This morning, my roommate knocked on my door to let me know there was a giant box on porch. “A giant box?” I responded. “A giant box,” he told me. I asked if it was mine, and he said yes, and so I asked him again. I did not order a giant box, so my brain assumed it was either a bomb, a human person, or an elaborate prank. On my way to the porch, I grabbed a butcher knife from the kitchen, just in case.
On my doorstep was, indeed, a giant box. I lugged it inside and pointed my knife at it for a few moments. It didn’t move. When I shook it around, it rattled. Long, and semi-flat, it sat motionless on my floor like a discarded of television box. But I didn’t order a television, or a box that televisions go in. What the fuck was it?
Well, cat food. Lots, and lots, of cat food.
I know, in my heart, that my cat sometimes eats more than she probably should. My husband, on his days off, will bend his knees to her hypnotizing mewls, and feed her in the middle of the day. I try and put a stop to it—unlike him, I’ve slowly built a resistance to her powers—but she still eats more than she should. So much, in fact, that after an unsuccessful grocery store run over the weekend, I ordered a few extra bags on Amazon. The brand she normally eats was out of stock, so I ordered the lesser Purina. Not great, but she’ll have to live with it!
What came in my mail, though, was not regular Purina all-natural cat chow. It was a monster, a Lovecraftian horror come to spread its scream-inducing tentacles across my apartment. And all I wanted was cat food!
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This was, of course, completely my fault. In my anxiety, I forgot to check what size bags I was ordering when I panic-purchased them at 1 a.m. If I had, I’d have opted for the three-pound variety, which she’s normally content with. Instead, over 45 pounds of cat food showed up on my doorstep. Distraught, and terrified, I fled back to my bedroom and burst into tears. My poor husband, upon seeing me in such a state, cried too. “What’s wrong, Joan, talk to me?” I pointed at the living room. I can still hear the screams he made, mere minutes later.
I’ve only just stopped crying, but the emotional scars will take some time to heal. For now, Felicity seems content with her new treasures. As I write this, she’s perched atop them. (Even Lovecraftian terrors are no match for her, it seems.) Too bad, because I’ll be donating them to a shelter (will gladly take recommendations though!) later this afternoon, when she’s off on her afternoon nap in my closet or under the sofa or on top of the fridge.