Fred, the Murderous Cat

I don't know about you, though.

Malice's entry from today made me think of the time Fred the cat tried to kill my dad. Fred was a big, mean, black cat but he was mine and I loved him. Fred had very particular ideas about when he should be fed: when he was ready, it was time.

Dad was always the earliest riser in our house, so he took care of morning feedings. The cats ate wet food, and they'd come running when they heard the electric can opener whirring. They circled and yowled, or at least Fred did, because he was entirely ready to eat. Waiting one more second was outside the scope of his walnut-sized brain. Once the bowls were down, the cats gobbled, snarfed and slurped until the food was gone.

One morning, Dad slept longer than Fred thought was appropriate, possibly until 4:20 a.m. Mom and Dad's bed was in the middle of their room, backed by tall bookcases. On top of one of the bookcases was a heavy antique lamp that sat on my great-grandfather's desk until he retired. Fred was surprisingly nimble for a cat of his tonnage; he leapt up onto the bookcase, made his way to the top and nudged the lamp over the edge.

It landed on the bed, roughly a centimeter from Dad's head. Ordinarily I would not attribute attempted murder to a cat, but Fred was just that sort. Sleeping between Fred and his breakfast didn't pay.

Fred died a couple of years later, hit by a car on our block during finals week my second year of college. I was home for the weekend trying to finish an essay in peace.

I am almost sure that I was Fred's sole mourner.

before - after