Dead Clown Barbecue (2 page)

"I love you."

"I love you too, Daddy."

I gave her another kiss, and then went back downstairs. Abigail sat on the couch, looking worried.

"Are you sure he can get out?"

"There's maybe two inches of dirt on him," I said. "He'll be fine."

"But it's snowing."

"That cat shredded the side of our leather sofa. You don't think he can claw his way through some snow?"

"I'm just nervous."

"I'm sure he'll be there as soon as we wake up. C'mon, let's go to bed."

I'd hoped for some reward sex for burying Tipsy, but none was offered. Instead, I fell asleep to the sounds of Abigail's occasional sniffle.

But in the morning, there was Tipsy, sitting on the front porch, meowing for us to let him in. Abigail scooped the cat up into her arms and made kissy sounds at him, and everybody helped wash the dirt off him, even though it made the kids late for school.

When I got home from work, Abigail had been crying.

"What's wrong?"

"It's Tipsy. He's . . . I can't really describe it . . . he's just sort of . . .
off
."

"Off?"

"Almost like a different cat."

"Well, yeah, that's what happens when you bury a dead cat in the pet cemetery. You knew that."

"I know, but . . ."

"But what?"

"I thought it would be different with Tipsy."

"Tipsy isn't a miracle wonder cat. That was always the deal: you'd get your cat back, but he'd be sort of creepy. We discussed this."

"I know, I know."

"Is he being violent?"

"Oh, no, nothing like that. He's just lethargic. He doesn't care about his treats anymore."

"Zombie cats never do."

"It's just unnerving to have him around."

I sighed. "So what are you saying? Do you want me to put him down?"

Abigail bit her lower lip and nodded.

"Seriously?"

"He's not Tipsy anymore."

"Great. Just great. I freeze my ass off burying this cat and now you want him dead again."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not going to kill the cat. We'll have to take him to the vet, and they're going to charge us to euthanize him, when he was already dead for free."

"I already apologized! What more do you want from me? I'm sorry! I thought I knew what I wanted, but I can't have Tipsy in the house anymore, not like this!"

I was annoyed, but my heart melted as a tear trickled down Abigail's cheek. "It's all right," I told her, giving her a hug. "I'll take care of it. It'll be fine."

Our vet had late hours on Thursdays, so I put Tipsy into the cat carrier (he didn't struggle nearly as much as usual) and took him in. I didn't tell Dr. Turner that I'd already brought Tipsy back to life; I'm pretty sure he wouldn't have approved.

Tipsy let out a soft meow as Dr. Turner gave him the injection, and then went still.

My phone buzzed. I glanced at the text from Abigail:
Changed my mind plz bring tipsy home.

Crap.

He's already gone,
I texted back.

Plz bring him home.

"I'm going to take his body with me," I told Dr. Turner. "We want to bury it, for the sake of the kids."

I muttered a lot as I shoveled the snow away, put Tipsy back into the hole, and re-covered it with dirt.

"It's freezing out there," I told Abigail as soon as I came through the front door. "That wind is killer."

"Did you dig a new grave?"

"Nah. I just used the old one."

"Will that work?"

"Sure, why not?"

"I thought you said you were going to dig a new one."

"I never said what I was going to do. Why would it matter? All you're supposed to do is bury it at the pet cemetery; there aren't any rules about digging fresh graves."

"Him. Not it."

"Honey, my fingers feel like they're going to fall off. Could you not hassle me about pronouns?"

"If you weren't supposed to dig a new grave, everybody would just reuse the same one. There'd be one grave in the whole cemetery."

"It's not the whole cemetery that brings pets back. Just that one section. Anyway, I get what you're saying, but this is for the same cat."

"Please . . ."

"All right, all right, I'll rebury Tipsy." At least I hadn't already gotten out of my winter clothes.

The pet cemetery was only six blocks away, which had been an issue when we were first deciding to buy this house ("Won't that be creepy to drive by every day?") but was now pretty convenient.

Fortunately, the snow had mostly let up, so I didn't have to clear much out of the way before I scooped the dirt out of Tipsy's grave. I picked up the cat, which was already stiff, and set him on the ground while I dug a second grave right next to the first.

