Big Fun

My cat recently attempted suicide.

I don't think it is because she doesn't like me. Or that I don't feed her. Or that she doesn't get enough attention. Or because I don't let her lick cheese spread directly off a spoon. Although I do need to clean the litter box...

I frequently hang articles of clothing from furniture. Sweaters on chairs. Coats on doors. Panties on lampshades. You know, the usual.

Instead of throwing a bra in a drawer, I'll frequently hang it from my bedroom doorknob. This does make it interesting if anyone comes over. Kinda like Russian Roulette. Are my lacy, pretty underthings hanging off the doorknob? Or is it the ugly industrial Bali? Which would I rather my mother see if she's coming over to drop off some lasagna?

The other night, I was dozing off. The cat was not in bed with me, which isn't terribly unusual. She usually waits until I'm almost asleep to leap onto the bed and curl up in the exact middle of the mattress, forcing me to roll over around her. Which does teach me to do gymnastics in bed. But not in a good way.

Through my doze, I can hear thumping. Since I live alone, next to the suspected murderer, I'm alert to any noises out of the ordinary.

"Who's there!" I whisper. "Anyone? Bueller?"

The thumping continues.

I roll over and turn on the light.

It is the closet door. The bra on the closet door. Which my cat has managed to partially walk through, then twist around her neck. So she's slowly strangling herself with a bra strap while hanging from my closet doorknob.

She looks at me. She's ashamed, clearly. Which makes her struggle even more. Her eyes are starting to bug out of their sockets.

I get out of bed and start over to rescue her. The humiliation gives her sudden super-feline strength and she manages to tear herself out of the noose, scampering down the stairs and into the dark.

I go back to bed, remembering what they said in Heathers: Teenage suicide. Don't do it.