Short Stories

My Nazarene Cat

3 minute read

In the gloomy dawn light a grey amorphous mass, whimpered and giggled as it shuddered across a cold bathroom floor. A pair of radiant, dilated eyes stared down from a shelf above the bathroom sink, willing this strange beast to look upwards. How was the cat to know that all these years of effort working on such a malleable mind was to be of little or no use.

John Henry Cooper, JC to his friends, could never live up to his cats expectations, could never, in fact, live up to anyone’s expectations. His wife, Jane, lay asleep upstairs. Their three children sleptsoundly, unaware of the state of fugue through which the saviour of humanity crawled two floors below.

The cat tried once more, this time imprinting the desire for water. The emptying of the bladder suggestion earlier had worked too successfully; hence the trousers round the ankles and the warm puddle on the bathroom floor.

Why must he drink so much? First time round he turned water into wine. This time, well even a cat can make a mistake.

All those years ago it had been so simple. Some nudging, some guidance and away we go. It didn’t work as well in today’s world. Having found him twelve prospective disciples, what does he do, form a bloody rugby team, spend his Saturday evenings drinking, come crawling home and sleep in the bath.

The sodden mass on the floor raised its head and eyes made contact. The cat mewled softly; John Henry Cooper mewled back, pulled himself slowly to his feet, turned on a tap and took a cold drink.

The cat flitted to the floor and strode out of the bathroom. They would start again tomorrow; humanity had to be saved somehow.

In the darkness of the hallway the cat lent forward to groom itself. It had started doing this at night because it had seemed to embarrass the humans. If only they knew.

Looking back he saw John Henry Cooper pick up a toothbrush place it in his mouth, gag and drop it in the sink. Well it was useful for those gritty bits in those hard to reach places.

If cats could smile, John Henry Cooper would have belonged to the Cheshire variety.

As JC lowered himself slowly into the bath, the cat slipped silently upstairs to imprint the idea of salmon for tea.

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My name is Liam Robertson. I live with my four children in the village of Rostrevor. I had a wife, Niamh, but she died not that long ago. Most days you will find me writing code to feed my family. Most nights I write prose and poetry to prick and prod that ragged tear loss leaves behind.
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