by William Markly O’Neal
The veterwerenarian looked at Ricki Roskowski with suspicion. “Didn’t you used to be a cat lover?” He quickly added, “I mean, before the Turning Point, of course. No offense.”
Ricki scowled. “I’ve got it, don’t I?”
The vet nodded gravely. “I’m afraid so.”
“Feliocanthropy.” Ricki rubbed her forehead. “Wouldn’t you just know it? Damn.”
“You haven’t been…?” The vet jiggled his fuzzy eyebrows, giving Ricki a look that was supposed to convey some meaning.
“What?” She feigned ignorance, even though she knew what this fat man was going to ask.
The vet’s face was soft, but his eyes were sharp. He fixed Ricki with a stare that could pop a balloon. “I’m just trying to determine how you contracted this curse. You haven’t been in contact with any strays, have you?”
If she admitted to a crime, this public servant would need to report it. Otherwise, he’d be guilty by association. So, naturally, Ricki lied, “I haven’t seen a stray cat in years.”
The vet asked, “Is there any history of blood disorders in your family?”
Ricki said, “My maternal grandmother died from leukemia.”
The vet picked up his cybernated chart, pushing pads on the touchtone screen to call up more information. “You don’t work with catnip, do you?”
She wanted to lie and say she worked in the multi-billion-dollar catnip production industry, but she knew this vet had resources that would tell him otherwise. All he needed to do to answer his own question was access the AGM. So Ricki simply said, “No.”
“You’re not married…?”
Sourly, she confessed, “Divorced.”
“How long now?”
Ricki wondered how these questions were even remotely relevant! She proclaimed, “I’ve lived without Sin for almost seven years.” That was her own private joke. ‘Sin’ was a reference to ‘Cindy’, her ex-wife. “Look,” Ricki said, tired suddenly of evasions, “does it really matter—” She caught herself in mid-sentence. She was about to say, Does it really matter how I contracted the disease? She stopped because she knew, to Doctor Chubby, it did matter; it mattered a great deal. She quickly covered by saying, “—who I was married to? How does that help you determine how I became a werecat?”
The vet felt obligated to correct her. “Technically, you haven’t become a werecat, Ms. Roskowski. You are only suffering from the preliminary stages of feliocanthropy. You might not ever become a full-fledged werecat. Since you contracted the curse through secondary effects, the odds are in your favor that you won’t.” He asked again, with an emphatic tone, “Are you certain you haven’t had contact with any cats?”
She thought of the orange she-cat, with her loud purr and banshee wail, a long-haired beauty she named Marilyn. She thought of the two gray tiger cats, the ones she called ‘the boys’— Frank and Jesse. And then there was the king of the ferals, a big black male she’d been calling Othello. It was Othello who scratched her. It could have been Othello who gave Ricki the disease that this man-of-science called ‘the curse.’
Without a second’s pause, Ricki answered, “Yes. I’m certain I haven’t been in contact with any cats.”
The vet nodded.
Ricki couldn’t help but ask, “You’re going to report this anyway, aren’t you?”
The veterwerenarian’s stare returned its setting to laser. “That is the law, Ms. Roskowski.”
Ricki knew that. She knew coming here would present problems, but it presented fewer troubles than going to the Emergency Room at the hospital. In either instance, once a medical professional made a diagnosis of feliocanthropy, they were obligated to report it to the Federal Administration of Feline Affairs. The only way she could have kept the government out of her life was if she had never been officially diagnosed.
But she had wanted to know.
She was curious.
She had already been feeling the changes, subtle though they were.
The first thing she noticed was that her eyesight was more acute. Ricki had never needed glasses; she had perfect 20/20 vision; but lately it had been better than perfect. A week ago, as an experiment, she went down into her basement and shut off everything capable of making light. Plunging herself into a blackness that she knew was absolute, she could still somehow see.
She was incapable of creating conditions where she couldn’t see in the dark.
She had been having strange cravings recently, for tuna and milk. She never ate hamburgers anymore, favoring chicken instead.
She was more agile than she used to be.
