Corporal

Author's note: I've taken to dream journaling as a way to practice writing quickly, I am a notoriously slow writer. The stories in the Dream Journal series are dreams, retold as short stories and written in 45 minutes or less.

"Corporal, you mean old thing," Liz chided. This cat was a sport hunter, taking out warblers and finches for the sheer enjoyment of it. He dragged his catches home and lay them on the welcome mat.

At first, Liz buried Corporal's victims in the flower bed, the first finch was interred under the hosta. She read Luther's Psalm. As the weeks passed Corporal proved to be a prolific poacher. It took him no time to convert the garden into a cemetery. The more recent interments were less dignified.

Liz retrieved a plastic bag from the kitchen and returned for the bird. Lifting the lifeless lump from the mat, Liz begrudged the streak of sentimentality that swayed her to take in the cat.

When Jasper died, no one came. The ill-humoured man ordered a pizza and died before it got there. Some of the neighbours said he knew he was dying and called in the pizza as a last act of revenge on the delivery person. Jasper blamed the boy for knocking over his mailbox some months before. Liz would not have passed it by him.

Whether he knew the end was coming or not, it came. When the delivery person arrived, Liz was on the porch with her tea. She nearly dumped it on herself when she heard the boy shriek. He ran back to the car. He sat there for what seemed a very long time.

Liz put down her tea and went to check on the lad. She tapped on the window, the boy rolled down the window. He looked younger up close. He was perhaps 17, a school-aged boy with big scared eyes.

"Are you alright, dear?" Liz asked. "I know Jasper has a bit of bark to him, but he doesn't bite. Hasn't got any teeth left." She chuckled.

The boy nodded slowly. "They told me to wait here," the words were slow and emotionless. "I think he's dead."

"Oh, I see," was all Liz could muster. It wasn't the first time one of the neighbours went to meet their maker, and it wouldn't be the last. It was a tricky truth about retirement villages. People passed away, and when they were already dead, the ambulance took its time getting here. "Right, well, why don't you come up to the porch then? I'll get you a pop."

Liz got the young man settled with a cream soda. Sugar, she recalled, is good for shock. Liz and the boy sat on the porch, as he sipped cream soda. He said very little.

When the ambulance arrived, it had neither the lights nor the siren going. The two attendants got out and lumbered up to the door. They had barely gone halfway up the path when a police car arrived, and the familiar scene played out.

Jasper's door was predictably locked. A large black van emblazoned with Randy's Locks and Security pulled up some time later. A small crowd of people gathered on the sidewalk, tutting and muttering.

Gossip swirled up the street. He had stopped taking his heart medication. The cleaning lady probably did him in, which serves him right. Many wondered how long he'd been in there. The talk echoed the collective fears of Elm Terrace: to die alone, unnoticed, and unwanted.

Then quite suddenly the paramedics rolled out Jasper, wrapped in a black bag and took him away. The police officer spoke briefly to the young boy, still holding an empty can of cream soda. The boy's father and mother came to retrieve both the boy and the car. Before long, the whole business was over, the small crowd dissipated, and it looked very much like nothing of interest had happened at all.

In the days that followed, no one came. Liz had been expecting someone to come by and ask for a key, but no one ever did. On the fourth day, Liz looked up at the house and noticed something move in the window. Took them long enough. Liz kept an eye on the window, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jasper's executor, whoever they may be.

To her surprise, when the figure moved back into the window, it wasn't a person at all. A tawny tabby cat paced back and forth across the window cill. The creature meowed piteously, left behind.

Liz felt her heart sink. The poor thing. She marched straight to the junk drawer. Jasper had left her a key a few years back after he locked himself outside.

"I'm too old to go through windows," he had snarled.

Liz took the key and practically stormed the empty house. She flung the door open, the cat cried on its window seat. Liz rummaged through the cupboards. She found some tins of cat food, stacked haphazard beside the coffee mugs. A faded note taped on the inside of the door read: "Feed Corporal. Call Jen on Wednesday."

Liz sucked in her lips and let out a hollow breath.

The cat, who must be Corporal, kneaded his claws into her pant leg. "Yes, yes." Liz soothed, "You must be hungry my dear." Liz dispensed a spoonful of the pasted chicken liver onto a plate decorated with fish bones and paw prints.

The tabby ran for the morsel, woofing it down in a flash. It pawed at her hand, gently without claws, wanting more. It was then Liz knew Corporal was coming to stay.

Liz stroked Corporal and shook her head. "I know," she whispered.