Why is there a dead cat on my coffee table?

Falling asleep on the couch is not unusual. Waking up to a dead cat is a fresh surprise. I rub the sleep from my blurry eyes. The corpse is still there. The strangest thing is, it’s not mine. I’ve never owned a cat. I don’t recall ever seeing or hearing one in my apartment complex.

Someone must have broken in, placed the cat, and snuck out. Which begs the question, why would someone break into my apartment to leave me a cat corpse?

I make a physical inspection of the door and two windows. They appear to be fine. It’s not like I know how to tell if they were picked or jimmied or whatever the proper term is. Having checked them, I feel safer for no logical reason.

Truth be told, I only lock the doors half the time anyway. My apartment complex is ideally located in the city and the apartments are well maintained. Occupancy turnover is low, giving the place a small-town feel. Everyone knows everyone else, if only by association. A few tenants even grew up in the complex, married, and are raising kids of their own.

Kids, of course!

No. Wait.

None of the kids I know would pull such a disturbing prank.

What’s perplexing me now is, what do I do with it? I’m fairly certain I can’t put it in the trash. Cats are way too big to flush down the toilet like a fish. As an apartment dweller, I don’t have a yard, or tools, to bury it. A brief search of the phonebook shows three veterinarians close by. There’s one catch. How do I transport it there? Your average city dweller doesn’t ride on the subway carrying a dead cat in a bag. The few who do are quickly taken to a psychiatric hospital.

Surely there’s someone in this apartment complex who knows what to do. I think a maintenance man inspects the building once or twice a week. I bet if I left it in a dark corner somewhere, he will find it and dispose of it properly. Time’s running out to catch the bus to work. I will have to wait until I return from work to get rid of it.

I rummage around for something to cover the cat so I won’t have to look at it. The thing has been dead for a day, maybe two. Rigor mortis has set and then passed, leaving it in an unnatural position with shriveled eyes and tongue sticking out. The hair is clumpy and standing up.

I grab a dish towel and then reconsider. No matter how many times I wash it, I will never want to dry a dish with a towel that touched a dead cat. When I run out of candidates, I settle on the bachelor cure-all for every mess.

I tear off a dozen paper towel sheets and drape them over the body like a tent. Then I spray some deodorizer on the towels and in the air to ward off any smells of decomposition.

Work is the typical grind but serves to distract me from thinking of the dead cat at home. The workday ends, so I grabbed a sandwich on the way home. No way do I want to cook with the cat in the kitchen.

After eating, I busy myself until bedtime. I set my alarm clock for 3 AM. My logic being most people are asleep by 2 AM and early risers don’t wake until 4 AM.

The alarm clock goes off way too soon, but I rouse myself out of bed. Fancying myself to be on a secret, ninja-type mission, I foolishly dress all in black. I even wear my running shoes for silent movement. Of course, after I step out my front door, I realize all the hallways are well lit.

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If someone spots me, I’ll appear more suspicious dressed like a cat burglar than if I were wearing a loud floral shirt.

Actually, I wish I had a loud floral shirt and a half-empty liquor bottle. Who thinks twice about a man in a gaudy shirt returning from a night of heavy drinking, bottle in one hand and a dead cat in the other?

I set out quietly down the hallway to find a dark corner.

The quiet of the early morning is unsettling. Each footfall crunches on the carpet and reverberates down the hallways. I make one full pass around my floor and don’t find any place suitable. Then I recall the laundry room has a broken washing machine.

That’s the perfect place for a maintenance worker to find the body. I backtrack down a hallway lit by a dying compact fluorescent light. The high frequency flickering is mesmerizing.

I jump from the sound of a closing door. In a panic, I race around the corner and make a beeline for the laundry room. Thankfully, it is empty at this early hour, although there are two dryers in operation.

After a furtive glance down the hallway, I tuck the kitty cadaver behind the broken washing machine. Satisfied I have done my duty, I hurry back to my apartment and wash off the cold sweat.

Conscience is a funny thing. For most of the day, it leaves you alone. Only after you’re tucked into bed does it begin whispering accusations. Have I done the right thing?

I toss and turn, trying to put all thoughts out of my head. Of course I did the right thing. It will be dawn soon and time to go to work. Sleep is more important, I reassure myself.

Just as I nod off, a thought strikes like an unexpected kick to the head. The laundry room is warm and damp. Dead things decay faster in warm, damp places. What if the cat isn’t found soon and starts rotting? Will the smell get into people’s clothes? If so, there will certainly be a committee of concerned citizens formed to sniff out the culprit. Argh! I need to find a better hiding place.

I dress again and shuffle off to the laundry room. I lean over to extract the corpse from behind the broken washing machine. 

BZZZZT!

The timers from both running clothes dryers go off, nearly giving me a heart attack.

Blame it on the hour and the circumstances, but a bizarre thought comes to mind. If I am found dead in this spot, tomorrow’s headline will read, ‘Killer Clothes Washer Kills Man and Cat’.

My heart still racing, I grab the cat and continue my desperate search to find a better hiding place. Figuring most people with something to hide would go downstairs rather than up, I use reverse psychology and climb up three floors. I open the stairwell door and scan left and right. The coast is clear.

Without a clear destination in mind, I turn left and begin walking. Not finding a broom closet or other maintenance-looking room, I take a right at the end of the hallway. This hallway also has nowhere suitable to hide a cat corpse. So I take another right and pray I find some place soon.

The further I walk without finding a hiding spot, the more sweat beads on my forehead and runs down my back and chest. The cat feels heavier and I am running out of hallway yet again. Then I pass a door and notice out of my peripheral vision, it’s slightly ajar.

Time painfully crawls by while I stand at the threshold. I listen for the sounds of someone moving about. Satisfied the occupant is gone or asleep, I slowly open the door. When the gap is just large enough for me to squeeze through, I sneak in.

The kitchenette is barely lit by a nightlight. A soft lamp glows inside the living room area. In the center of the living room sits an old wooden coffee table. One edge holds a stack of unopened mail, but the center is clear. I gingerly lay the cat down on the marred and scratched surface.

Should I leave it lying on the paper towels? No, that won’t look natural. Even the most gullible person will never believe a cat laid down paper towels before climbing on a coffee table to die.

Quietly opening cupboard doors, I search the kitchenette for a trash can. Hinges squeal as the front door swings open. A brunette about my age is backing through the doorway in a half-crouch. She’s struggling to squeeze a large, overflowing basket of clean laundry through the entrance.

The smell of fabric softener precedes her into the room. I back towards the living room, praying to find something to hide behind in hopes I’m not seen and can sneak out. 

The brunette turns around, spots me, and lets out a small yelp. Her laundry basket plummets and carefully folded clothes tumble onto the floor. She assumes a martial arts pose and does this menacing chop-the-air thing you see in cheap kung-fu movies. 

With a scowl, she demands, “Who are you? What are you doing in-“ She looks past me to focus on the cat. Her attitude instantly changes from indignation to puzzlement. Her karate stance relaxes. “How…how did you know I left the cat in your apartment?”