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You’re listening to The Ghost of Dog
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on the Voice of Dog,
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and Tonight’s story is
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“Cat Problems” by James Stone,
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published in Dread
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by Sinister Stoat Press.
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He mostly writes horror, SciFi, and fantasy.
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His works can also be found in
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A Swordmaster’s Tale
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by Armoured Fox Publishing
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and Bleak Horizons
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by Furplanet. Read by Rob MacWolf,
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Werewolf Hitchhiker.
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Be cautioned. Our story tonight concerns both blood and injury.
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Weigh carefully the decision to proceed, for none can make it but yourself.
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Anyone who has a pet will admit to some frustrations.
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Housetraining. Barking.
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Demanding food and attention.
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But is there any amount of frustration that would make a pet we love more trouble than it is worth?
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Most would say not.
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Perhaps even when they should.
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By way of demonstration,
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Please enjoy “Cat Problems”
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by James Stone
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Roger was a cat person.
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There’s no end to the irony of a big Golden Lab guy with cats for pets.
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It started years ago with one gray kitten.
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One became two, then a handful.
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He had fifteen cats at his peak. They were always around. Sleeping on his lap.
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Brushing by his legs.
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Little purring reminders that he wasn’t alone,
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and that he was loved.
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One by one over the years, Roger’s beloved cats passed away.
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Some were old and some died of cancer.
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He didn’t get any new cats. That would feel like
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betrayal. Like he was cheating the memory of little Jeeves.
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Of Rory. Of Sally and Splinter and Beruthiel.
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At last only old Scratch, his one black cat, was left to keep Roger company in his lonely house.
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Roger was a programmer.
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He worked from home,
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and it made him depressed. He didn’t see
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a lot of people, at least not in any meaningful way.
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He knew the name of the cashier at the grocery, and the
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cashier always asked about Roger’s cats.
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Cat. Still, Roger didn’t get any real attention from anyone other than Scratch.
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As Roger would sit in the dark back corner of his basement and type line after line of code,
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he sometimes wondered what he would do when Scratch was gone.
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He was a loyal guy.
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He couldn’t replace any of them. What would he do when he woke up at 3am if there wasn’t a little purring bundle weighing his chest down?
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To be honest, the thought made Roger very anxious.
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He had told the doctor this a while back,
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and the doctor kinda shook his head understandingly. He gave Roger some pills to help with his anxiety.
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Not for all the time. Just for those times when Roger felt his ears going back and
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his hackles raising
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and a deep growlllll
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starting back in his throat.
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He’d reach up to the shelf and take down his pill bottle
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and shake out a pill. Then he’d walk over to the basement mini-fridge and pull out a slice of American cheese.
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He’d unwrap it carefully,
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and wad it up around his pill,
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and then gobble it down hurriedly.
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His tail would wag as
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he imagined it working already
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to make him less of a scaredy-cat.
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Scaredy-dog. One day, after an ears-hackles-growllll session, Roger was sitting at his computer. He was
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trying to figure out why his methods in his class weren’t being recognized by his package.
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Old Scratch was rubbing against his legs and meowing.
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Roger was trying to concentrate so he would reach a paw down and
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maybe get a brush of Scratch’s tail before
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the cat disappeared under the desk out of reach,
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and Roger returned his paw to the keyboard only to reach down again the next time Scratch’s dark form wandered past his legs.
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At one point, Scratch well…scratched
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him. Roger yelped and
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yanked his paw back.
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He looked at it in the glow of his monitor and a trickle of dark blood dripped down his pawpad.
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He stuck his finger in his muzzle and sucked on it, whimpering a little.
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Anyone who’s owned a cat has got scratched before,
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but Scratch was always a nice cat in that way and
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had never scratched or bit Roger.
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Roger felt a little betrayed as he sucked on his wounded finger
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and tasted his blood.
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He decided he was tasting too much blood and needed a bandaid.
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He started to get up
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and glanced across the room
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only to see Scratch curled up
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and blissfully asleep
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in Roger’s easy chair.
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How had Scratch got over there so quickly and fallen asleep so soundly,
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thought Roger. He was still thinking about this when
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his leg was brushed again
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-under the desk
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-by something. Roger glanced again at the sleeping Scratch.
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He felt that his hackles would have been raising,
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and his ears would have been going back,
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and his throat would have been growly except
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that pill he took was doing whatever it did.
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If it hadn’t being doing that,
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Roger would never have had the courage to do what he did next:
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He slid a little backwards
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and looked under the desk.
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Two eyes glowed red
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in the dim reflected gleam of the monitor.
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Something brushed his leg again.
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The two eyes became five.
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Then eight. Another couple things brushed his leg.
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Roger stopped counting eyes
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at eighteen. He had stopped looking altogether
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to be honest. Whatever it was under Roger’s desk
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-sitting by Roger’s paws
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-mewled and stroked his legs again.
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Roger knew, in that way that anyone who has owned a cat knew,
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what that mewling meant.
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He glanced up at his bottle of pills, and over at his mini-fridge
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with its cheese slices.
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He glanced over at Scratch
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who was now standing with his own hackles raised
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and his tail all puffed.
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The mewling sounds changed.
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Roger could barely make out
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whispered words. “Cat.
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Food.” He turned his chair
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and looked back at the bag of cat food.
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More whispers.
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“No. Food. Cat. Please.” Roger looked back at Scratch.
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He took a deep breath,
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clamped his eyes shut again,
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and reached his bleeding finger
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down under his desk
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instead. Mrs. Abernathy was standing on Roger’s stoop, talking.
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He had his head stuck through the crack in his front door as she went on and on,
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nervously wringing her hands and saying something about
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blood. Roger wasn’t really listening to her.
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His missing finger hurt a lot,
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and there was a nice voice telling him what a good boy he was.
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The voice wasn’t under his desk anymore.
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It seemed to come from somewhere just out-of-the-corner of his vision.
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His ears moved to try and hear it better
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but Mrs. Abernathy was now shouting about her missing son.
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That made Roger anxious. He wanted to shut the door to listen closer to the voice
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because it seemed, well,
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so nice. Roger hadn’t felt this loved
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in years This was
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“Cat Problems” by James Stone,
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read for you by Rob MacWolf,
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Werewolf Hitchhiker,
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and this concludes this year’s Ghost of Dog.
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Now that Halloween —
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and Fat Bear Week are behind us we’re
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going to take it a little easier,
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and The Voice of Dog is moving to its winter schedule,
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with one new story per week,
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coming out every monday.
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As always, you can find more stories on the web at thevoice.dog,
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or find the show wherever you get your podcasts.
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And on behalf of my co-host Rob
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and all the Friends of the Fireplace who contributed their words and voices
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to this year’s spooky season:
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Thank you for listening
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to The Voice of Dog.
