Me and My Hydrocortisone Cream
My left eye refuses to open. I hastily wake from my hazy sleep and stumble to the bathroom mirror. A gasp escapes my chest as the mirror reveals an eye swollen shut and tinted poison pink.
I blame the neighborhood’s evil cat.
Pussy and I have had a problem since I moved in seven years ago. My house-let has a tiny plot of land in front and back, enough to encourage my budding gardening passion. Hours spent in the hot California sun; covered in sweat and dirt and occasionally blood have yielded a yearly row of gladiolas in the back and fragrant roses in the front.
Imagine my dismay then, to find daily “presents” left in my rose bed that kitty has mistaken for a litter box. This presents not only a problem of health for my flowers (chewed leaves, dug up roots, floating balls of fur), but of fragrance. Remember the scent of a rose - a rose you cultivated over the years; planted, watered, nurtured, weeded, trimmed and kept away from rocks and bugs, all for the glory of a bloom? Now, picture a cat’s litter box. Go ahead, whiff in the scent; take a good, long snort. That’s what my glorious roses stink of. Hot cat shit. 100 degrees in the valley and I come home to hot cat shit. Clearly not the perfume I cultivated with my sweat.
So pussy and I play war.
I see him basking in the sun on the ledge near my backdoor, and I stealthily grab a spray bottle filled with water (my sister talked me out of poison), and sneak to my door, creak open the hinge, take aim…and miss! He saw me coming, the evil one has sensors. Pussy: 1, Me: 0.
We lock eyes. Both our slits narrow as we size each other up. The evil one has just left me a large package, and I catch him burying the evidence. I have nothing to throw or spray, so I merely lunge forward with an “I’m gonna smash you” stance. Pussy runs, but I still catch a glimpse of his triumphant, smug cat smile. Pussy: 2, Me: 0.
He won’t laugh at me anymore, I think as I laboriously shovel up his leavings. I’m readying the soil for Cat Repellant. An effective powder, although harmless (sister once again talked me out of poison), which seems to work, halleluiah! Pussy: 2, Me:1! Then the labor of it all wears me down – the repellant must be sprinkled daily, at the same time, front and back, on untainted soil. I miss a day, and the cat is back. Not feeling like digging, I’m quickly overwhelmed by how quickly he overwhelms. Pussy: 3, Me: ½.
My gladiolas are chewed to the ground and poisonous thoughts once again swirl in my head, when a Sonar Cat Repellant arrives in the mail (sister is an avid animal lover – she loves animals more than people, and knows I’m about to lose it with the cat). I buy a battery and I see cat no more! Ha ha! Pussy: 3, Me 1 ½. Until…the battery wears out.
The evil one uses his evil sensors and somehow knows it’s safe to come back. He makes quick, stinky work full of fur balls and hate before I have a chance to get to the store. Little do I know he’s left his newest present full of spite…a flea for me.
It’s 1:00 am and in bed I go, but sleep eludes as my foot starts to itch. Thinking it’ll pass, I lay patient in bed, but an hour goes and the itch can’t be scratched. A flea! It’s biting me! I feel my foot, now severally swollen with juicy bites and look for the bugger, nowhere to be found. Tossing and turning, I grab a book to pass the sleepless night. 3:00 am, lights off, and on with the itching – this time, my arms. I pray for Mr. Flea to fall asleep so I can follow, but 4:00 am comes with no relief. I take my Buddha book to the other room, hoping to outsmart the bug. 5:00 am, back in bed, and the biting’s back on.
6:00 am, the light reveals a large speck – too large for a tiny flea. I curiously pick it up, and my fingers spot with blood as the speck is squished. The flea was fat with my blood from munching my tasty flesh all night long. Damage check for bites: four on my right arm, one on my back, three on my neck, too many to count on my feet, and the triumphant bite on my left eye. Pussy must die.
But first, I must bathe in hydrocortisone cream. For once, I’m sad I don’t hit the hard stuff, and hydrocortisone must do. And do, and do. Every two hours I must re-cream, as I daydream about being scrubbed down by a hot man with a loofha.
It infects my brain – the poison of the flea mingling with the drug of the cream, and as I make my way to the store, I have a choice: buy a battery or a baseball bat. Keep the cat at bay or permanently away – by killing it with the bat. Battery or bat, battery or bat? My itchy resolve for death to Pussy sadly melts away when I discover the store of choice doesn’t carry a murder bat, and asking for poison always raises too many eyebrows (which is difficult in a city of Botox victims), so I buy my battery, and drive home, defeated.
Pussy: 4, Me: 2. You’ve won this round, evil Pussy.