At least a cat could get out by itself. I'd had to bury each goldfish in water-filled Tupperware and return for it the next morning.

I buried Tipsy again, hoping this cat appreciated what I was doing for him, and then returned home. But I did get some thank-you sex from Abigail that night, so I really couldn't complain.

Tipsy came back, dragging one of his hind legs. No bones seemed to be broken, so we figured that was just what happened when a cat was brought back from the dead a second time. He hissed at things that weren't there and smelled slightly worse than before, but Abigail and the kids seemed happy to get their pet back.

"Ow!" Becky screamed that night. I glanced at the clock. It was one in the morning.

"What happened?" I asked, as Abigail and I hurried into her bedroom.

She held up her bleeding arm. "Tipsy bit me!"

"Wow, he sure did. I'll be right back," I said, going to get some peroxide as Abigail consoled our daughter. It was a deep bite, and Becky winced as I put the peroxide on the wound, but my brave little girl didn't cry.

"He just bit you for no reason?" Abigail asked.

Becky nodded. "I was asleep."

"Why would he do that? It doesn't make any sense."

"Of course it makes sense," I said. "He's a double-zombie cat. Aggressive behavior is only natural."

"We can't have a cat that's going to attack the children," said Abigail.

"Well, that's what we've got. I'm not taking him back to the vet. He'll ask too many questions."

"You could take him to a
different
vet."

I shook my head. "This is clearly a reanimated cat. Any vet could tell that. If you want to take him in, you're more than welcome, but I'm not doing it."

Tipsy crawled out from under Becky's bed, growling.

"Maybe he's just hungry," said Becky.

"Hungry for human flesh, maybe," I said. "I'm sorry. That was insensitive. I shouldn't have said that. But, come on, this shit always has consequences."

"Don't swear in front of the kids!"

"This
stuff
always has consequences. You're acting all surprised, like you didn't think anything would happen."

"I didn't think he'd bite Becky!"

"That cat bit people when he was normal!"

"Not unprovoked!"

"I'm not trying to start an argument. All I'm saying is that when you bring a cat back from the dead, it's kind of foolish to get all bent out of shape when he bites somebody. That's all."

Even though I was sort of taking his side, Tipsy took that moment to jump at my leg, hissing and scratching. I cursed ("damn" was okay in front of the children) and tried to kick him off, but the cat's zombie claws remained stuck in my pajama leg.

Abigail grabbed him by the tail and flung him across the room. The cat struck the wall, dropped to the floor, and stopped moving.

My wife, daughter, and son all simultaneously burst into tears.

"I can't believe I did that!" Abigail wailed, rushing over to where the dead cat lay. "I'm a monster!"

"He was trying to kill me," I said, which was an obvious exaggeration but which I hoped would make her feel better.

Abigail picked up the cat, whose backbone was now extremely flexible even by feline standards, and sobbed.

"We can't leave him like this," she said.

"We sure as hell can."

Abigail shook her head. "I can't be the one to have murdered him. I can't let him be dead with that on my conscience."

"Oh, so, it's okay for me to have killed him?"

"You took him to be euthanized! You didn't throw him against a wall!"

She did have a point. "I'm not burying him in the pet cemetery again," I said. "Let's just leave the poor cat in peace."

Abigail held his floppy body out toward me. "You call this peace?"

"More peaceful than being one of the living dead, yeah!"

"Fine. Whatever. I'll do it." She stormed out of the bedroom with the dead cat.

I followed. "Honey, no, let's just bury him in the backyard and be done with it."

"
I want my Tipsy back!
"

So, yeah, I buried the cat again. I almost considered not doing it, and just burying the cat someplace else, but I figured I'd probably get busted.

Tipsy did not return in the morning.

"Tipsy!" Abigail called, standing on our front porch. "Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!" She looked back at me. "Where is he?"

"He's broken. Maybe it's taking longer."

"What if he can't get out of the hole?"

I almost tried to reassure her that Tipsy could get out of the hole, but I knew that no matter what I said, this scenario was going to play out with me driving to the pet cemetery and digging up that damn cat. I finished my cup of coffee, put on my jacket and boots, and headed off.