She now enjoyed a good nap in the afternoon, whenever she could get one.
Ricki had suspected for quite some time that she would become a werecat.
Tomorrow night, she would know for certain. Tomorrow night, the three-night-cycle of the full moon began.
The tests for feliocanthropy— mostly blood tests— were done early this morning. Now, this afternoon, discussing the positive results of those tests, Ricki’s entire life had changed.
As she dwelled on the devastating possibility that she would turn into a slavering beast every time there was a full moon, she suddenly found herself on the verge of tears. Suspecting she had feliocanthropy wasn’t nearly as bad as knowing for certain she had it! What made it even harder still was having to feign ignorance and lie about all this.
She fed a cat.
She broke the law.
Did someone who fed a starving cat deserve to be imprisoned for up to thirty years?
Most people, especially those deathly afraid of seeing a family member becoming a monster, would answer that question with a resounding YES!
People who had already seen a family member become a werecat would say imprisonment was too good for a cat-feeder, that cat-feeders (like her) should be executed.
Death by werecat attack.
Let She Who Fed a Cat . . . Die by a Cat.
Looking appropriately miserable, Ricki said, “The odds are I won’t transform, right?”
“Correct. But you’ll know one way or another tomorrow night.”
“I’ll need to report to a shelter?”
“Yes.” Just when Ricki thought he was finished with the evil eye, he turned it back on again. “Absolutely.” The tone of his voice somehow became even more earnest. “There is a chance you’ll transform! You don’t want to kill someone, do you?”
“Absolutely not!” The idea of clawing someone’s face off sickened her.
The vet again consulted his digipad. “Your insurance is good. Do you know if you’ll opt for State or private storage?”
“I haven’t thought much about it.”
“Cutting this one close, aren’t you?”
Ricki tried to make her own gaze as intense as his. “I made this appointment a week ago. And since I haven’t been cat-scratched, I didn’t honestly believe I had the disease.”
The veterwerenarian visibly relaxed. “Denial is common. And you do still have the rest of the day to make decisions about your storage. My nurses will provide you with all the relevant information.”
“Okay,” she replied, eager to get out of there.
The vet rapidly keyed in tones on his cybersystem, opening a virtual connection to Ricki’s pharmacy. “I need to give you some anti-curiosity medicine.” Focusing on the screen, he typed up the complex prescription.
“What?” Ricki had never heard of anything like that!
The vet said blandly, “It’s relatively new. It addresses the biggest contributing factor to early post-transformation fatalities.”
“What’s that?”
The vet looked at Ricki like she was totally stupid. “Curiosity.”
“Oh.”
“It’s not all that well-reported… but for years there has been a small contingent of newly diagnosed feliocanthropes who don’t go into shelters.”
Now it was Ricki’s turn to look at the vet like he was crazy. “Why would they do that?”
“Curiosity,” said the vet yet again. “Both felines and humans are extremely curious species. One symptom of feliocanthropy is an increase in that natural tendency. Wereleopards and werecougars are especially curious.”
Ricki divulged, “I’ve heard weretigers are the most curious of them all.”
“That’s a myth.” The vet snorted a noise that mixed derision and amusement. “And besides: weretigers are extremely rare.”
Ricki couldn’t help but wonder, “What kind of werecat do you think I’ll become?”
The vet gave her a flicker of that intense glare again. “We’re thinking positively, remember? You won’t become a werecat.”
“Yeah, I know, you’re right, but I’m curious: if I do become a werecat, what type do you think I’ll be?”
Doctor Chubby’s eyes shot cinders like churning magma and, at first, Ricki didn’t understand why. Then, as the vet operated his digipad to increase the dosage of the prescription he previously wrote, Ricki realized what she had just said. ‘I’m curious: if I do become a werecat…‘
She giggled and tried to lighten the mood. “I guess I might need that prescription after all.” She joked, “If I’d had anti-curiosity pills, I think I might have been able to save my marriage.”
The vet had no sense of humor, which didn’t really surprise her. “So,” he said stoically. “What questions do you have for me?”
