Chuck Palahniuk - Doomed

The more I distanced myself in the exclusive company of my new kitten, the more my dad perused the photographs and the files of destitute orphans available for adoption. The more that I isolated myself, the more my mom surfed real estate listings on her notebook computer. Neither of them mentioned it, but despite their soy-based machinations, my stewardship of Tigerstripe resulted in a very fat little kitten. Feeding him appeared to make him happy, and making Tiger happy made me happy, and after only a couple of weeks of overfeeding, to carry him was like lugging around a Louis Vuitton anvil.

It wasn’t in Basel or Budapest or Boise, but one afternoon I came upon the doorway to a darkened screening room. It was in our house in Barcelona, and I was passing in the hallway when I saw the door was slightly ajar. From the darkness within, I heard a combination of caterwauls, an inharmonious duet like alley cats expressing their ardor. Holding my eye to the narrow opening where the door had not fully met its frame, I could see a writhing, paste-covered blob on the movie screen within. The squalling was that gelatinous creature, my infant self, clearly not happy to be delivered unto this harsh glare of lights, documentary filmmakers, and burning sage. And seated alone in the center of the otherwise empty seats was my mother.

She pressed a telephone to the side of her face as she watched that, the tiresome video of my new life beginning. Her shoulders shuddered. Her chest heaved. Inconsolably she sobbed, “Please listen to me, Leonard.” Her cheeks shining, she swiped at her tears with her free hand. “I know it’s her fate to die on her birthday, but please, don’t let my baby girl suffer.”

Gentle Tweeter,

Within days of my adopting him, Tigerstripe swelled as large as a popcorn ball, then swelled to the size of a brioche, feeling as spongy soft as homemade fudge. He had days before ceased going wee in his cat box. Likewise, his plaintive mewing stopped, so now I was compelled to cry in the manner of a ventriloquist, holding my lips fixed in a frozen rictus of a smile as I forged merry kitten sounds for my parents’ benefit.

In the comfort of Mexico City or Mumbai or Montreal, over a breakfast of raw tuna sashimi and shrimp ceviche and duck liver pâté, my puss-puss wouldn’t eat a bite. My mother and father surreptitiously watched my failing efforts to feed him, sneaking glances from behind their respective notebook computers while I placed my hideously swollen kitty on the breakfast table beside my plate and tempted him with succulent tidbits. To me, Tigerstripe represented my opportunity to shame them both. My care of him would demonstrate proper nonpagan, nonvegan, non-Reagan parenting skills. All of those past lives my mom and dad had brought to my upbringing, I’d eschew them. My strategy would be simply to lavish adoration on my kitty and raise him to a well-adjusted, non-body-image-dysmorphic cat-hood.

Here did I fake a tiny meow for my fellow breakfasters.

Do you see what I’d done, Gentle Tweeter? Do you see how I’d trapped myself in a corner? In Bangalore and Hyderabad and Houston, my catkin was obviously sick, but I couldn’t admit that fact by going to my folks to beg their advice. Over the breakfast table in Hanoi, my father eyed the bloated fuzz ball breathing heavily as it lay on its side beside my plate. Feigning Ctrl+Alt+Indifference, he asked, “How’s little Tigger?”

“His name is Tigerstripe,” I protested. Reaching to scoop him up and lift him into my lap, I said, “And he’s fine.” Between motionless lips, I said meow . Subtly using my fingertips, I moved the inert kitten’s mouth to match. Meow .

My father exchanged a raised eyebrow with my mom, and he asked, “Tiger’s not sick?”

“He’s fine!”

My mom laid her Ctrl+Alt+Serene gaze on the comatose blob now shivering atop my napkin-covered thighs, and she asked, “He doesn’t need to see a veterinarian, maybe?”

“He’s fine!” said I. “He’s sleeping.” I couldn’t let them see my fear. The quivering fur ball I petted, he felt hot—too hot. Gummy gunk rimmed his closed eyelids and sputtered at his teeny black nostrils. Even worse, stroking his sides I could feel the skin stretched tight, his belly distended. Through his soft fur, his faint kitten heartbeat felt a million-billion miles away. One possibility was that I’d fed him something wrong. Or I’d fed him too much. He was panting now, his kitty-pink tongue protruding slightly, each breath a death rattle. In too many ways, poor Tigerstripe was reproducing my nana’s slow, painful passing. Without thinking, my fingertips sought out the spot behind his front leg where the heartbeat felt strongest, and within the thinking bowels of my brain I began counting, One-alligator… two-alligator… three-alligator… between the slow, irregular beats. I noticed that neither of my parents was eating. The sickroom reek of afflicted kitten eclipsed everyone’s appetite.

My dad proposed, “How about you and Tiger go together to see a grief counselor?” He swallowed, betraying his Ctrl+Alt+Anxiety, and said, “You could talk about your grandpa and grandma dying.”

“I’m not grieving!” Under my breath I was counting… Five-alligator… six-alligator… between the fading heartbeats.

My mother’s worried eyes swept the table until they settled on the pastry basket. Lifting it, she heaved the tasty goodies toward me. “Would you like a muffin?”

“No!” I counted, Eight-alligator… nine-alligator…

“But you love blueberry muffins.” Her eyes tested me, measuring my response.

“I’m not hungry!” I snapped, counting… Elevenalligator… twelve-alligator… My kitty’s raspy, rattling breath had stopped. With frantic fumbling fingers I sought to massage his failed feline heart back to life. To hide this effort from my parents I wrapped my linen napkin around Tigerstripe’s swollen body. Thus thickly swaddled, his heartbeat became impossible to locate. To mask my panic, I said, “I’m not hungry! Tigerstripe is healthy and happy! I’m not hungry, and I didn’t rip off anyone’s man banana!”

Hearing that, my mother’s face looked Ctrl+Alt+Slapped. Her hands reached across the table in what must’ve been some instinctive maternal gesture, some attempted mammalian embrace inherited from our primate ancestors, and she said, “We only want to help you, Maddy, Raindrop.”

Recoiling, cradling my still, silent kitten, I countered, my words pure acid, “Maybe we could just desert Tigerstripe on some remote farm outpost upstate? How about that?” My voice rising to hysteria, I said, “Or perhaps we could ship my kitty off to some expensive school in Switzerland, where she could live, socially isolated, among hateful rich pussycats!”

Under my breath I was counting, Eighteen-alligator… nineteen-alligator… twenty-alligator… but I knew it was already too late. In Seoul or São Paulo or Seattle, I was half falling, half sprinting as I abandoned my place at the breakfast table and fled back to my bedroom bearing my baby kitten wrapped in his napkin shroud.

Gentle Tweeter,

The long-ago predead, eleven-year-old me carried my bundled feline corpse through Antwerp and Aspen and Ann Arbor. Like the blanket-wrapped cadaver of some expired Granny Joad, another bookish reference, I smuggled poor Tigerstripe through various immigration and customs checkpoints. I wore him strapped to my skin, hidden beneath my clothing, the way my mom and dad had so often played mule for their contraband narcotics. Needless to say, his sour odor did not abate; neither did the faithful entourage of winged parasites, primarily houseflies, but also their adolescent grubs and maggots that appeared on the scene as if conjured by some foul magic.