Spook, the Greaser Cat

  The woman gazed thoughtfully at her one year old male cat.  They'd named him Spook because he was frightened of the wind.  He'd soon sought revenge for their laughter by hiding around corners and pouncing on their feet.  His attitude was undeniably grim, and he was beginning to look...well, like a 50's greaser.  As if he was channeling James Dean.  Everything that keeps mothers awake at night.

  She turned on the water to fill the tub while Spook danced about the kitchen, chasing unseen creatures.  No doubt about it, he was drunk again.  The woman had had cats all her life, but she'd never had to deal with a greaser cat before.  Her mother had warned her about those rebellious males.  "Get them neutered right away," she'd always say.  The woman never wanted to do that to the little fella, though.  He'd keep it in his pants, wouldn't he?  "He doesn't even bother to wear pants," her husband pointed out.

  She let her hand trail listlessly in the bathwater.  She knew Spook kept a leather jacket in the garden shed - she'd noticed it the other day while she was searching for her trowel.  What bothered her the most was the keys in the pockets.  The lady sighed, there was no denying it anymore, Spook was definitely a greaser, and he was getting into trouble.

  It wasn't the fashion that bothered her; it was the way he came home stinking of exhaust fumes, gasoline, and cigarettes.  The newspapers were riddled with stories of the recent rash of truck thefts.  Yes, trucks.  Always black pickups, which she knew Spook had a special affinity for. 

  He had also joined a band, every night she could hear him caterwauling with his cronies at the hockey rink.  She didn't have the heart to tell him that he wasn't any good.  What kind of mother discourages her child's creative expression?

  But car theft?  It would only be a matter of time now before he was impregnating some minor.  Who could resist such a cuddly kitty?  A tear ran swiftly down her cheek - she certainly couldn't.

  She placed Spook in the bathwater despite his vast repertoire of curses and complaints, and gently washed the brillo cream from his fur.  Later that day she'd donate his jacket to goodwill.  "Tomorrow, young man," she told him, "you are getting neutered."

  Spook never made it to the vet.  He couldn't handle losing what he valued most.  That night he stole his last truck, bought a 2-4 of his favourite beer, and drove straight into the dog pound.  His body was never found.