TREATS
-An Excerpt-
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My wife liked cats. I don’t mean anything metaphorical: she liked Persians, Ragamuffins, Coons. Sam was extraordinary, a smart, dirty blonde who fed the hungry, ran for the cure, and even checked the donor box on her driver’s license, but her love of cats led me down the road that finally threatened to split us apart.
Riding my old Shovelhead the back-assed way from work, I saw something small and dark leap from the bar ditch. The cat made to cross in front of me, so I downshifted and raced the throttle, hoping to scare it off. It kept coming—all I could do was hold on. I wasn’t wearing a helmet, and I’d crashed the motorcycle before. I’d suffered a concussion, and Sam had to pick me up on the sandy, country road and take me to the hospital in town where she made me promise I’d sell the bike the moment our daughter was born. The deal seemed okay at the time. I had a head injury.
The cat thumped beneath my front tire. The rear tire cut across its spine. Fur caught in my spokes and bloomed like fireworks in the hot air. Managing to stay upright, I slowed and looked in my mirror. The cat lay on its side in the middle of the road, tail sweeping back and forth. Poor animal hadn’t made a sound. I pulled over, turned off the bike, and craned back. He must’ve been trying to return to the farm house on the other side of the road.
Breeze rustled the maple before the house. A battered pickup rested in the drive, and beyond were the rusty wheat fields, and the mountains were white and muscular against the sky. The cat’s tail continued to sweep the pavement. I envisioned an angry farmer meeting me on the porch as I cradled the cat. The man would have a gun. He might even have his own little girl at his side peeping up at me, a sweaty, unshaven stranger holding her broken pet. How would I tell them—how would I confess to Sam—that I ran over the cat? A gun was dangerous, but Sam was more lethal. I fired up the bike and revved the throttle, trying to slow my heart.
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