Vector

 

There's something alive in the litterbox.

Bugsie wouldn't go near it. I noticed the problem when he started using a plant pot instead, digging around where he’s likely to uproot my old ficus. The first time I scolded and he gave me a steel-eyed glare. Second time, I took him to the sandbox and said, “Young man, you know the drill, you’ve known it for years now!” He began to sing, and staked out the box from as far away as he could get and still see it. He sat behind the couch all night, with a skinny view into the laundry area, and when I went to clean the box this morning--I saw it too.

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 a new brand. The bag calls it ‘volcanic ash from somewhere in the Pacific.’ The sales pitch says it's eco-friendly--and it's also half the price. The company's kosher, but who actually knows where they source the litter?

Heart pounding, I got on the laptop and googled for info. This new super-absorbant, clumping litter is shipped from islands in the Ring of Fire. No problem there. I googled again, “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 bug, grows fast when it gets wet … dog died … mom got sick …

Dry mouthed I thought, this has to be a hoax! But the stories were everywhere on the Net, thousands of pages. The further I looked, the more I saw, and all posting dates fell 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 advice: “Do not touch the box. Use a broom, push it into a secure room, close the door and call this number.”

I scribbled it down. Bugsie still had the box staked out; he hadn't slept all night and gazed at me, wide eyed. When I approached the box he spat, hissed, started to sing again, so I shooed him away and followed instructions.

With exaggerated caution, I shoved the box into bathroom, slammed the door and made a grab for the phone.

Naturally, 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. I coughed and frowned at the closed door before lassoing Bugsy. We retreated to the computer, and I googled yet again.

More stories, getting wilder as I read. New kitty litter … Solomon Islands … weird lights in the sky last June … my neighbor doesn't own a cat but her daughter does, she got sick when the girl came over to visit, and they both died within the week ... we thought Jim’d caught 'flu—you know, the headache and cough--then his hand swelled up … these tiny bugs jumped right out of Maureen's leg and vanished into the dust bunnies, and the next day her leg had to be amputated …

I called that number again and the computer began, “All operators are--”

Bugsy’s off-key singing at the bathroom door helped me make 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 headache, something to dispel the aches and pains that had started to niggle. Dad always has a bottle of Jack to hand. A shot or two would stop this damn' litter-dust cough.

As the door locked behind me I left a message on his machine: “Dad, I'm coming over, be there in an hour. I don’t feel so good, and I can't stay here, there's … damnit, there's something alive in the litterbox!”