Bitten by toshiyuki ihira (read books for money .txt) 📕

Following is a part of ebook, “Bitten” and this is a promotional read intended to intice you to read the rest of this ebook, $0.99 for Kindle, Windows PC and iPhone at www.Amazon.com or $1.10 at www.Smashwords.com where you can find more various formats.


Bitten


Copyright © 2009 toshiyuki ihira

ISBN 978-0-9816760-2-9


Life is slow when you are a child. Not much happens. Just your senses are very keen and you watch everything around, listen to conversations, try to see what you can get away with. Admonitions from your grandparents are stinging but soon forgotten. Your parents are always busy and you don't see them during the day. I was a child no one wanted so, I was left at my mother's parents house that happened to be two houses down. Too young to go to a grade school, all day is spent on milling around the house. And …, there was a cat, too small to hurt anyone. He hadn't molted his fur, yet.
There is a long walkway running along multiple rooms, about 4 feet wide, keeping summer sun out and let you move about the house without getting into any room. Rooms are separated by sliding wooden paper screened doors so when it is summer you can remove all the sliding doors and have a large open space with a nice breeze going through. Floor is raised 3 feet off the ground. You can dangle your legs out sitting on the walkway eating watermelon. Small pond with carps is 10 steps away. You can spit seeds into that pond if you are willing to hyperventilate. Just don't let grandparents see.
A small cat doesn't have anything to do, either.
Rope's fraying end is like a tail of a cat. Rope sitting still doesn't catch cat's eye. Pull on it a little, make it hop. Cat's head will snap with eyes, … eyes on first pull, you can see its slitted pupils undulate trying to focus on the fluffy frayed end. I don't want to let the cat catch it. So, I pull and pull every time the cat wants to pounce on the fluffy end. After awhile the cat doesn't want to play any more. I gather up and throw down the rope in front of the cat. It looks at it, try to pounce. I pull, again. I pull hard, laughing. He doesn't even touch the fluffy end. He turns and walks away. I gather up the rope and follow him, get in front of him and throw down the rope. He looks at me but doesn't look at the rope. He sits down and lies down with his head resting on front paws. I gather up the rope and throw it down a little closer to him. I wiggle it, trying to entice him to pounce. Wiggle, again, … and again. He leaps up and pounce on the puffy ball. I pull, pull hard, laughing. He doesn't get to touch and feel the fluffy ball. … He walks away. After a fit of laughing, I see him walking away from me. I gather up the rope and follow him. “You are staying with me,” I stand in front of him, looking down. He is too young to go far out of home. He never leaves the house more than you can spit watermelon seeds. He stays. I throw down the rope in front of him, even closer. I wiggle the rope, … again, … again. He doesn't pounce. I want to play with him and if that's what I want, I have to figure out why he doesn't want to any more. … I place the rope right next to him and wiggle, … again, … pull to make it hop, not too hard. I let the rope hop two cat's steps. I wiggle the rope, … again, … again, and pull to make it hop one cat's step. … No, he doesn't want to. … (“Ahhh, I over did it.”) … I sit next to him and pet him, as gentle as I can, saying “mee, … mee.” We sit there a long time. And after a while he looks up at me. I look back into his eyes. I let him touch the fluffy end of the rope. He plays with it a little. He bites it to get a feel of it. “Whoa, don't eat it.” He bites some more. He can taste it as much as he wants.
He is growing. He is getting heavier.
One night, I wake up. His cry wakes me up. It is like a moan, “ooooowwwww, … … ooooowwww.” I have seen his hair here and there around the house but it's normal, isn't it? When he notices me waking up, he stops crying. I go back to sleep.
Next morning, I don't see him. He is with me every day. I am worried and I remember him crying last night. I start looking for him. I first look outside. He is too small to fend for himself, still. Neighborhood cats can really hurt him or even a dog. It's quiet. All I see is pebble stones on the ground. I go over to look in the front of the house. I see few cars go by passing the end of front walk. I don't see him. I check under the house. He usually doesn't go in there because it's dirty and dusty. He isn't there. I go back into the house, starting to panic. Grandparents are getting breakfast ready. I ask them if they have seen the cat. Not this morning. I don't know where to look. He is still small. He doesn't