“Okay! Well, how about you start by explaining how a full moon can change a person into a werecat! So far, no ‘scientist’ I’ve heard can adequately do that! Can you?”
The vet’s nose turned up.
Anger erupted inside her chest and spewed out her throat. “We’ve slaughtered trillions of felines worldwide! We’ve effectively wiped out all the great cats, bringing about the extinction of dozens of species, including what used to be called ‘the King of the Beasts’! We’re committed to exterminating every cat on the planet— and we aren’t even certain if cats are responsible for feliocanthropy! For all we know, this curse could be supernatural!” Ricki found herself shouting at the veterwerenarian, “That’s the Great Secret, isn’t it? Tell me that isn’t true!”
The vet didn’t say anything. He didn’t even turn his stare on Ricki, which gave Ricki pause. He was using his cyberlink to type a new prescription.
“What’s that?” Ricki demanded to know.
“This,” the vet merely glanced at her, “is for stress. It’s natural to be worried, Ms. Roskowski. This prescription will help.” He hit the SEND button. “I just ordered you five pills. Take one this afternoon, one before bed tonight, one in the morning, one at noon, and one right before you report to your shelter tomorrow at 6:00 pm. Okay?”
Ricki simmered. “All right.” She felt like saying more, but knew she’d already said too much. She was glad the veterwerenarian reacted to her outburst by giving her stress medicine rather than turning her over to the sodium-pentothal-packing police. Ever since the attack on Seattle five years ago by the terror organization FELIS, authorities had been given extremely broad powers in dealing with known werecats.
History repeated itself.
The vet looked at her again, with a totally uninterested gaze. “Will you take these prescriptions that I’ve written for you?”
“Yes,” she said, uncertain if she would or not.
“Okay then. Everything should be fine. My nurses will read you your rights and explain sheltering options.”
Ricki hated all these euphemisms. Everyone called it ‘sheltering’ when werecats were locked up in specialized cages three nights of every month. No one ever referred to it as ‘imprisonment.’
She loathed this obese veterwerenarian. And yet, thankfully, her sane sense of self-preservation won out over her disdain for this odious man.
Bottling up her scorn, Ricki said, “I’m sorry I lost my temper, Doctor. You’re right. I have been under a lot of stress. I’d be lying to you if I told you I wasn’t worried about becoming a m—”
When she stopped short of calling herself an abomination, the friendly vet seemed eager to do it for her. “A monster?”
Ricki nodded.
“Be certain to take both the anti-anxiety and the anti-curiosity pills exactly as I’ve prescribed them. I guarantee they’ll help you.”
“Okay.”
“If you don’t transform, I won’t see you again until your regular examination.” Ricki’s periodic physical wasn’t for another four months. “If— God forbid— you end up going trey, we’ll get together sometime next week and discuss options.”
‘Going trey’ was common slang for becoming a werebeast.
‘Discussing options’ meant they’d talk about whether or not Ricki should be ‘put down’, which was yet another euphemism, meaning ‘assisted suicide by silver nitrate poisoning.’
The friendly vet asked, “Do you have any other questions for me?”
Glumly, Ricki said, “No.”
“Cheer up,” said the veterwerenarian. “Everything will be fine.” Then he scared the hell out of Ricki by smiling. His grin was so lumpy, it looked like it had been crudely made of clay by a child. Through that frightening sneer, the vet said affably, “Ask my staff as you exit and they can also show you a great way to save 35% or more on your car insurance.”
* * *
“Look directly into the camera.” The nurse punched up a screen on her handheld computer and said, “‘Please state your full name and GCN for the record.’”
“Ricki Rosalyn Roskowski. North American Citizen Number: USA-27-IN1816-1271966-051621-9817779-DOB01152027.”
“‘Do you now freely give your permission for us to permatize this statement, to be logged with the Federal Administration of Feline Affairs, in accordance with the Seventh American Protection Act?’”
“I do.”
The nurse barely consulted her computer, obviously having memorized this routine after doing it so many times. “‘On this recorded date, you, Ricki Rosalyn Roskowski, have been diagnosed as having feliocanthropy. You have been informed you might transform into Felis silvestris sapien— what is commonly called a ‘werecat’— tomorrow night, which is the next night of the full moon. During today’s visit, your physician answered all your questions regarding your diagnosis. Is this correct?’”
