VECTOR
VECTOR
by Jen Downes
There’s something alive in the litter box.
Bugsie wouldn’t go near it. I noticed the trouble when he started using a plant pot instead. The first time I scolded and he glared. Second time, I took him to the sandbox and said, “Young man, you know the drill.” He started to sing, and staked out the box from as far away as he could get and still see it. He was there all night, and when I went to clean the box this morning, I saw it.
Something moved. It brushed my hand, raised a tiny red pimple before burying itself in the litter, fast—I backed off just as fast. The litter’s new brand. The bag calls it volcanic ash from somewhere in the Pacific. The sales pitch says it’s eco-friendly—and it’s half the price. The company’s kosher, but who knows where they source the litter?
Heart pounding, I got on the laptop and Googled for info. This new super-absorbent, clumping litter is shipped from islands in the Ring of Fire. No problem there. I Googled, “volcanic kitty litter parasite” and held my breath.
Several million results came up and I started scanning forums. Something moving in the box…like a roach, grows fast when it gets wet…dog died…Mom got sick….
Dry mouthed, I told myself it had to be a hoax. But it was everywhere on the Net, thousands of pages. The further I looked, the more I saw, and all posting dates were inside the last ten days.
One site looked official—government, or at least on a level with Mayo Clinic and the fire department. I gulped down the info: “Do not touch the box. Use a broom, push it into a secure room, close the door and call this number.”
I scribbled. Bugsie had the box staked out—he hadn’t slept all night and was wide eyed. When I approached the box he spat, hissed, started to sing again. I shooed him away and followed instructions: pushed box into bathroom, slammed door and grabbed phone.
A computer answered. “All operators are busy. Leave your name and address. Under no circumstances touch the sandbox. An operator will return your call as soon as possible.”
Dust from the box had gotten into my throat, my lungs. I coughed and frowned at the closed door, then I lassoed Bugsy, retreated to the computer and Googled again.
…new kitty litter…Solomon Islands…weird lights in the sky last June…neighbor doesn’t own a cat but her daughter does, she got sick when the girl came over…thought Jim had ‘flu–terrible headache and cough–then his hand swelled up, red as liver…these tiny roaches jumped right out of Maureen’s bad leg and vanished into the dust bunnies, she died before the ambulance….
I called the number again and the computer voice began, “All operators are—”
Bugsy was singing at the bathroom when I made the decision. I hauled the cat carrier out of the closet, stuffed Bugsy inside and grabbed my bag on the way out. No way was I staying home with that.
Besides, I needed fresh air for this lousy stress headache that just jumped out of nowhere, and Dad always keeps a bottle of Jack handy. A shot or two would stop this damn’ litter-dust cough that started to rack me as the deadbolt locked.
On the way out, I’d left a quick message on his machine: “Dad, it’s me, I’m coming over. Be there in an hour. Can’t stay here, there’s…damnit, there’s something alive in the litter box!”
Fiction © Copyright Jen Downes
Image by chenspec from Pixabay
