Bitter Enemies: The Return of Shorty Carter

I have a confession to make; I’m not necessarily proud of this, but as they say, all’s fair in love and war.  This is a tale with heroes and villains, depending on the individual perspective, but no matter the point of view—this was a war—make no mistake about it.  Sometimes war affects a man’s psyche in ways that cause him to behave entirely out of character.  This was certainly the case with me.  I may be getting ahead of myself, so I’ll try to start as close to the beginning of this tale as possible.

Adi and I moved to Mansfield in the fall of 2020.  If you are reading this in the year 2023 and you have even the most nascent understanding of world events, I don’t have to explain what cataclysmic events occurred that led me to willingly move out of a city I loved and into suburbia.  There is no need to relive the specifics of said events—I offer this to the reader only as a backdrop to illustrate that I may not have been in a sound state of mind when I agreed to move back to Adi’s family “compound.”  This land has been in the family since the early 1950s and has been passed from generation to generation since Simon Cannon first acquired it.

When Adi and I moved, I left behind my entire former life.  We left our loft in the city (think Green Acres, “Oh York is where I’d rather stay!  I get allergic smelling hay!”) and moved into a delightful little home that was Adi’s grandparent’s residence for many years.  Since I felt I was making a concession moving to the suburbs, I made only one request regarding our new living conditions:  No pets.  Simple, right?  No pets.  It’s straightforward, concise, and considerate.  Well, as John Lennon once so famously put it, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

We now have pets and lots of them.  They just kept coming and coming and coming (you can read more about how this happened here).  On top of the possums, bunnies, birds, cayotes, and skunks, we also have cats…lots and lots of cats.  From where they come, I have no idea.  They wander up, Adi feeds them and Voilà!—the litter grows!

When we hit a grand total of three cats in the house, I decided I had to put my foot down.  No more pets, no more cats, no more dependents.  Period!. Enter Shorty Carter, feral cat extraordinaire.  Shorty wandered up on the land one day, tattered and looking haggard like a sailor on a bender after a four-day R&R leave.  (A note to the reader and this is of the utmost importance:  Never, I repeat never, ever give a stray a name.  For some unknown reason if you name an animal, you assume responsibility for said animal.)

Adi began feeding Shorty because she felt sorry for him.  He was gaunt with matted fur and looked like someone had pulled him out of a dumpster, sprayed him off and pretended he could one day join the ranks of pethood for some unsuspecting family.  Once an animal finds a source of food there is no chance of ever getting rid of the critter.  Shorty took up residence on our outside patio and then chaos ensued.

Our other three cats have a kitty door where they go in and out of the house via this door, thus no litter box (thank God for small miracles).  It wasn’t long after Shorty’s arrival that our “house” cats began getting terrorized by this undersized oppressor.  Shorty chased, clawed, and intimidated our three highfalutin cats and was soon the “boss” of the neighborhood.  And by boss, I mean mafia boss.  This was Al Capone is feline form and our house cats caved rather quickly to the demands of the Godfather, or Catfather, whatever the case may be.  I have to say, the house cats put the “pussy” in cats.  Anxiety began abounding as each house cat began suffering PTSD at the mere thought of going outside and facing Shorty—imagine Biff in Back to the Future who has three little George McFly’s to torment.

On many a day I would be standing in the kitchen and one of the house cats would come blasting through the cat door, running like hell for dear life from Shorty Carter.  On one hand it was great that they had this “home base” to escape to, yet on the other hand—Shorty is no dummy—it didn’t take him long to figure out that on the other side of that plastic flap, paradise awaited with unlimited food and kitty booze.  In a matter of weeks being on the land, Shorty figured out how to get in the house, and to say that this cat didn’t have manners would be an understatement.  On top of brutally terrorizing the other cats, Shorty began marking his territory all over the kitchen.  It became a world-class pissing frenzy and Shorty was the gold medal squirter.

This is where I finally drew the line.  Shorty Carter had to go.  I didn’t care where or with whom, but he wasn’t staying at Casa La Gato any longer.

“Out that little rat bastard goes,” I said to Adi.  “We are not keeping that Moggy for one more day.”