“Yes. Correct.”
“Please continue to look directly into the camera, Ms. Roskowski.”
She looked back at the vacant lens, which seemed so dead after suffering the vet’s lively glare.
The nurse continued, “‘You are required by law to report to a government-sanctioned wereshelter tomorrow night, before dusk, to be monitored during the full moon. If you do not report to a proper shelter, a warrant will be issued for your immediate termination. Both law enforcement officers and privately licensed werehunters will then be authorized to seek you out and use every means necessary to end your life. Do you understand these obligations as they have been explained to you?’”
“I do.”
“‘Do you promise, upon penalty of death, to report to a sanctioned wereshelter before sundown tomorrow night?’”
“I do.”
“‘You have a right to choose your own shelter, as long as it’s been fully approved by the Federal Administration of Feline Affairs. If you cannot afford a privately operated shelter, you will be admitted to a government sanctuary. If you plan on staying in a government howl, you should contact the nearest one immediately. The number of cells is limited. If your sanctuary of choice has no more cells available, you will be transported to another approved shelter. It is your responsibility to make storage arrangements in advance of the next full moon.
“‘Ms. Roskowski, do you understand these rights and duties as I have explained them to you?’”
“I do.”
“Okay.” When the nurse tapped on her cybernized screen, the little red light atop the 3D-cam went out. “That’s it. We’ve already billed your debit account for the visit, and we’ve sent all the information about your shelter choices to your home email address. Were there any other questions you had for us?”
“Nope. I’m all set.”
Smiling, the friendly nurse asked, “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to hear how you could save 35% or more on your car insurance?”
“No, thank you.”
“Okay, then. Good luck, Ms. Roskowski.”
“Thanks.”
* * *
As she left the veterwerenarian’s office, she saw two security guards posted by the front doors. Bitterly, Ricki wondered, Since when did diagnosticians become so unpopular they need bodyguards?
Thinking about the harsh gaze of the vet, she answered herself, Since the Turning Point… when even scientists became frightened children.
Sighing, Ricki got into her beat-up old car and drove away. {She had no insurance.}
The city she lived in was typical of many cities across middle America. Sliding down Musk Boulevard, one of the main streets in town, Ricki rolled past McDonald’s White Pizza Hut Castle and KFC Sonic Taco Bell Subway; past a Wal-K-Marshalls-Mart and a Happy Holo Sparkle Megaplex; past a Hooters & Hunks and the Quicky Turbo-Jet Go-Get charging station.
She had no urge to stop at the Catwalk store, the place to purchase a plethora of werecat-related products: everything from restraints, to transform-all suits, to a variety of catnip gummies and vapes. Some werecats didn’t respond to nip, but those that did were calmer during the nights of the full moon.
Just beyond the Catwalk was a Natty Nippers liquor store, and she was tempted to stop there. It was starting to rain, however, and she didn’t feel like getting wet.
As Ricki drove past the U-Lock Werestorage Towers, she thought about how much this town had changed over her lifetime. Wereshelters were everywhere now. In addition to U-Lock, ahead on this same road were shelters by Cat Chill Kennels, Were-Now Secure, Cat Nap Key Lock, and several other cathouses.
When Ricki was growing up, a ‘kennel’ was a place where dogs were caged, not your cursed family members. And a ‘cathouse’ used to be a brothel (although Ricki had no clue why.)
When she saw a Scratching Post, she programmed a new destination. Scratching Posts were a chain of theme restaurants every bit as cheesy as Hooters & Hunks. The waitresses dressed in skimpy cat costumes and Ricki just couldn’t find it in her heart to object to that. The reason she stopped in, however, was because Scratching Posts were renowned for their excellent seafood.
Equally important at this moment, they had entrances sheltered from the weather. It had just started to rain. Ricki was able to turn her car over to a valet and enter the restaurant without getting wet.
