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Bomb Shelter Pet

A True Story

By Patrick M. OhanaPublished 2 years ago Updated 2 years ago 8 min read
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Bomb Shelter Pet
Photo by Bogdan Farca on Unsplash

My fifteenth year presented me with a forgotten friend. I found her one morning, practically starving, having been accidentally imprisoned in the building’s bomb shelter. She was only a few months old, and readily adopted my petting hand. I brought her some food and thus found myself, once again, the caregiver of my favourite creature.

During my early childhood, cats represented my second family, sticking around my abode more than my natural one. I had watched my parents throw them the remains of the food, mostly chicken bones and fish heads, and began to do the same, except that with me they often got more than scraps. I rapidly became the leader of that company of cats, since I also liked to caress them, an act foreign to my parents.

These adorable creatures seemed to truly love me, and particularly the only one that I had named. As soon as I was seen by these female felines, Mitsa would rush to greet me, rubbing her entire body against my young legs. I could hardly move surrounded thus by my furry friend. She may have proclaimed me as hers, but I never neglected to make sure that my love was evenly distributed among my forever-famished familiars.

I revered them. Until my parents moved us into the larger home, I spent a great deal of my free time with the cats. They, after all, protected me from many dangers, be it a skittish snake, a menacing millipede or a bitchy bumblebee. My hands always bore the marks of their kittens’ claws, which had much to learn about their champion.

When Leo, a four-year-old neighbour, my new neighbour before becoming an old one at the bigger home in the apartment building, killed one of the kittens in order to bug me, I was enraged. I cried many hours for my fallen feline friend and swore my revenge. A few days later, I caught the little bastard on his way home from kindergarten and beat him well enough. I blinked at the punishment that I received from my parents, and pledged my allegiance to the cat.

Of course, when we moved, the cats did not move with us. I tried to visit them as often as I could, but it was eventually not enough. “Pspspspsps, pspspspsps,” I called to them, but after a few months, there were none to be found. Luckily, other events came to occupy my mind, and with masturbation around the corner, cats lost some of the weight that they had carried in my life, but their influence came back heavily, even if only for a short year.

The bomb shelter pussy rekindled my admiration for the cat. I fed her every day and protected her from the mean kids of my neighbourhood. They were not always loathsome, though. I made a few friends and played with them every day after school, but eventually ended up not speaking to several of them for a while. My main antagonist was Dathan. Although a few years my junior, he managed to become the leader of the building kids. I did not covet the role, but detested Dathan’s hypocritical leadership. We always managed to reconcile our differences, but each time the price seemed somewhat higher.

At one point, I swore to God that I would never speak to him again. But after a few days, Dathan approached me asking for my forgiveness, which I refused to accord. But when a mutual friend conveyed Dathan’s request, I sent word that I would find a way to bypass my oath. And I rapidly did, quite inventively at that. I told Dathan, via the friend, of course, that we would have to make a sacrifice to God and only then could we speak to each other again.

A bee happened to be perfect given that it gave honey and could therefore be considered clean. We were seven to set out to capture one, which was quite easy. It was spring and they were buzzing all around us. I caught one in a plastic bag and we sacrificed it to God by cutting off its tiny head. I mumbled a short prayer, and Dathan and I were friends once again.

I even had her sleep inside one night when my parents were away. They had asked Leo to sleep over with me, thinking that I would be afraid by myself. But I quickly thought of the cat. Finally, I could have a pussy for an entire night. Leo did not mind the cat. He had already helped me to get her into the apartment. I would lower my schoolbag attached to a rope, and Leo would put the cat inside. I would then pull the frightened pussy one floor up and enjoy her company till the advent of my bedtime. I would then lower my cat bag again, this time to let the pussy prowl into the night. Leo, the kid cat killer, had become a young cat sympathiser.

The pussy had left a small puddle on the floor near a potted plant, which I hurried to clean before my parents’ return. After Leo had left, I still spent a few joyous hours with my pussy, growing reminiscent of the good old days with my clan of cats. There were a few dogs in my former neighbourhood, but they were greatly outnumbered by the free feline fortitude. When their masters let them loose for a while, the dogs avoided the pussy stronghold. I was quite proud of this anomaly.

In strength and endurance, after people came the cats, and I would not have minded the contrary. On many occasions, I found myself admiring the cats even more than my own kind. I loved to observe their unspoiled behaviour, and was always eager to discover a new character trait. I remembered the first time that I had seen a pussy piss. She looked for a sandy spot in the ground, and upon finding one, smelled it for some buried treasure. Approving of the place, she began to dig a small hole with her frontal paws, and then made sure that no one was nearby to intrude upon her private moment. During her offloading, she noticed me and became quite uncomfortable by my presence. I pretended to leave, but returned to find her covering the hole with some sand while recording the scent of her offering. She then slowly left the place, looking back as if mourning its potential vulnerability.

The source of my fundamental fancy for cats proved to be their claws. At first, I was only taken by their mechanical genius. I loved to watch them appear and disappear like lightening. I even imagined my hands equipped with such retractable claws. They represented a sixth sense for the cat, which I wished to have also possessed. The sheer power that they sported and the pain they could inflict sent shivers along my slender spine. My mind was mesmerised by their perfection. When the cat was resting, I would press upon one of her frontal paws, thus triggering the appearance of the claws. I was, at least, able to pretend to be a cat at those memorable moments.

I also groomed them. Although the cat did her best by sharpening them, I gave them the final touch. I removed all the grime that had accumulated around the covered upper part of the claw, thus revealing even more hidden power. This time around, I also discovered another fascinating aspect about them. Besides inflicting pain, their sharpness, carefully harnessed, could trigger pleasure. Apparently, I had found the tactile affection rarely received from my mother in this exploratory manipulation of the cat’s innate wealth in that domain.

I had tried to get it from people before settling for cats. I used to play with my father’s callused hands. I loved the sensation of his dry skin rubbing against my starving fingers. When I took my father’s less labouring left hand into my admiring right one, I would move my index finger against his thumb, thus creating friction that produced pleasure. When my father was unavailable or unwilling, I would take anyone’s hand, be it the surprised neighbour or the mystified visitor. As long as I was youthful, I could get away with such an act.

On the other hand, once a month, my father needed my help trimming the fingernails of his right hand. Like me, he was right-handed and had difficulty getting rid of that hand’s yellowish nails. As a kid, I did not mind helping him with that cleansing activity, but as I grew older and fonder of them, I had acquired an aversion for that monthly ritual. My father seemed to have understood my dislike and had eventually learned how to do it by himself. I was glad that I no longer had to serve as the instrument of my father’s nails’ demise.

I knew the meaning of fingernail fatality firsthand. I started to bite my nails around the age of six, but I never swallowed them. I loved to use my teeth for that soon-to-be dreadful activity. When I was somewhat conscious of my admiration for them, I still could not stop my continuous nail-biting. I found them to be extremely inferior to the cat’s claws, and decided that if I could not have claws, I did not need nails, perhaps hoping that my biting would eventually turn them into claws.

fact or fiction
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About the Creator

Patrick M. Ohana

A medical writer who reads and writes fiction and some nonfiction, although the latter may appear at times like the former. All my stories (over 2,200 pieces) are/will be available on/via Shakespeare's Shoes.

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