Free Cat Tales by George H. Scithers

Leonard Melnic —
    Well, you get the picture.
    But it must get pretty boring after a while. Like, wouldn’t it be better to have an actual real body and be able to do realer stuff?
    Where did the body come from though? Could Dark Matter and . . . er . . . Mattery Matter exist in the same place?
    Mr. Paws?
    And the way that he behaved? Well, it seemed to make sense that Dark Matter creatures would have a dark nature.
    I didn’t go back to Megan’s that evening, because the idea freaked me out too much.
    But at eight P.M. , the phone goes.
    â€œ T HERE’S SOMEONE in here!”
    â€œThe cat?”
    â€œNo, a person! I can’t see her! But she’s in the bathroom, moving stuff around!”
    â€œFuck Megan, just get out of there, right now!”
    I only begin wondering why Meg called the intruder ‘she’ after I’ve put the phone down. Since . . . she couldn’t see who it was, and intruders are usually ‘he’.
    Maybe she sensed something.
    As I said at the beginning of this, it is ten minutes to Megan’s. More like five if you’re moving fast.
    Twenty fucking minutes passed before I saw her shadowy figure coming down the street. Twenty Godalmighty friggit minutes during which I paced and clenched and almost went insane.
    So I throw open my window, and I’m about to ask her where she’s been, when I see that there’s a big bag thrown over her shoulder.
    â€œYou packed?”
    She looks up at me, but I can’t see her features.
    â€œI’ve got some expensive stuff! I’m not insured, you know!”
    â€œYou fucking packed, with an intruder in your place?”
    â€œDon’t talk to me like that! I’m coming up!”
    About half a minute later, I can hear her footsteps coming up the stairs, and I’m reaching for my door-knob — AND I’M STILL THERE now, with my hand halfway towards it, but not moving.
    Megan’s banging on the door, and saying the same things over and over. They started out whiney-bewildered, and then whiney-frightened. Now she’s sounding whiney-cross.
    â€œLenn-iieee? Please! Let me in! Lenny, what are you doing?”
    I’m not listening to the words any more. Just to the tone of her voice. Trying to detect something.
    What?
    Like . . . sly. Deceptive.
    Something . . . just not right.
    You see, I may not be any Professor Stephen Hawking, but I’ve figured out one thing for myself.
    If there really are such things as non-existent cats, then a lot of them, without a doubt, have non-existent owners.
    Tony Richards tells us that he’s never kept pets him- self — “I’m just away from home too much. But the cats of neighbours have always played a large part of my life down the years, all those Smokies, Snoopies, and Misties coming nosing around my place to see what I’m up to. Curiosity killed the cat? The ones who live near me seem to thrive on it. It’s that quality, plus their energy and occasional capacity of mischief, that was part of the inspiration for this story.”

ANGELIQUE’S
    by Sandra Beswetherick
    B EN STOOD in the graveled lot of the roadside café, unbelieving. Gone were the window boxes overflowing with petunias and geraniums, gone the bright, freshly-painted look of the building.
    Even the overhead sign was now missing letters; ANGELIQUE’S reduced to ANGEL’S .
    He opened the café’s door, and no ginger cat jumped down from its chair to wind about his legs and meow a greeting. The air smelled of cigarettes and fryer grease.
    â€œI’m looking for Angelique.” Ben raised his voice to be heard above the football match playing on the widescreen.
    â€œDon’t know any Angelique,” answered the burly man behind the bar.
    â€œYou must know her! This was her café. Angelique’s.” His voice sounded desperate even in his own ears.
    The café had been a wreck of a building when she’d bought