Killer Vibes
In That Haze — No11 (Micro)
When my girlfriend Melody brought home a gray-and-white stray one day in December, I thought the most of my worries would be how many times I had to scoop out the litter box each week.
But Montgomery — affectionately called Monty by my girlfriend — was a terror.
The first chance Monty had, he upended his dry food dish bowl and looked positively triumphant as he walked away, his tail crooked high in the air. Mind, this was when the bastard was in our home only a few weeks.
Monty also had a penchant for clawing at the furniture. When I threatened to get the damn beast’s claws removed, Melody had intervened like a guardian angel, tearfully pleading with me, and I had acquiesced by getting the disastrous furball a cat tower that took up a good chunk of our living room.
I thought it was just a matter of my not being a cat person.
It turned out I had a lot more to fear.
One night while Melody was out with her girlfriends for a few cocktails, I was trying to get a few winks of shut-eye after a long day at the office. I had the lights shut off in the bedroom, the curtains drawn, and the only light came from the radio clock on my nightstand.
