Rebel With a lot of Claws

The veterwerenarian looks at Ricki Roskowski with suspicion. “Didn’t you used to be a cat lover?” The vet quickly adds, “I mean, before the Turning Point, of course. No offense.”

Ricki sighs. “I’ve got it, don’t I?”

The veterwerenarian nods gravely. “I’m afraid so.”

“Feliocanthropy.” Ricki rubs her forehead. “Wouldn’t you just know it? Damn.”

“You haven’t been…?” The vet jiggles his fuzzy eyebrows, giving Ricki a look that’s supposed to convey some meaning.

“What?” she feigns ignorance, even though she knows what this fat man is going to ask.

The veterwerenarian’s face is soft, but his eyes are sharp. He fixes Ricki with a stare that could pop a balloon. “I’m just trying to determine how you contracted this curse. You haven’t been in contact with any strays, have you?”

If she admits to a crime, this public servant will need to report it. Otherwise, he’ll be guilty by association. So, naturally, Ricki lies, “I haven’t seen a stray cat in over a decade.”

The vet asks, “Is there any history of blood disorders in your family?”

Ricki eagerly admits, “My maternal grandmother died from leukemia.”

The vet picks up his digital chart, pushing a couple of pads on the touchtone screen to call up more information. “You don’t work with catnip, do you?”

She would like to fib and say she works in the multi-billion-dollar catnip production industry, but she knows this vet has resources that would tell him otherwise. All he needs to do to answer to his own question is access the AGM. So Ricki simply says, “No.”

“You’re not married…?” The veterwerenarian looks again at Ricki’s digichart.

Sourly, she admits, “Divorced.”

“How long now?”

Ricki wonders how these questions are even remotely relevant. “I’ve lived without Sin for almost seven years.” She smiles dryly at her own private joke. ‘Sin’ is a reference to ‘Cindy’, her ex-wife. “Look,” Ricki says, tired suddenly of the lies, “does it really matter—” She catches himself in mid-sentence. She was about to say, Does it really matter how I contracted the disease? She stopped because she knows, to this vet, it does matter; it matters a great deal. Doctor Chubby wouldn’t be shy about doing his civic duty if he thought Ricki was aiding and abetting a feline. She quickly covers by saying, “—who I was married to? How does that help you determine how I became a werecat?”

The vet feels obligated to correct her. “Technically, you haven’t become a werecat, Ms. Roskowski. You are only suffering from the preliminary stages of feliocanthropy. You might not ever become a full-fledged werecat. Since you contracted the curse through secondary effects, the odds are in your favor that you won’t.” He asks again, with an emphatic tone, “Are you certain you haven’t had any contact with any cats?”

She thinks of the orange she-cat, with her loud purr and banshee wail, a long-haired beauty she named Marilyn. She thinks of the two gray tiger cats, the ones she calls ‘the boys’— Idris and Elba. And then there’s the king of the ferals, a big black male she’s been calling Othello. It was Othello who scratched her. It could have been Othello who gave Ricki the disease that this man of science calls, ‘the curse’.

Without a second’s pause, Ricki says, “Yes. I’m certain I haven’t come into contact with any cats.”

The vet nods.

Ricki can’t help but ask, “You’re going to report this anyway, aren’t you?”

The veterwerenarian’s stare returns its setting to laser. “That is the law, Ms. Roskowski.”

Ricki knew that. She knew coming here would present problems, but it presented fewer troubles than going to the Emergency Room at the hospital. In either instance, once a medical professional makes a diagnosis of feliocanthropy, they must report it to Federal Administration of Feline Affairs. The only way she could have avoided keeping the government out of her life would have been if she never officially had the disease diagnosed.

But she wanted to know. She was curious.

She has already been feeling the changes, subtle though they are. The first thing she noticed was her eyesight is more acute. Ricki has never needed glasses; she has perfect 20/20 vision; but lately it’s been better than perfect. A week ago, as an experiment, she removed from her bedroom her alarm clock and everything else capable of making light. Plunging herself into a blackness that she knew was absolute, she could still somehow see.

She was incapable of creating conditions where she couldn’t see in the dark.