Adi assured me that Shorty would no longer be let in the house, and we would close off the cat door; we would open the back door to let the house cats out when they needed to relieve themselves.  To the reader this may seem like a reasonable solution—it’s not.  I never wanted pets.  I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for their bathroom needs and now I was being given the duty of being a part time bathroom attendant to these dependents that didn’t even offer the benefit of a tax write-off.

No pets.  Simple, right?  No pets.  It’s straightforward, concise, and considerate.  The words came back to me from not that long ago.  Maybe they weren’t clear enough…maybe I should have been more direct…maybe…maybe I have absolutely no authority in my own home…I digress…

Shorty continued his outward aggression towards the other cats, specifically Carlton who was known to get into scuffles with Biff and come away with nasty claw wounds to his face.  George became so paranoid he was often seen hiding in open suitcases or bookshelves to avoid any chance encounter with Shorty and poor innocent Oscar was found sleeping on top of the garage door (via the car) just to keep a bird’s eye view on Shorty.

We eventually changed the cat door policy to open during the day (with supervision) and closed at night after 8 pm.  Although this eased some of the tension in kitty land, the horrors of war never completely faded for the house cats.  Any loud noise in the house would illicit flashbacks, making the house kitties jump in fear like a Vietnam War Vet after returning home from the horrors of war in a distant land.  It became commonplace to see these paranoid cats looking over their shoulder for a potential assailant to ambush them out of the blue.

This leads me back to earlier last week.  Through nothing but a lapse in judgment, we forgot to put down the “kitty door” and called it an evening around 8:30 pm (we go to bed quite early).  The weather took a turn for the stormy in the late evening as an onslaught of rain dumped on to the land.  I slept through the storm, but Adi did tell me that in the middle of the night the thought occurred to her, “We left the kitty door open and it’s raining.  Shorty may come in the house.”

Adi has pretty good intuition and her instincts turned out to be more than correct.  When we awoke in the morning, I could smell it—it was the first whiff of the morning, and the smell was so distinct there was no doubting what it was.

“It smells like cat piss in here!” I bellowed, not worrying at all about the volume used to utter the accusation.

Adi got very quiet.  She knew I was right.  More importantly, she knew she was right last night.  We all knew who the culprit was.

“I think Shorty may have gotten in the house last night when it started to rain,” Adi said sheepishly.

Adi and I rose from bed, and it didn’t take long for us to assess the situation.  Shorty had decided to mark every piece of our living room furniture with his “pissing gun!”  The entire house reeked of cat urine (or worse, whatever the hell male cats spray when they are marking their territory).

When I try to describe the thoughts that went through my head in that moment the only word that comes to mind is “apoplectic.”  This is how I reacted.

Webster’s Dictionary defines the word apoplectic as: overcome with anger; extremely indignant.

I think Webster’s hit it right on the button.  “Apoplectic” properly defines my emotions in that moment.  I was on a war path and Shorty Carter was on the opposing side of the battle plan.  Hell was coming to breakfast and Shorty would be paying the tab.

“That’s it,” I said with absolute indignation to Adi.  “Say goodbye to Shorty Carter.  You don’t have to be a part of what’s about to happen but it’s time that I took this situation into my own hands.”

Now, I’m not a violent man and I would never (note this: never…) hurt an animal.  I couldn’t and wouldn’t take Shorty to an animal shelter.  I knew that would be certain death for him and I am a sporting man.  I believe that every sentient being deserves the right to survive if they have the wares to pull themselves up by their bootstraps.  This option was a non-starter.

Transfer an animal to a new location far, far away?  Check!  This I would do (my kids have since informed me this might be against local ordinances).  This plan made sense.  It solved the Shorty problem and would give him the chance to find a new home.  I went to the garage and found one of our pet carriers and I walked outside and informed Shorty with an ever-enticing voice that it was time to go for a ride.  Shorty, expecting nothing untoward, cooperated and got into the carrier.

I walked Shorty over to the car, placed his carrier in the backseat, and then took my place behind the wheel.  I turned on Tom Petty’s Don’t Come Around Here No More and off we went.  I drove for miles, the exact count I couldn’t be sure.  I am still a thoughtful man, and I knew that wherever I decided to relocate Shorty I would make sure it was a nice area—a park was a pretty ideal location.  This way, if Shorty needed to work his magic, he could turn on the charm and lure some other unsuspecting bleeding-heart sucker into taking him in.   Regardless, none of this was my concern any longer.  I had furniture to shampoo when I got home, and I wanted to make sure this was the last I ever saw of Shorty Carter.