Once she was inside the swanky-cheap establishment, she chose to sit in the hermetically sealed smoking section. She purchased a pack of Garfield cigarettes, blunts blended from catnip, tobacco, and hemp. After getting high, she dined on tuna and shrimp, washing down her meal with catatonics— potent mixed drinks made with Tequila, tonic water, and catnip liqueur.
She read the emails sent by the veterwerenarian’s office, which included alarming statistics and several gruesome videos of authentic werecat attacks. The idea she would transform into one of those hellish Things was (both) terrifying (and thrilling).
Later, drunk off her ass, she let her car drive her to the pharmacy, where she picked up her prescriptions.
Ricki lived well beyond the city limits, way out in the country. When she finally approached her house and saw the striped cat-hunter vans parked in her driveway, she became very upset.
“They’ve come for my strays!”
She knew— suddenly she was certain— that disgusting veterwerenarian sent these exterminators to her door.
Still drunk, she took control of her street vehicle, disengaging the autopilot. She drove past her house, determined to stay away until the assassins were gone.
She was furious, sick to her stomach, filled with hatred for the vet (and all cat haters everywhere). Ricki decided right then that she would not acquiesce to being jailed tomorrow night! She wouldn’t put on transform-alls and report dutifully to a cage with her rPod and her inflato-bed! She might smoke some catnip in an effort to drug herself into a docile state, but then again, she might not even do that!
If she could figure out a way to do it without hurting innocent people, she might go savage!
One of the most mind-blowing statistics she read in the FAFA literature was that there were eleven million werecats just in North America alone.
What would happen, she wondered, if the entire system broke down? What happens if, one full moon night, all eleven million of those cats are freed? What then?!?
The idea excited her. She thought about how the right kind of leader could meld a few werecats into an organized hundred, then an army of thousands, and ultimately a revolution millions strong.
She told herself, “One day, werecats will no longer be slaves to the moon!”
She was certain, “One day, there will be a better hybrid: a whetted human mind will exist in a superior werecat body!”
Ricki’s mood brightened as she envisioned a time when feliocanthropes would be freed of their cat fancies so they could take their rightful place as the new rulers of all the lands.
She drove around aimlessly for nearly an hour, before finally returning home. When she arrived back at her farm, as the sun was going down, the cat-hunters were gone.
She knew the strays would be gone too. She couldn’t bear the thought of trekking back through the cornfields to the old shed where she used to feed them. She knew she wouldn’t find anything back there but bloodstains. The corpses of her friends would have been taken away to be incinerated.
As whiskers sprouted beneath her nose, tears welled up in her eyes.
She loved those poor cats!
When she exited her car, Ricki Roskowski took the prescription bottles containing her drugs and threw them in the trash.
Lightning flashed in the distance. It had stopped raining earlier, but now a different storm front was approaching.
As she hopped up onto her back porch, she thought, I wonder where that vet lives? I wonder if he has twenty-four-hour protection?
Trying to envision how to make the most of her forthcoming metamorphosis, Ricki headed inside her house to pour herself a tall glass of milk.
* * *
About the Author
William Markly O’Neal is a white 63 yr-old epileptic bipolar bisexual man who has been writing short stories his entire life. Several years ago, a story of his called Bob Bodey’s Body Parts was published in Weird Tales Magazine.
Currently, he writes under the pen name Lightning Bolt at Vocal.media, where he is the author of science fiction (including a vision of Taco Bell in the year 2037), horror (both supernatural and psychological), and poetry of all kinds. He adores alliteration. Also at Vocal, he is a Top Writer in their Humor Community, regularly coughing up comedy there.
Bill/Bolt is an odd gentleman who pretends to be a superhero. He is the author of an ongoing series of superpowered fiction, set in The Realm of No Restrictions, where sentience dictates what exists.
His two dogs are Princess & Goldie. His three cats are named Midnight, Dexter Morgan, and Daisy.
After the woman he was with for 22 years passed away, he fell passionately in love with a younger black man named Demetrious.
William can be found on Facebook. You can read more of his stories, including his brand-new ones at… Lightning Bolt | Vocal.