Calvin Meadows hated cats. He hated the little fuckers. Hated their squealing meows, hated the way they pooped where they pleased, hated the arrogant way they carried themselves. There wasn't a thing he liked about them. Not one. Now one of the critters was sitting at his doorstep, in the rain, yowling to be let in.
"You picked the wrong house, buddy!" he yelled at it from his couch, then turned up the volume of the Everybody Loves Raymond reruns he was watching so he wouldn't have to listen to the creature's endless crying.
It didn't work. The creature's cries even managed to cut through the dulcet tones of the Barone family turned to an almost uncomfortable volume.
Calvin then got an idea. He had some ant poison and some milk. 'Little bastards love milk.' He said as he grabbed the jug from the fridge. A little ant poison added to the milk and PRESTO! That stupid furball wouldn't be disturbing him any longer.
A few minutes later Calvin dropped a bowl of his cat killer cocktail on his stoop and hissed "DRINK IT UP FUCKER!!" then he watched through the window as the little gray tabby came and began drinking. He smiled to himself and went back to watch another episode of his show, content in the knowledge that the meowing would soon die off.
And die off it did. Within a short while, Calvin was watching his favorite mid 90's rerun without interruption. A few hours later, he was curled up in his bed, warm, comfy and happy with a job well done. This wasn't the first neighborhood menace he had dispatched in such a fashion. Probably wouldn't be the last.
It was Saturday, so Calvin slept in, and when he woke up, he stepped outside to smell the fresh air after the morning rain and grab the empty bowl which had contained the poisoned milk and deposited it in the trash. He then spotted the little cat, a kitten really, lying motionless beneath his lavender bush. Better throw that away too. He went back inside to grab a bunch of paper towels so he wouldn't have to touch the filthy thing. When Calvin reached for the little body, he suddenly jumped back with a yelp. It had scratched him and ran off. Calvin's poison mixture must have been too weak, and it was still alive, goddamit.
He hoped the little fucker at least had a bad stomach ache. He looked down at the damage the foul critter had done to him, and it was pretty bad. There were parallel lines of blood on the back of his hand, and the wounds were ridiculously painful. He took the paper towels meant as a burial shroud for the little gray cat and wrapped them around his hand. If that little monster ever showed its face around him again, he would make sure it suffered before it died, that was for damned sure.
After washing the wounds and wrapping an old but clean towel around his hand, Calvin sat down and fumed about how his morning had started. The day passed and several more after that. As the days passed the wound on Calvin's hand grew red and infected. Calvin visited a doctor and took antibiotics, but a week later, it was redder and more painful than ever.
The night after his second trip to the doctor and the purchase of different, more powerful antibiotics, Calvin was lying on his bed, trying to sleep and trying not to rest his head on his injured hand accidentally. All he could think of was how that damned cat had caused all this trouble. That damned cat had cost him money for doctors visits and medicine, that damned cat...
Then he heard it. The little beast was outside mewling and whining. Nothing so humane as poisoning this time, the damned thing didn't deserve that. He got up and went to his closet. That old pellet gun had to be somewhere in there. He heard it even more loudly as he searched, so Calvin knew he wasn't imagining it. A steady constant "Yow! Yow!" coming from his back door. He found the pellet gun and headed to the source of his misery, intent on making sure it never troubled him again.
But when he got to the door, the sound had stopped. Calvin flipped on the light switch and stepped outside, holding his pellet gun like a secret agent in a movie. No sign of the creature. At least not at first, but then he saw it. It sprinted from the hydrangeas and charged at him. Alas for poor Calvin, his shooting skills were not as secret-agent like as his posing skills. He missed, and the grey kitten swiped at his leg as it passed him. Giving him a fresh set of bleeding scratches on his calf and a ripped pair of pajama pants. It charged into his house through the open door.
The grey kitty fled across the living room, and Calvin followed. He fired his pellet gun at it twice more and missed both times. The little beast ran up the stairs, stopping only to hiss at its pursuer when it reached the top.
"I got you now, you little shit," Calvin said as he closed the door behind him. His bandaged hand throbbed in pain as if to emphasize the point. He knew there were no open doors up there, except the door to his bedroom. It would be easy enough to corner the thing up there. He was going to enjoy putting a couple of holes in that thing and giving it the burial it deserved, in a trash can.
When Calvin got there, though, he couldn't find the little grey cat. He looked under his bed. Calvin was meticulously neat in every aspect of his life, his room offered few hiding places even for a small cat, and the creature was not in any of them. Nor could he find it anywhere else in the house. He searched for hours. No sign of any cat. And frankly, he was feeling kind of weak. Perhaps it was the antibiotics. Maybe it was the infection on his hand taking its toll or even the new infection he was sure was festering in his calf even now. But he was stone tired. Maybe he had only imagined the cat running in. Perhaps it ran out before he shut the door. But there was no cat in his house. No way.
Feeling ill, Calvin laid himself once more upon his bed and went to sleep. At daybreak, he became aware of something on his chest. And a purring sound. He opened one eye. There it was. His nemesis peacefully asleep on his chest. Calvin carefully slid his hands out from under his blankets so he could grab it. He was going to have the pleasure of throttling it with his bare hands. His movement wasn't careful enough, though, It opened its eyes, hissed at him and managed to land a painful swipe across his face just as his own hands closed around its body. He squeezed with all his might. It struggled and clawed at him. It opened new wounds on both arms and hands. It screeched and yowled and fought some more, but eventually, it went limp. Calvin had won at last.
The only thing to do was to get the corpse of the little grey demon out of his house. Calvin took the tiny kitten's body and went outside, to his trashcan. Half expecting it to come to life and scratch him again, as it did last time he thought he killed it, he carefully deposited it in the can and put the lid on top. Calvin then turned to go back into his house. In front of his door was a big, fluffy white Persian, growling and hissing and seemingly challenging him to go tot he door. Some noise drew his attention to the fence on his left, atop it was perched a pair of hungry looking feral tabbies, also hissing and spitting at him. Calvin looked around. More cats of every variety and breed began converging on his yard. Surrounding him.
Calvin sprinted for his door. A dozen small bundles of teeth and claws and fur jumped at him. Between the weakened state that the infection had already left him in, the wound on his leg and just pure shock, he fell. Then they were upon him. His screams woke the neighborhood, but by the time a very puzzled pair of police officers found Calvin Meadows' strangely mutilated corpse it was far too late.