She's been having strange cravings recently, for tuna and milk.

She’s more agile than she used to be.

She now enjoys a good nap in the afternoon, whenever she can get one.

Ricki has suspected for quite a while that she’ll become a werecat.

Tomorrow night, she’ll know for certain. Tomorrow night begins the three-night-cycle of the full moon.

The tests for feliocanthropy— mostly blood tests— were done early this morning. Now, this afternoon, discussing the positive results of those tests, Ricki’s entire life has changed.

As she dwells on the devastating possibility that she will turn into a slavering beast every time there’s a full moon, she suddenly finds himself on the verge of tears. Suspecting she had feliocanthropy isn’t nearly as bad as knowing for certain she has it! What makes it even harder still is having to feign ignorance and lie about all this.

She fed a cat. She broke the law.

Does someone who feeds a starving cat deserve to be imprisoned for up to thirty years?

Ask that question of most people— people deathly afraid of seeing a family member becoming a monster— and they would answer a resounding YES! Many people— particularly those who’ve already seen a family member become a werecat— would say imprisonment is too good for a cat feeder, that cat feeders (like her) should be killed.

Death by werecat attack.

Let She Who Fed a Cat . . . Die by a Cat.

Ricki asks the vet the expected question, “What are the odds I’ll transform?”

Some of the glare goes out of the vet’s eyes. Ricki imagines that blazing ferocity must be difficult to maintain. The fat man explains, “Only 17% of people with your risk factors become werecats. I wouldn’t be too worried about it. You did the right thing by coming here, albeit last minute. But yes, I most definitely need to report this! In the rare event you do Change… well . . .” The vet’s glare becomes voltaic again. “We’ll cross that bridge if we get to it.”

“Right.”

“Have you had any unusual cravings lately? Have you been drinking a lot of milk?”

Ricki thought he was done asking questions. He almost catches her off guard, almost tricking her into answering truthfully. But then she says, “No.”

The vet shakes his flabby head, the intensity in his eyes winking out. “I wouldn’t worry about it then.”

“But,” Ricki asks, “I’ll know one way or another tomorrow night, right? Will I need to report to a shelter?”

“Yes.” Just when Ricki thinks he is finished with the Evil Eye, he turns it back on again. “Absolutely.” The tone of his voice somehow becomes even more earnest, “There is a chance you’ll transform! You don’t want to kill someone, do you?”

“Absolutely not!” The idea of clawing someone’s face off sickens her.

The vet again consults his digipad. “Your insurance is good. Do you know if you’ll opt for State or private storage?”

“I haven’t thought much about it.” When Ricki was young, ‘storage’ was exclusively for inanimate objects. Now it more commonly refers to imprisoning werecats.

“Cutting this one close, aren’t you?”

Ricki tries to make her own gaze as intense as the vet’s. “I made this appointment a week ago. And since I haven’t been cat-scratched, I didn’t honestly believe I had the disease.”

The veterwerenarian nods, relaxing. “Denial is common. And you do still have the rest of the day to make decisions about your storage. My nurses will provide you with all the relevant information regarding your condition.”

“Okay,” she replies, eager to get out of here.

The vet rapidly keys in tones on his digipad, opening a virtual connection to Ricki’s pharmacy. “I need to give you some anti-curiosity medicine.” Focusing on the screen, he types up the complex prescription.

“What?” Ricki has never heard of anything like that!

The vet says blandly, “It’s relatively new. It addresses the biggest contributing factor to early post-transformation fatalities.”

“What’s that?”

The vet looks at Ricki like she’s totally stupid. “Curiosity.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not all that well-reported… but for years there has been a small contingent of newly diagnosed feliocanthropes who don’t go into shelters.”

Now it’s Ricki’s turn to look at the vet like he’s crazy. “Why would they do that?”

“Curiosity,” says the vet yet again. “Both felines and humans are extremely curious species. One symptom of feliocanthropy is an increase in that natural tendency. Certain species of werecats- particularly wereleopards and werecougars- are especially curious."

Ricki wants to know, “Aren't weretigers the most curious of them all?”