spend a lot time away from the house. He hasn't been to the end of front walk. I go back into my room. I look around, all four corners are empty. There is no place to hide here. I look at the door of the closet. It's quiet. Slide the door and look inside. First, top shelf. He can't climb up this high but just in case. I move boxes and look behind them. He isn't there. I crouch down on my hands and start checking the bottom space. It's dark at the corners. I don't hear anything but I have to check so, I wait until I can see. All the way back in the corner, he is there. How he get here?! The door was closed. I crawl in to get him. “Mee, … mee.” I pick him up and carry him out into the brighter room. He is shivering. He can't be cold. It's middle of summer. … I see a patch of almost shaven skin on his side. I touch it. It is not a cut. There is no bleeding. It's just bare. I pull on his other fur. They come off in a bunch. He sees me holding his fur and starts to shake harder. I stare at fur in my hand. My eyes getting bigger. I run to grandparents. It takes forever. By the time I get to them I am huffing.
“Cat is losing his hair, ... in a bunch. Look.” I hold out my hand with his fur in it.
“Ah … , get them in the trash can. Don't drop it.” Grandma yells at me.
“No, look. Something is wrong with him.” They have to get a closer look.
“It happens to a first year cat. Put that in the trash can.” Grandpa isn't even interested.
“But, he is sick.”
“ … … How do you know he is sick?”
“Look.” I stick my hand up higher, in their direction.
“Is he throwing up? Is he bleeding?”
“No, he is not throwing up. My room is clean.”
“Then, he is o.k. Put that in the trash can and get ready to eat your breakfast.”
As my grandfather explains it, every cat sheds its fur when it is growing up. It means he is becoming an adult cat.
I put his fur in the trash can and run back to my room ignoring grandparents' call to eat breakfast. It's a good news. He is not sick or dying. When I get back to my room and see him, he is still shaking, in a sporadic fits. I crouch down next to him and pet him. He calms down a little until he sees more fur stuck on my hand. He starts to cry louder now.
“OOOWWW, … … OOOWWW.”
Ah, that wasn't good. If I can't pet him, …
I pick him up in my hands and hold him close next to my belly. I am sure he isn't shivering because he is cold but a little warmth, even in the middle of summer, might help him stop shaking. I say “mee, … mee” to him many times. He knows I am being friendly when I say that. I rock him gently like my mom.
Rocking motion took more of his fur out, clinging and sticking to my clothes. I hold him tight so he can't look around. Can't let him look down.
I put him back in the closet and close the door. It is dark in there. He has big eyes but he might not see. Change my shirt in a hurry and open the door to take him out into the light. No choice. I have to take as much fur as I can and do it fast so, he isn't going to keep crying. I think he is scared because his fur is coming out, not because he has bare skin. I grab the fur next to the bare patch and pull. It comes out in my hand.
(“Keep doing that in a straight line all the way.”)
I grab the next handful and pull. He yelps, “MEOOoowww.” Half of it come out but other half don't.
(“What?”)
Pinch fur in that area and pull on it. It doesn't come out. His skin is pulled up and making a tent. Not all of his fur is ready to come out. His face is scrunching. He is ready to cry out. He is feeling a pain on top of a simple panic now. He chokes and start coughing, a hacking cough. Ga-ouph, … ga-ouph. Slimy tangle of ping-pong ball sized hair come out and bounce on the floor, leaving a trail of his spit. He is breathing hard and looking at it. He dips his head down and smell it. Pulling his head back, his body straightening up with front paws stretching straight to the floor, looking at the fur ball then he looks at me. “Mee,” he says.
“Wow, what is that?” I don't want to touch it. It is slimy.
I saw his bare skin but didn't see much of fur that would have been laying around.
Shock of coughing up a fur ball and making a bit of a mess, he is more worried about what to do to clean it up now. He likes things to be clean, not just himself but our room, too.
I grab the fur around the original bare patch and gently pull. It come out. I keep pulling out as much as I can around that patch until I can't pull out any more. I check other part of his body if they com out. His attention is fixed on the fur ball. He is not looking at me. More fur come out but not as much as the bare patch. It come out in a loose strand, not like a thick bunch. I pick up all the fur I can see on the floor and put it in a trash pail. Pull out a facial tissue and grab the fur ball.