flying cats

I was on assignment. There were two people I'd already killed (the usual disembowelment) and two more I needed to get to before I clocked out for the day.

At Earl Pitz's farm, where I stopped to pick up my daughter Ashley and her friend, they had a chicken coop, except chickens didn't live in it, cats did.

When I say cats, you should know that I'm not talking about normal house or barn cats, though they didn't look that much different.

Earl Pitz's cats had wings that were fluffy and soft and seemingly inept, but still they could fly.

I'm not sure how his strain of felines got wings and flight—was it dirty science? nature having a conniption? really aggressive and showy genetics?—but they did fly. That's not to say that they were surefooted with their flying. It's not like you opened the coop door and they rushed into the sky.

How you got them up into the air was this: Place one hand at each end of their stomach, and throw them like you're super angry with them, giving more pressure with the hand nearest to the neck. Once they're in the air, whatever they have inside them that makes their wings go kicks in and suddenly they're what seems like a million miles up.

As soon as they get tired, they come back to the farm. You have to put your arms out and they drop almost right out of the sky, gently into your arms, ready to meow and be stroked.

Earl said he lets them out twice a day, for exercise. It's not as big of a project as it may sound.

After dropping Ashely and her friend off at home, I went back to work, unplugging those two last sets of insides.

When I went home, I feel asleep on the couch immediately, watching reruns of Benson.

That night I slept deeply, knowing full well that life was way more mysterious than anything you could ever make up.