I once had a strange cat that I got from a strange cat. He was polydactyl, meaning that he had two extra toes on each foot, and I named him Baloo. I got him from my landlord, Bob.
According to Bob, Baloo was descended from the small colony of polydactyl cats that lived on Ernest Hemingway’s estate in the Florida keys. Whether or not Bob was a reliable source was another matter. Don’t get me wrong, Bob was very reliable. A friend of his had an Isuzu that bore an insurance policy that was worth considerably more than the car. One night Bob knocked on my door at 3am and asked if I’d like to shave $100 off my rent that month.
I pulled on some shorts and a T-shirt and followed him out to his friend’s vehicle. He had a key, which he used to turn off the alarm and open it, but once we had it open he jammed a screwdriver into the lock with a hammer and then set about the ignition wires with a pair of needle-nosed pliers. We rode around at high speed, burning donuts into the pavement of deserted intersections.
“Now the fun begins,” Bob announced gleefully, “No damage, no payout.”
What sound ensues when you scrape a car against a guard rail for a mile straight? Bob and I know. How does the exhaust note of a car change when you shear off the muffler by hopping a curb at forty miles an hour? Bob and I know. What does an alloy wheel look like after you’ve driven it five miles with no tire? Bob and I know. What does transmission fluid smell like when it’s burning? Bob and I know.
After examining the smoldering carcass found in the street, the insurance company paid out in full. Like I said, Bob was reliable.
Years later, on the morning of Dia de los Muertos, a wicked hangover was the trick following the treat of a debaucherous Halloween party. I woke up shivering, missing the warm bulk of orange fur that Baloo had become. I opened a can of his favorite cat food, nearly retching as the smell that he found so enticing assaulted my nostrils, but Baloo failed to appear.
I went outside to take out the beer can-swollen trash and began to sob. A six-toed paw, covered in orange fur, held the curb in a death grip as the gutter cradled his lifeless, bludgeoned form. I swear I caught the faintest whiff of burning transmission fluid.
Literature in Small Doses 