I found a park several miles away from our home, pulled in and parked.  I got Shorty out of the pet carrier and opened the door and I began sining Lynyrd Skynyrd’s classic rock anthem, Free Bird:

If I leave here tomorrow
Would you still remember me?
For I must be traveling on now
‘Cause there’s too many places I’ve got to see

But if I stay here with you, girl
Things just couldn’t be the same
‘Cause I’m as free as a bird now
And this bird you cannot change

“Pisser Carter,” I said, “it’s time for you to hit the road.”

I realized I was the only one emotional in all of this.  Shorty walked out of the carrier, looked around, and began walking away.  I couldn’t leave the little guy without food, so I poured a big pile of cat food to sustain him until he found a new chump to abuse with his pissing ways.  Shorty never turned around.  He just walked away and into some brush and never looked back.  We broke up and he didn’t seem the least bit emotional about it.

When I got back home, I informed Adi that the Shorty Carter situation had been resolved.  She opted not to ask any questions and deep down, hoped for the best for Shorty.  My conscience was clear.  I would deal with the repercussion with this when I met my Maker—until then, I would begin to collect evidence for my defense until I had to try my case before the Ultimate Judge.

The next 24 hours were divine.  Order was restored in the house.  The other house cats sensed something had changed and peace pervaded our home once again.  I spent the day shampooing our furniture and eventually got the smell out of the house.  When I did a survey of my feelings, I discovered that I felt really good about this decision.  Maybe this is how sociopaths justify their behavior as well?  Regardless, this needed to be addressed and address it I did.

Adi and I woke around 4 am the next morning as we always do for our morning yoga and meditation practice.  We were sitting and talking and both of us said we felt so much better now that Shorty was gone.  He caused havoc in the place; the other cats feared him; he pissed on the furniture—to hell with Shorty Carter, I added.

Adi always the tender-hearted soul said, “Well, we don’t have to send him to hell.”

“To hell!” I said, not backing off my pronouncement.

I no more got the words out of my mouth when I heard the flap to the kitty door open.  My head turned knowing that all our cats were currently accounted for.  And then…I heard Adi say it…I’ll never forget the tone of the words that came from of her mouth.

“OH, MY GOD!”

I knew what it meant.  I instantly knew what had happened.  Could it be?  Was it even possible?  How?  Why, God, why?!  There, sitting on the kitchen floor, gobbling down a huge bowl of kitty food, sat Shorty Carter.  He looked haggard—he looked tired—he looked pissed off.  He looked like Rambo from First Blood who was left for dead but not quite finished off.  I couldn’t believe my eyes.  He walked all the way back home in less than 30 hours.  Some would call this a miracle…for me, it was a curse.

Shorty finished eating his breakfast and then he walked directed towards the kitty door and as God as my witness, looked as if he held up two middle fingers and looked me directly in the eye, and energetically said, “It’s on, Mother (bleep)er…”

I have to admit, I was little scared.  I drew first blood and Rambo was not happy about it.  I was shocked to discover that cats can find their way “home” from miles away.  They have an amazing sense of direction and can use their keen sense of smell and hearing to navigate their way back home.  My archenemy, Shorty Carter, had outsmarted me.  I had to salute and tip my hat to this feline warrior that outwilled, outsmarted, and downright out-battled me.  I was shocked.  I was humbled.  I was humiliated.

During this entire process Adi’s mom, Morticia (her secret pseudonym), was being updated from her haunted house on Galveston Island; when she heard Shorty returned, she couldn’t help but have a macabre sense of glee while I recounted the story of Shorty’s return.

“So, the dumpster kitty outsmarted you?  Bow before Shorty Carter and admit defeat,” Morticia relished. “Fear him, because he is coming for you!  (Bahahahahaha)”

Shorty had defeated me.  He took up residence on his urine-soaked pillow on the back patio and he waited…and waited…and waited…and he still waits for his moment to strike back.  It will come when I least expect it, most likely in the middle of the night, when I sleep, and he finds just the right moment to mark his territory on everything that took me more than 50 years to acquire.

The smell of cat urine awaits…the Return of Shorty Carter has just begun…I shiver at the thought of what’s to come.

To hear an audio version of this story click the link below to listen on Spotify!