For Riggins
I had a cat once.
She would sit on my chest while I read,
Pester me for scratches when I wrote.
I had her in Kindergarten, when I was 5.
She was a kitten. Playful.
She loved paper attached to string,
And Bar-B-Q potato chips.
We were so close that
Whenever I’d even pet another cat
It would hurt her feelings and
She’d avoid me.
On the Fourth of July last summer, 2001,
At 21 I came home again.
My cat was 16.
We lit fireworks. I burned myself.
I didn’t really notice her, save in the
Cursory hello that comes with visits.
I patted her, I patted the new rottweiler,
I patted the kids, Ma, Dad on the head.
Then, as is typical, festivities began.
I hadn’t been as happy for months.
Kids were sitting in my lap and laughing.
Handing me illegal fire-sticks and finger hazards,
While patting my head.
We’d just launched the finale, when from inside of the house came a boy child’s scream.
Amidst explosion in chaos I ran inside my parents’ home to find my two year old brother screaming apologies as loud as his poor, dear little heart could.
I sprinted a staircase to find my mother examining a rottweiler with a severed eye,
descended again to my fiancé’s screams to find my
loved cat paralyzed, in shock, breathing her last.
He
didn’t mean to.
He’s
sorry.
He
didn’t mean to, mommy, and
He’s sorry.
It’s true.
And I forgive him.
God, they say, cannot deny a rottweiler her nature.
Riggins died over twelve long, agonized hours.
I had to approve of putting the cat out of her misery.
It almost brought mother and I to blows.
I cried for the first time in six months.
I cried for five hours into the night.
I couldn’t even look at her. Do you hear me? DO YOU HEAR ME!?
I couldn’t even look at my first love
As she lay dying.
When I buried her, I watched that rottweiler gloat.
She knew several things.
That since she had puppies, she was in no immediate danger.
That because the children knew her as
Their first love, she was safe and sound.
That God protects the rottweilers, and
That God kills first love. And I reject that.
I reject that to the core of all that I am.
So I, I, so proud of my composure,
Raised my foot and
Drop kicked the bitch in her head while
Carrying my cat to her final resting place.
Before my foot hit the ground,
The rottweiler had bitten a hole in my knee.
I bled on my hands, the shovel,
My blood desecrated my poor cat.
I buried her under a headstone made of wood that says:
“Riggins Bailey. 1985-2001.
Will be back soon. Out eating BBQ chips.”
And every time I come home,
After cursory patting of
Mom, Dad, the kids,
The rottweiler,
I leave BBQ chips on the grave,
Covering where the puppies play.
And when I hear that song,
“Punishment”
By Thomas Newman,
I know why I and all are here on Earth.
God is either a vindictive, malevolent, evil,
Hurting, sadistic son of a bitch,
Or he doesn’t exist.
Here’s one more proof.
And I’d rather the latter,
For my soul,
For that Rottweiler,
For Riggins, and
For God.
Explosions of epiphany
In the background
As God bit through my cat
And me.
Three months later, and it hasn’t,
Will never
Be easy to contemplate.