Mr. Merkin

“Let’s make a deal!” blared from the box in front of Mr. Merkin’s human. A woman dressed as a yellow bird flapped her feather-covered arms in great excitement. She had been selected from the studio audience and descended to the stage to great fanfare. 

Mr. Merkin was familiar with the format of the show. His human watched it every week and had been doing so for the last 10 years. In that time, Mr. Merkin had observed countless contestants swap one-thousand dollars for nose hair trimmers or dinette sets for home entertainment centers. But he was always excited to see someone win a brand-new car! What a brand new car was, Mr. Merkin didn’t know, but the tiny humans in the box always seemed about to jump out of their skin when a brand-new car happened, and the big grey tabby shared their enthusiasm.

The yellow bird-lady hugged everyone within arm’s length as she moved to the next round. When she jumped up and down, fluffy feathers broke loose from her costume and floated in lazy spirals to the floor. Mr. Merkin couldn’t understand why no one noticed the mesmerizing flight of the feathers. To the cat, this was the best thing to happen on this show in ages. Mr. Merkin looked from bird-lady in the box to the La-Z-Boy chair.

Human, Mr. Merkin thought. Do you see the feathers? Do you think the bird will win a brand-new car?

His human didn’t look very excited. He just stared blankly at the screen, remote in his lap, and a cup of black coffee grown cold at his side. Dust djinns spun in the air. The bird-lady picked a door, more feathers flew, but sadly, her door was not the right door. Not quite a Zonk, but even Mr. Merkin knew that a weekend in San Diego was not a good prize. The cat, now tired of the antics of the humans in the box, put his head on his paws. Sunlight streamed through the bank of west-facing windows and warmed the cat’s fur and skin. The soft velour of the sofa arm sang a lullaby.

When Mr. Merkin awoke, sunlight grazed the torn paper’s edge of a horizon lined in snow. A disorder of stars pricked their way through the darkening blue. Mama quail darted by the window with her tiny line of buttons trailing behind. The cat licked his chops. When had he last eaten? It seemed like ages ago. Mr. Merkin stretched long. His back arched as he lowered his chest and stuck his tail up in the air. 

The cat jumped down and zagged his way to the kitchen. By the winter garden door, the food and water bowls were both empty and dry. It had been a while since he had eaten. Had his human forgotten? Mr. Merkin zigged back to the TV room and brushed his human’s leg with his cheek. 

“Meow,” Mr. Merkin said.

No response. 

I’m hungry, Mr. Merkin thought.

The cat studied his human in the twilight room. Illumination flickered across the human's unblinking eyes. On the box, the bird-lady had been replaced with a man in navy blue chasing another man in a sleeveless t-shirt over fences and through backyards. Mr. Merkin’s human hated this show. Why was he watching this now? 

I’m hungry, Mr. Merkin thought again.

Mr. Merkin jumped up on the arm of the La-Z-Boy and nosed the top of his human’s hand. Stiff fingers held the remote tightly. The hand felt like stone. Now in the human's lap, the cat studied a shock of pure white hair, an open mouth, a stubbled chin, and cataracted eyes growing more clouded. 

 Wake up, Mr. Merkin thought.

The human continued to stare straight ahead. On the box, the sad-looking man kneeled on the ground while the other man called for backup. 

Wake up. Mr. Merkin’s stomach growled. Why is he ignoring me? Is this a game?

“Meow,” Mr. Merkin said.

The human’s daughter dropped off groceries once a week. She brought delicious kibble and even better, Fancy Feast in individual serving cans. Well, at least the cat knew where the backup water was. He picked his way across the TV room, through the kitchen, and over the checkerboard of black and white tiles to the rust-stained bowl. The lid was up. Good news. A drink helped, but Mr. Merkin’s hunger wouldn’t leave him be. Outside, there were quail and mice to eat. The human got his food from the cold place, but the cat knew that he could not open either door without help. 

 When did the daughter last come, Mr. Merkin thought. Three days ago? Four?

“Meow,” Mr. Merkin said.

Wake up! Frustration rippled through the cat’s taut body. Feed me! I’m hungry! I’m scared. Why won’t you wake up? 

Mr. Merkin took a paw swipe at the now irritatingly slack lips. He meant to keep his claws sheathed, but anger and anxiety got the better of the grey tabby. Blood welled in the cleft of his human's chin. The cat bit and clawed, now furious at the uncooperative face. A chunk of lip loosened and dropped into the human's lap. 

Looks like Fancy Feast, Mr. Merkin thought. He won’t mind. He’s ignoring me anyway. 

Mr. Merkin tasted the meat. Fatty, delicious. Not as good as what the daughter brought, but perfectly acceptable. I might starve if I wait. 

Mr. Merkin tried the lips and tongue of the human. The nose was a little chewy, the earlobes too, but the eyelids tasted wonderful. 

“Mr. Merkin!” Screamed the daughter. 

A jar of pasta sauce shattered and spread in wavelets across the entryway tiles. Blueberries rolled and lined up at the edge of the carpet. Cans of Fancy Feast clattered. The brown paper sack from the grocery, split and wet, slumped at the feet of the daughter. Mr. Merkin’s fur stood on end. He yowled as the daughter's handbag flew across the room knocking him off her father. The cat skittered between the daughter's legs. She aimed a good, square kick but missed. Mr. Merkin made for the open front door. A can of Fancy Feast sprayed snow behind the cat as he bounded over a snowbank. 

Why is she so mad? Mr. Merkin wondered.