It sounded like a mechanical device that needed oiling, squeaking lightly but incessantly, but as I got closer I realised that it was the sound of meowing cats. As in multiple. I found Clinton inside my cupboard, along with three baby kittens, squeaking in incredibly high pitched voices. They had Clinton’s orange coat, but patches of black and white, too. My shoe collection, neatly arranged at the floor of the cupboard, were covered in blood and afterbirth. It took a second for me to process this. Clinton wasn’t my special little man. ‘He’ was a female cat. “I don’t believe it,” I muttered, regarding the three squealing little kittens as they nursed on Clinton’s teats, “Even my damn cat can get some easier than I can.” I crouched down beside the four cats, reaching out to give Clinton a pat. “How the hell did you manage this, huh? You live inside…” It would remain a mystery. The mess grossed me out but I didn’t have the energy to clean it up right away (and didn’t want to disturb Clinton-ette any further) so I just left it there and wandered back out to the kitchen.
