I don’t cry when George kills the cat. Cats exist for a purpose, just like the rest of us. This cat’s job was to kill mice. Instead, it sat inside all day and went batshit crazy every time someone said the word government. Lazy fuckin’ communist cat. If I stopped collectin' eggs in the mornin' I wouldn’t blame George for shootin’ me too. 

I wake in the middle of the night. My chest hurts. Maybe it’s palpitations or some shit. Mama will yell if I turn on the light so I stumble to the kitchen in the dark. The kettle’s half-full. I crank the stovetop dial to high. It takes about a minute to boil. I grab an old hot water bottle, the rubbery red kind we used for stomach aches as kids, and I fill it up. When I try to screw the lid back in, some of the water splashes on my arm, blistering hot like fire. I curse under my breath. 

I get back into bed and pull the covers up, hot water bottle cradled against my body. This is the time when the cat comes into my room wailin' and snarlin'. It usually sleeps on my chest, or sometimes my face, like it’s tryin' to suffocate me in my sleep. Probably is. Was. I thank God the fuckin’ cat’s dead because now I’ll be able to sleep through the night without it coughin' up a fuckin’ hairball. 

Dawn. Time to collect the eggs. The sun’s too bright to open my eyes. I feel the cat on my chest. I move to shove it off but it’s only the hot water bottle.

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Ella Bachrach is from a small mountain town in northwestern Canada. She thinks many things and occasionally puts them into words. You can find her on Twitter @ellamaayo.