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Rated: E · Fiction · Contest · #1832219
Don't think you can stay.
Give me a break. You’re a cat. You’re fine out there – a little rain never hurt anybody. You can’t come in. You don’t live here. You live outside, all over the neighborhood. You’re a cat.

Besides, you’re a pain. Remember last week, what you did to that little kid next door, the one with the birthday party in the back yard? A balloon floats over here, the kid stands there at the fence, watching while you reach out with a claw and POP! The kid is crying, his mom is looking over at me, probably figures it’s my fault, since you’re in my yard. She probably wants to throw something at me, or at you, God knows you deserve it.  But she doesn’t. Maybe she knows you’re not my cat. Maybe she figures Marie wouldn’t have wanted her to get mad at you, if Marie were still here.

And that’s another thing. Marie was forever standing there at the screen door, talking to you. Drove me nuts. As if you understood anything. You’re a cat. She kept buying you food, setting out a dish, remember that?  That she was the one who started the food thing? First it was dry food, not too expensive.  Then she was buying the canned stuff. I’d say, “For God’s sake, Marie, he eats better than we do. He’s a cat.” She’d just smile. Remember her smile? Why don’t you smile? Because you can’t. You’re a cat.

You have to stay outside. I don’t want you tracking mud in, little mud footprints all over the carpet. I always wanted to keep the carpet clean for Marie. She liked things clean. That’s why I keep her picture clean, up there on the mantel, why I dust it every day.

Okay, come in. Just this once.

(Word count: 299)
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