“That’s a myth." The vet snorts a noise that mixes derision and amusement. “And besides: weretigers are extremely rare.”

Ricki can’t help but wonder, “What kind of werecat do you think I’ll become?”

The vet gives her a flicker of that intense glare again. “We’re thinking positively, remember? You won’t become a werecat.”

“Yeah, I know, you’re right, but I’m curious: if I do become a werecat, what type do you think I’ll be?”

The veterwerenarian’s eyes shoot cinders like churning magma and, at first, Ricki doesn’t understand why. Then, as the vet operates his digipad to increase the dosage of the prescription he previously wrote, Ricki realizes what she just said. 'I’m curious: if I do become a werecat…'

She giggles and tries to lighten the mood by admitting, “I guess I might need that prescription after all.” She jokes, “If I’d had anti-curiosity pills, I think I might have been able to save my marriage.”

The vet has no sense of humor, which doesn’t really surprise her. “So,” he says stoically. “What questions do you have for me?”

“Okay! Well, how about you start by explaining how a full moon can change a person into a werecat! So far, no ‘scientist’ I’ve heard can adequately do that! Can you?”

The doctor silently scowls at her.

Her anger erupts inside her chest and spews out her throat. “We’ve slaughtered trillions of felines worldwide! We’ve effectively wiped out all the great cats, bringing about the extinction of dozens of species, including what used to be called ‘the King of the Beasts’! We’re committed to exterminating every cat on the planet— and we aren’t even really certain if cats are responsible for feliocanthropy! For all we know, this curse could be supernatural!” Ricki finds herself shouting at the veterwerenarian, “That's the Great Secret, isn't it? Tell me that isn’t true!”

The vet doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t even turn his stare on Ricki, which gives Ricki pause. He is using his digipad to type a new prescription.

“What’s that?” Ricki demands to know.

“This,” the vet merely glances at her, “is for stress. It’s natural to be worried, Ms. Roskowksi. This prescription will help.” He hits the SEND button. “I just ordered you five pills. Take one this afternoon, one before bed tonight, one in the morning, one at noon, and one right before you report to your shelter tomorrow at 6:00 pm. Okay?”

Ricki simmers. “All right.” She feels like saying more, but knows she’s already said too much. She’s glad the veterwerenarian reacted to her outburst by giving her stress medicine rather than turning her over to the sodium-pentothal-packing police. Ever since the attack on Seattle seven years ago by the terror organization FELIS, police have been given extremely broad powers in dealing with known werecats.

History repeats itself.

The vet looks at her again, with a totally disinterested gaze. “Will you take these prescriptions that I’ve written for you?”

“Yes,” she says, uncertain if she will or not.

“Okay then. Everything should be fine. My nurses will read you your rights. They’ll also provide you with more information about your various options for sheltering.”

Ricki hates all these euphemisms. Everyone calls it ‘sheltering’ when werecats are locked up in cages. No one ever refers to it as ‘imprisonment.’

She loathes this obese veterwerenarian. And yet, thankfully, her sane sense of self-preservation wins out over her disdain for this odious man.

Bottling up her scorn, Ricki says, “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Doctor. You’re right. I have been under a lot of stress. I’d be lying to you if I told you I wasn’t worried. I realize the odds of me having this,” she finds it exceedingly difficult not to call it a 'disease', “curse are fairly low, but I’m just so freaked out about the idea of turning into a m—”

When she stops short of calling herself an abomination, the friendly vet is nice enough to do it for her, “A monster?”

Ricki nods.

“Be certain to take both the anti-anxiety and the anti-curiosity pills exactly as I’ve prescribed them. I guarantee they’ll help you.”

“Okay.”

“If you don’t transform, I won’t see you again until your regular examination.” Ricki’s periodic physical isn’t for another four months. “If— God forbid— you end up going trey, we’ll get together sometime next week and discuss options.”

‘Going trey’ is common slang for spending three nights of every month as a cat in a cage.

‘Discussing options’ means they’ll talk about whether or not Ricki should be ‘put down’, which is yet another euphemism, meaning ‘assisted suicide by silver nitrate poisoning’.

