Molly's Whiskers

Molly’s Whiskers

(Dr. Seuss Deranged)

by Rachel Kaub

Ert was devoid of life. Sterile. Inside. Dried out.

Feral.

Yet, the memories remained. Of the years in the Midwest. In the South.

Insane.

The Ogallala Aquifer cried out for its lost ones. A drought of water.

And puns.

The Navajo pipeline, void for a century.

Now all lands were in a state of penury.

Ert was drying out, but didn’t care terribly much.

There was little left to care about.

Only food, water, and such.

Days with only a rumor of agua firma.

Ruing the nights, devoid of humor.

Four decades before:

“Your kitten ripped up my doilies!”, Auntie cried.

Such was their lore.

“And the old ones were oily!”

Molly was the last of its colony, the only of a last litter.

Its yearling mother was without milk,

And the child had become a feline’s baby sitter.

Textured kitty chow and decanted water got them by.

Home grown heart care notwithstanding, Auntie strove to try.

No domestic animals remained, now. No water.

At least not enough to share with more than each other.

Desalination for the wealthiest who brought the biome to this time.

Paradise Lost, but less sublime.

Ert felt their locket, a heart-shaped receptacle that hung from their neck,

Holding a legacy of false hope.

And neglect.

Ethel and Molly were lucky. Living out their lives before no life was left worth living.

When folks still gave mostly for the giving.

Once there had been love. Life. Help. Heart. Once there had been morals.

Once they were smart.

Once there had been a future. A path. A goal. The gist of a kernel of an idea for coping.

A role.

Ert had farmed. Had ranched. Had ranged.

But all grew increasingly deranged.

The haves were ensuring that all would soon be have-nots. Their grandchildren.

All grandchildren.

All gone to rot.

And the mass of the sixth great extinction, plus those who wrought calamity,

Earning the wrath of those remaining.

Their enmity.

Ert, by then thirteen, was feeling the intrusion of man,

Snaking its way throughout their land.

No comfort found, even with a hot toddy.

No comfort found.

In this body.

The burdizzo had belonged to Ert’s Aunt, a Kansas farmer,

Whose significant other had left for a greener larder.

Ert played hooky as often as was needed,

For no gym class could ever be heeded.

Enumerable attempts with ice and muscle,

To quiet the snake,

No matter the tussle.

The pain was there. True, childbirth hurts more.

No need to compare,

But this, enough to bear.

It was a decade later that the offending parts would leave.

Their presence had been a lingering pet peeve.

Following years of hormones during and after transition,

It would never be easy for family to listen.

But before the knife, there came a moment of clarity. Of legacy.

Of strife.

Molly was spayed at four months. Ert was neutered at twenty-seven.

There would be no progeny for Molly, and, as it happened,

No prospective mates were there to leaven.

Ert had a few trips along the pansexual panoply,

Though there would be no progeny.

For all the World to see.

Still, Ert did nurture, for a time living in Hope.

Arkansas.

Making a go with the land of their Ma.

Attempting to cultivate hemp in Hempstead County. For a time.

For not much bounty.

Until the heat and lack of water made that impractical.

The drought yielding only shards of hard clod shrapnel.

Then New Mexico, more akin to Chaco Canyon than Canyon de Chelly. No water for roots.

No water today. No room for an onion.

No water for shoots.

No way to a future.

Only Hell to pay.

By then, the Earth was dryer, too. Except for oceans.

And little was blue.

Ert fingered their locket. A faded cameo of Molly remained.

Now residing in their pocket.

And inside, Ert’s legacy, ingrained.

Never to be used.

Only perused.

But maybe, if anything remained in ten-thousand years,

Others might find some bit of Molly’s ears,

And trace the last of cis-hood tears.

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