Non-Fiction Writing, and I didn’t have time to come up with anything else because I’m so busy. Please, see William Denning’s article on busyness to further understand this concept.
If you’re a senior and you’re reading my article, I’m sure you can relate. If you’re not a senior, I’m still really proud of you for even reading this. And if any of you need to turn in a short story, feel free to use this and just add a few of your own details.