From: wolffrnd@starburst.umd.edu (The Wolf Friend)
Newsgroups: alt.suicide.holiday
Subject: Mau No More
Summary: True dark humor story about a cat that died
Keywords: story, black humor
Date: 9 Nov 92 02:28:58 GMT


This is actually a true story.  If anyone knows of a magazine that publishes
stuff like this, I would deeply appreciate the reference; it's not exactly
something an ordinary cat magazine would care to print. :)
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                           Mau No More

                               By

                       Kathleen Santangelo

                        (Copyright 1990)

	As I stood in the veterinarian's office, holding the large
green plastic garbage sack, I ruefully thought to myself that some
cats were just too exotic to be practical.  Sadly I laid the sack
down on the floor, and although I tried to be gentle the bottom
made contact with a sharp thud, like a brick striking cement.  The
waiting room had fallen strangely quiet since the moment I entered,
all eyes fastened on the sack with morbid fixation, as they
clutched their own pets closer.  It was usually a cheerful, lively
place, full of banter and conversation, but the moment I entered
the focal point had become my sack.  It bulged strangely at the
bottom, containing a stiff round object which was shaped like an
oversized cookie tin.  Out on the street, it wouldn't have merited
a second glance.  In there though, everybody knew better than to
think I had chocolate chips in the sack, and they shifted
uncomfortably in their seats, eyeing me warily.
	Seven months before I had purchased a beautiful Egyptian Mau
kitten, smoke colored with black spots like an ocelot.  I named him
Star Pirate, and he did indeed act like a little pirate at times. 
He was very affectionate, at least with me, though he didn't care
for strangers.  Among his special traits was an ability to meow
in sync; I would say "Mau!" and he would reply "Mau!", in perfect
rhythm, time after time.  His sense of timing was as flawless as
any drummer in a rock group.  Moreover, he spoke just like his name
is pronounced, instead of saying "meow" like an ordinary cat.  He
was a demon to give a bath, and once bit completely through my
fiance's thumb; another time, he leaped straight into the toilet
while my fiancee was using it.  I'm not sure who was more shocked
at the time, my fiancee or the cat.  
	Overall he had been a wonderful cat, and brought me great joy. 
However, he was a very rare breed, and this may have contributed
to his early demise; he died of fluid in the lungs and a liver so
small at birth that it wasn't big enough to support a gerbil.  I
had rushed him to the animal hospital, but they told me there was
nothing they could do, and he had died in the spare bedroom curled
up in his catbed.  He looked strangely peaceful in death, and if
it wasn't for the fact he was stiff as a board I would have thought
he was still alive.  I lived in an apartment, so I couldn't just
bury him outside, lest some neighborhood dog dig him back up again. 
Nor did I have the money for an expensive burial in a pet cemetary. 
Admittedly, it might have been highly appropriate to enshrine an
Egyptian cat; but I personally thought cremation seemed like a more
fitting end.  Since I, like the average person, did not have
facilities for cremation aside from my oven--and that was
definitely out of the question--I had brought my dead cat to the
vet's office for disposal.
	As I stood there, curiously watching the other people stare
back at me with the same fascinated horror which people gawk at car
accidents, I decided that next time I would have to get a much
hardier and more common cat.  But at that moment, it seemed prudent
to get rid of my "cookie tin" before the entire waiting room got
up and left.  Some seemed almost resentful in their gaze, as if
they thought I'd killed it myself, while others simply pretended
it didn't exist, concerning themselves with petting Fluffy or Rover
instead.
	One small child, unaware of adult etiquette, inquired, "Mommy,
what's she got in the bag?"
	The mother quickly hushed the child, almost frantically, and
if it could be possible the waiting room fell even more silent. 
I moved forward again in line, not sure whether to laugh at the
scene my sack was creating or cry for the pet I had lost, but in
the end simply remaining quiet like everyone else.  For some reason
there is nothing like a dead pet in a garbage sack to kill
conversation; the only thing worse would be bringing a corpse into
a doctor's office full of sick patients.
	The attendents had noticed my burden by now, and having been
informed by phone that I'd be bringing the little body over, they
hurried me to the front of the line ahead of everyone else.  I
wouldn't have minded waiting my turn, but they seemed strangely
anxious to get me taken care of, and had someone quickly bring the
bag behind their counter, out of sight.  With amazing alacrity,
they wrote up my kitty disposal fee and thrust a receipt at me,
defying all known physical laws of how fast a clerk can normally
move in the process.
	I left, mentally saying goodbye to my soon-to-be cremated cat,
and resisted the impulse to say, "All right, everyone can start
talking again now."
	Some cats are just too rare to be practical.
Newsgroups: alt.suicide.holiday