Andrew Mackay - Infinity Claws

An illustration of a cat showed up on the screen. The woman pointed her stick and the body.

“In order to facilitate a smooth and painless process, we ask that you have your cat’s documentation ready for the weigh-in. We would like to remind you of the following eligibility rules.”

Emily nudged her son and pointed at the screen. “Jamie, poppet. Listen to the lady.”

“Okay, mom.”

“One, your cat must be female,” the voice announced.

“Yes, she is,” Jamie said.

“Two, she must be between three and five years of age.”

“Yes,” Jamie whispered to himself. “She’s three-years-old.”

“Three,” continued the woman on the screen, “She must weigh between five and ten pounds.”

Jamie jumped around, giddy with excitement. If he were playing solely by the entrance rules, Jelly would win instantly.

“Yes.”

“Four. Your cat must not have any ailments, debilitations or injuries of any kind.”

Emily couldn’t resist smiling at her son’s moment of joy. Jamie was beside himself with glee.

The overwhelming sense of victory was aided by dozens of people leaving the line with their pets.

“Imagine that,” Emily muttered as she watched the disappointed men, women and families leave the venue. “Turning up and not knowing the rules? I mean, it’s not as if the commercials didn’t specify.”

“Look at all the people leaving, mom,” Jamie said.

Not everyone disembarked, however. The line was still plenty healthy with people all desperate to get their pets into the trials proper.

Just behind the weigh-in counter a sliding door allowed the successful participants into the preparation chamber. From the tunnel, it was impossible to see what lay beyond that door.

The feeling was that of waiting to ride an extraordinary ghost train.

“Okay, next please,” said the man by the scale pod.

Emily and Jamie stepped forward.

His little eyes lit up in full admiration of the ceramic plate. Two side vents blew the spent fur and detritus from the previous feline occupant into the air and into a nearby vacuum.

“Here she is,” Emily placed the cage onto the panel and opened the gate.

“Thank you, madam,” the scale man said and turned to his keyboard. “Name?”

“Jelly Anderson.”

“Thank you,” he punched the data into the computer. “Age?”

“Three years and one month,” Emily took out a paper and handed it to the man.

“Thank you, one moment please.”

Jamie stepped over to the cage and offered Jelly his hand. “Come on, Jelly. Let’s get you weighed.”

Jelly didn’t want to come out. It wasn’t until she saw her owner’s smiling, cherub-like face, that she finally relented.

“Thanks, son,” the scale man looked up from the terminal. “Just lead her onto the ceramic edges.”

“Okay.”

The man giggled to himself. “She’s very obedient. I’m sure that will help.”

Jelly exited the cage and made her way onto the ceramic scales, aided by her friend. A beautiful, dark orange house cat. Not a blemish.

Even the scale operator took a moment to look at Jelly’s face. Her bright orange eyes were something of a wonder, and exceptionally unique.

“Cute cat,” he said, double-taking and looking at Emily. “Can I have your address, telephone number, and status, please?”

As Emily gave her details, Jelly followed Jamie’s hand as he moved it to the scales.

In USARIC’s infinite wisdom, the two scales faced one another from opposite sides of the tunnel.

It meant that the cats on each scale had a perfect direct line of vision of each other. It felt combative way before the trials even started.

On the opposite scale was a mother and father with their son, around Jamie’s age.

The sweaty warmth in the tunnel didn’t help matters much. Ventilation wasn’t a top priority. The other family’s cat seemed like it might not pass the weigh-in, looking as it did like a fat snowball with fur and two beady little eyes.

“Ugh, that’s one ugly cat,” Jamie whispered to himself and turned back to Jelly. “Hey, girl.”

“Meow,” Jelly said and sat perfectly still in the middle of the scale.

The four-digit panel above beamed to life and ran through a series of numbers as it adjusted itself to Jelly’s weight.

“Okay, here we go,” the scale man said, watching the numbers slow down to a crawl. The ceramic plate sunk a few millimeters and rested into position.

The panel lit up with the final score – 3.88 kg – with a triumphant fanfare ringing around the device.

“Ta-daa,” the man said, much to Emily and Jamie’s excitement. “That’s perfect.”

A hefty buzzer sounded off from the adjacent end of the tunnel. The flabby ball of fur failed its weigh-in, clocking in at nearly twice the weight of Jelly. The final result flashed in red above the scale.

“Sorry, son,” the other scale operator said to the disappointed young lad who had burst into tears. “Maybe next time.”

Jamie watched the boy launch into a tantrum. He stomped his foot to the ground and pointed at his furry blob of uselessness. “I hate you! I hate you! You’re too fat, you stupid cat!”

‘Hey,’ Jamie shouted from across the tunnel. “Don’t call her that.”

The boy turned to Jamie and scowled. “Shut up.”

“Don’t call your cat names. They know when you’re being mean to them.”

“I don’t care,” the boy ran off in a flood of tears, leaving his parents to persuade the fluffy cloud of blubber back into its cage.

Jamie turned back to Jelly to find her licking her paws as if she was the queen of the universe. “Come on, girl. Back in your little house.”

Jamie ushered Jelly back into her cage. He’d seen scores of other families having to push their own cats backwards by the head.

Not with Jelly. Obediently, she gracefully obliged her owners and settled into the cage. Jamie took a moment to digest the wonder of his little feline friend.

She was a year younger than Jamie. They’d seen the world together. Grew up together. Eaten, lived, and laughed together.

The cage bolted shut.

“That’s great, Mrs. Anderson,” the scale operator held out his hand to the sliding screen on the far wall. “If you’d like to make your way into the preparation chamber, we can begin.”

“Excuse me, sir?” Jamie asked.

“Yes, young man?”

“What happens in the preparation chamber?”

“Oh, it’s nothing to worry about. It’s where Jelly will get ready to participate in the events.”

“Thank you,” Emily picked up Jelly’s cage and nodded Jamie out of the room. “Come on, poppet.”

“Yes, mom.”

The pair walked toward the sliding doors, and into the preparation chamber.

“Welcome to the Preparation Chamber,” came a soothing female voice as Emily and Jamie walked through the door. “Your allocated booth is marked on the slip attached to your cat’s cage.”

“What number are we, poppet?”

Jamie looked at the slip. “Eighteen, mom.”

One hundred marked booths lined the walls in the vast space.

Quad One, to their immediate right, held booths one through twenty-four. Quad Two, twenty-five through forty-nine, and so on.

A technician dressed in a silver suit approached the pair. “Hello, there. Number?”

“Eighteen.”

Jamie marveled at the set-up. The place was heaving with people of all shapes and sizes being greeted by technicians and making their way to the allocated booths.

The stench of cat was almost as tremendous as their wails for freedom.

Rattling cages.

The occasional hiss from one cat when it spotted another.