Cat Lady

(Modelling Credit: Cara Jane)

by Ché Monro

I was called out to a house in the eastern suburbs. As I stood in the driveway I stared up at the peeling, grime-streaked Victorian house. It was huge. It looked like the house in the Addams Family. It would have been worth a fortune, but it was going to ruin.

As soon as I walked through the gate I knew something was wrong. There was a familiar smell. What was it? Cats. Cat piss was dribbling down the outside walls.

The owner was an old lady, of course, her hair white, eyes pale blue. We talked for a while, her husband had passed away ten years ago. The place was full of cats. How many were there? Thirty? Fifty? More? Their filth was everywhere, everywhere. They just did their business wherever they felt like it. The females had their kittens wherever they liked, in drawers, in cupboards. The toms marked the walls and the floors indiscriminately. The smell was unbearable.

It was soon apparent that the wiring was shot. It was a wonder the house hadn't caught fire long ago, the wiring was in a shocking state. The house needed rewiring from top to bottom, which would take days, and would cost a packet. Could she afford it? Would I get paid?

The thought of pulling wiring through those walls, wading through that filth was unbearable. The thought of working in that house, in that smell, for days, made me want to vomit. Stringing wires over ceilings, under floors, inside walls. The filth would get all over you. Who knew what was down under those floors? Dead kittens? Rats? God knows.

I'd only been there ten minutes and I just wanted to get the hell out. I told her she'd lost a phase. "Call the power company, love," I said. Then I fled, stumbling down the steps. The smoggy city air never smelt so fresh and clean.

The shit of it was that it was a lovely old house in a prime location. Properly done up it would have sold for a million bucks. Hell, even torching the place would have improved it a hundred percent. Then you could borrow money and put up a new block of flats and make a tidy profit. But it would never happen while the old lady and her cats were there.

I should have called the council. I should have called the RSPCA. Some of those animals were sick, I'd seen a couple with the tell tale weeping eyes that spoke of feline influenza. It was a public health issue! Those cats should have been caged up, and carted off to the pound and put down. The old lady should have been put in a home. It was the only answer.

In the end though, I did nothing, figuring it was none of my business.

She called me that night. The power company had come and told her the house had to be rewired. Could I do the job?

"No," I said. "I'm going overseas."

When?

"Tomorrow."

For how long?

"Two years."

When she rang off I sat there for a moment feeling something. It took a few seconds to identify it: Sheer bloody relief. I never heard from her again. Still, I sometimes wonder what happened to her, though.