Tipsy's grave was just as I'd left it. When I dug him up, I saw why.

I handed my iPhone to Abigail and showed her the picture I'd taken. "He's pretty much just ooze now."

"Was the ooze moving?"

"Well, yes, but —"

"Then you have to bring him back here! You can't just leave him in a grave like that! What a horrible fate!"

"Honey, you can barely even tell he's a cat anymore."

"Would you want to be left like that? Just lying in a cold grave and . . . jiggling?"

"This is the last time. I mean it. I'm never going back to that place after this. I don't care if our next pet is frickin' Lassie; I'm done with the pet cemetery."

Abigail nodded. "I'll respect that."

"I need a bowl."

Thankfully, because it was so cold out, Tipsy didn't squish between my fingers, and came out of the grave in one solid chunk. I placed him in a plastic bowl that would never again hold chocolate chip cookie dough and brought him home.

"He's not moving," said Abigail.

"Just watch. His ear will twitch."

After a moment, his ear twitched. Abigail gasped.

"What do we do with him?" she asked.

"I don't know. You're the one who wanted me to bring him home."

"We have to put him out of his misery."

"How?"

"I don't know!"

"I guess if we thaw him out first, we could flush him."

"No!"

"Hear me out, hear me out! What else do you want to do? You don't want to just stomp on him, do you? Put him in the garbage disposal? Flushing him down the toilet isn't giving him a dignified death, but it would be pain-free, and he wouldn't come back."

Abigail wiped a tear from her eye. "I'll have to think about it."

"We've got time."

As Tispy thawed, Abigail sat there at the dining room table, staring into the bowl. I took the kids to a movie.

When I got back, Tipsy was unrecognizable as anything that had ever been a cat. You wouldn't confuse him with something Abigail might be mixing up to serve for dinner, but there was very little left of his solid state.

"Okay," she said. "I'll flush him."

"I can do it," I told her.

"No. This is all my fault. I'll do it."

She got up, taking the bowl with her. I listened as she walked up the steps, softly weeping. We did have a downstairs bathroom, but I wasn't going to tell a woman in mourning that she was using the less convenient toilet.

There was a thump.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

"I dropped him!"

As I walked into the living room, I saw Abigail slip on the Tipsy-ooze. Her arms pinwheeled above her head, and I cried out in horror as she tumbled down the stairs. Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump,
crack
.

Sometimes, you know something is wrong. You know that, no matter how great the loss, no matter how devastating and heart-wrenching a tragedy may be, dead is better. You gaze into the lifeless eyes of your beloved wife, and a voice inside your head tells you
don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery, don't take her to the pet cemetery . . .

I listened to the voice. Only a complete freaking moron would do otherwise, having seen how poorly it worked out for the cat. Abigail's body was cremated, and I assured Reed and Becky that she'd get to see Tipsy in heaven, where he'd gone after he was flushed.

I'm not saying that my story has a happy ending, but all things considered, it could have been a hell of a lot worse.

COMEUPPANCE

I loathed Tom Booth from the moment I saw him beating the crap out of my best friend Donald. I waited impatiently for the beating to conclude, helped Donald up after Tom vacated the premises, and vowed revenge.

It took three more Donald-beatings for me to actually seek that vengeance. Lunchtime. Our high school cafeteria. Tom Booth walking in my direction with his tray. Spaghetti. Chocolate milk. Lime Jell-O.

I waited for the optimal moment to strike. Too soon, and he might see the trap and successfully evade it. Too late, and I might never get a perfect opportunity like this again. Like a sniper I watched, silent, motionless, daring not even to drink from my juice box lest it distract me from this prime opportunity.

I stuck out my foot. The target of my scorn tripped, stumbled, and . . .

. . . regained his balance.

Tom Booth favored me with a "You are
so
dead" look. I must have blurted out six different apologies at once. I offered him my juice box but he didn't accept.

After school, Tom Booth twisted my arm behind my back and made me swallow a piece of gum he'd been chewing. Shortly thereafter, I was added to his biweekly schedule of beatings. My hatred grew with every punch to the stomach.