The friendly vet asks, “Do you have any other questions for me?”

Glumly, Ricki says, “No.”

“Cheer up,” says the veterwerenarian. “Everything will be fine.” Then he scares the hell out of Ricki by smiling. His grin is so lumpy, it looks like it’s been crudely made of clay by a spastic child. Through that frightening sneer, the vet says cheerfully, “Ask my staff as you exit and they can also show you a great way to save 35% or more on your car insurance.”

“Look directly into the camera.” The receptionist punches up a screen on her handheld computer and says, “‘Please state your full name and GCN for the record.’”

“Ricki Rosalyn Roskowski. Global Citizen Number: USA-27-IN1816-1271966-051621-9817779-DOB01151988.”

“‘Do you now freely give your permission for us to permatize this statement, to be logged with the Federal Administration of Feline Affairs, in accordance with the Seventh American Protection Act?’”

“I do.”

The nurse barely consults her computer, obviously having memorized this routine after doing it so many times. “‘On this recorded date, you, Ricki Rosalyn Roskowski, have been diagnosed as having feliocanthropy. You have been informed you might transform into Felis silvestris sapien— what is commonly called a ‘werecat’— tomorrow night, which is the next night of the full moon. During today's visit, your physician has answered all your questions regarding your diagnosis. Is this correct?’”

“Yes. Correct.”

“Please continue to look directly into the camera, Ms. Roskowski.”

She looks back at the vacant lens, which seems so dead after suffering the vet’s lively glare for so long.

The receptionist continues, “‘You are required by law to report to a government-sanctioned wereshelter tomorrow night, before dusk, to be monitored during the full moon. If you do not report to a proper shelter, a warrant will be issued for your immediate termination. Both law enforcement officers and privately-licensed werehunters will then be authorized to seek you out and use every means necessary to end your life. Do you understand these obligations as they have been explained to you?’”

“I do.”

“‘Do you promise, upon penalty of death, to report to a sanctioned wereshelter before sundown tomorrow night?’”

“I do.”

“‘You have a right to choose your own shelter, as long as it’s been fully approved by the Federal Administration of Feline Affairs. If you cannot afford a privately-operated shelter, you will be admitted to a government sanctuary. If you plan on staying in a government howl, you should contact the nearest one immediately. The number of cells are limited. If your sanctuary of choice has no more cells available, you will be transported to another approved shelter. It is your responsibility to make storage arrangements in advance of the next full moon.

“‘Ms. Roskowski, do you understand these rights and duties as I have explained them to you?’”

“I do.”

“Okay.” The nurse taps on her computer screen and across the room, the little red light atop the 3D-cam goes out. “That’s it. We’ve already billed your debit account for the visit, and we’ve sent all the information about your shelter choices to your home email address. Were there any other questions you had for us?”

“Nope. I’m all set.”

Smiling, the friendly nurse asks, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hear how you could save 35% or more on your car insurance?”

“No, thank you.”

“Okay, then. Good luck, Ms. Roskowksi.”

“Thanks.”

As she leaves the veterwerenarian’s office, she shakes her head when she sees the two security guards posted by the front doors. Bitterly, Ricki wonders, Since when did diagnosticians become so unpopular they need body guards?

Thinking about the harsh gaze of the vet, she answers herself, Since the Turning Point... when even scientists became frightened children.

Sighing, Ricki gets into her scarlet slickermobile and drives away.

The city she lives in is typical of many cities across middle America. Sliding down Musk Boulevard, one of the main streets in town, Ricki skims past McDonald’s White Pizza Hut Castle and KFC Sonic Taco Bell Subway; past a Wal-K-Marshalls-Mart and a Happy Holo Sparkle Megaplex; past a Hooters & Hunks and the Quicky Turbo-Jet Go-Get charging station.

She has no urge to stop at the Catwalk store, a place to purchase a plethora of werecat-related products: everything from restraints, to transform-all suits, to a variety of catnip gummies and vapes. Some werecats don’t respond to nip, but those that do can be kept calmer during the nights of the full moon.

Just beyond the Catwalk is a Natty Nippers liquor store and she is tempted to stop there. It’s starting to rain, however, and she doesn’t feel like getting wet.

As Ricki slicks past the U-Lock Werestorage Towers, she thinks about how much this city has changed over her lifetime. Wereshelters are everywhere now. In addition to U-Lock, ahead on this same highway are shelters by Cat Chill Kennels, Were-Now Secure, Cat Nap Key Lock, and several other cathouses.

When Ricki was growing up, a ‘kennel’ was a place where dogs were caged, not your cursed family members. And a ‘cathouse’ used to be a brothel (although Ricki has no clue why.)

When she sees a Scratching Post, she programs a new destination. Scratching Posts are a national chain of theme restaurants every bit as cheesy as Hooters & Hunks. The waitresses dress in skimpy cat costumes and Ricki just can’t find it in her heart to object to that. The reason she stops in, however, is because Scratching Posts are renowned for their excellent seafood.

Equally important in this moment— they have entrances sheltered from the weather. She is able to turn her car over to a valet and enter the restaurant without getting wet.

Once she’s inside the swanky-cheap establishment, she chooses to sit in the hermetically-sealed smoking section. She purchases a pack of Garfield cigarettes— blunts blended from catnip, tobacco, and hemp. After getting high, she dines on tuna and baked chicken, washing down her meal with Catatonics— potent mixed drinks made with Tequila, tonic water, and catnip liqueur.

She reads the emails sent by the veterwerenarian’s office, which include alarming statistics and several gruesome videos of authentic werecat attacks. The idea she will transform into one of those hellish Things is (both) terrifying (and thrilling).

Later, drunk off her ass, she lets her car drive her to the pharmacy, where she picks up her prescriptions.

Ricki lives well beyond the city limits, way out in the country. When she finally approaches her house and sees the striped cat-hunter vans parked in her driveway, she becomes very upset.

"They've come for my strays!"

She knows— suddenly she is certain— that disgusting veterwerenarian sent these exterminators to her door.

Still drunk, she takes control of her slicker, disengaging the autopilot. She drives past her house, determined to stay away until the assassins are gone.

She is furious, sick to her stomach, filled with hatred for the vet (and all cat haters everywhere). Ricki decides right then that she will not acquiesce to being jailed tomorrow night! She won’t put on transform-alls and report dutifully to a cage with her rPod and her inflato-bed! She might smoke some catnip in an effort to drug himself into a docile state, but then again, she might not even do that!

If she can figure out a way to do it without hurting innocent people, she might just go savage!

One of the most mind-blowing statistics she read in the FAFA literature sent by her vet was that there are eleven-million werecats just in America alone.

What would happen, she wonders, if the entire system broke down? What happens if, one full moon night, all eleven-million of those cats are freed? What then?

The idea excites her. She thinks about how the right kind of leader could meld a few werecats into an organized hundred, then an army of thousands, and ultimately a revolution millions strong.

She tells herself, “One day, werecats will no longer be slaves to the moon!”

She is certain, “One day, there will be a better hybrid: a whetted human mind will exist in a superior werecat body!”

Ricki’s mood brightens as she envisions a time when feliocanthropes will be freed of their cat fancies so they can take their rightful place as the new rulers of all the lands.

She drives around aimlessly for nearly an hour, before finally returning home. When she arrives back at her farm, as the sun is going down, the cat-hunters are gone.

She knows the strays will be gone now too. She can’t bear the thought of trekking back through the cornfields to the old shed where she used to feed them. She knows she wouldn’t find anything back there but bloodstains. The corpses of her friends will have been taken away to be incinerated.

As whiskers sprout beneath her nose, tears well up in her eyes.

She loved those poor cats!

When she gets out of her car, Ricki Roskowski takes the prescription bottles containing her drugs and throws them in the trash.

__Lightning flashes in the distance. It stopped raining earlier, but now a different storm front is approaching.

As she jumps up onto her back porch, she thinks, I wonder where that vet lives? I wonder if he has twenty-four-hour protection?

Trying to envision how to make the most of her forthcoming metamorphosis, Ricki heads inside her house to pour herself a tall glass of milk.

__________________Bolt ⚡