The Green Tea Cat

After my husband’s college friend died, she came back as a cat. A cat that ate imported food, lived in a luxury cat condo, and made a habit of biting and scratching me. If I showed the slightest hint of annoyance, my husband, Mark, would lay into me. “Are you seriously jealous of a cat? Rebecca is gone. This cat is all I have left of her. Can’t you let me have this one thing to remember her by?” The cat would look at me triumphantly before snuggling into Mark’s arms. He’d stroke its fur, his voice dripping with affection. “Poor Rebecca,” he’d murmur. “If I could do it all over again, I would have given you a child, so you wouldn’t have been so alone.” I scoffed. I could make her not so alone right now. So I took her to the park. There were plenty of strays there. Tomcats in heat. They would absolutely adore her.

1 The moment Mark stepped out to grab a package, the cat leaped from its condo. It marched right up to me, back arched, teeth bared, a low growl rumbling in its throat. I ignored it and turned to go to my room, but it pounced, claws sinking into my arm. Three angry red lines instantly welled with blood. I winced, grabbing a slipper from the floor. I had just raised it when the front door opened. Instantly, the cat retracted its claws, tucked its tail between its legs, and trotted over to Mark’s feet. It looked up at him, mewing pitifully, its eyes glistening with fake tears. It kept glancing at me, as if I had committed some unspeakable crime. Mark scooped it up, gently stroking its fur. “What’s wrong, Mittens?” he cooed. “Who upset you?” I held out my bleeding arm. “Mark, she scratched me. Look.” Without even glancing at my arm, he continued to soothe the cat. “That’s impossible. Mittens is the sweetest, gentlest cat. She would never scratch anyone without a reason. You must have done something to scare her. Honestly, you’re a grown woman. Why are you picking on a cat?” The cat nuzzled against his chest and shot me a smug little wink. The look of triumph in its eyes was almost comical. My hand tightened on the slipper, knuckles white. A heavy stone of resentment settled in my chest. I said nothing more. A few days later, Mark went to the grocery store, leaving me to feed the cat. I poured the expensive, imported food into its bowl. The cat sniffed it, then swatted the bowl with its paw, sending kibble scattering across the floor. A few pieces even landed on my pants. As I knelt to clean it up, the cat started batting at my hair, then walked all over my clothes, smearing litter from its paws onto my collar. That was the last straw. I stood up to get a broom and shoo it away, but as I reached the doorway, I heard a key in the lock. The cat immediately ran to the door, meowing at Mark. It deliberately slammed itself into my leg and then flopped dramatically onto the floor, rolling onto its back, exposing its belly, as if it were on the brink of death. Mark rushed over, his voice laced with panic. “Mittens! What happened? Did she push you? Are you hurt, baby?” I gritted my teeth. “She ran into me on purpose. She knocked over her food and got litter all over me!” Mark’s face darkened. “Abby, stop making things up. Mittens is a good girl. She would never do something like that. You probably didn’t want to feed her, so you provoked her, and when she got scared, she ran into you.” His voice turned cold. “How many times do I have to tell you? Be nice to her. Treat her like family. Why won’t you listen?” He bent down, his voice softening as he spoke to the cat. “It’s okay, Mittens. Daddy’s here. No one’s going to hurt you. Just stay away from her from now on.” The cat closed its eyes, a smirk playing on its feline lips. It even rubbed its head against Mark’s chin, the picture of spoiled arrogance. I was so furious my hands were shaking. Mark would always believe the cat. It would always be my fault. The evidence could be right in front of his face, and he would still find a way to blame me.

2 Mark’s obsession with the cat was spiraling out of control. We’d had a mouse problem a while back, and he’d bought some rat poison, stashing it in a box on the lowest shelf of a cabinet. One morning, I was in the kitchen making oatmeal while Mark was in the living room, cuddling the cat and watching TV. I turned to get some salt, and I heard the sound of the box toppling over. When I ran out, I saw the cat pawing at the packet of poison. It had already torn a hole in it, and white powder was sprinkled all over the floor. Some of it was on its paws. I rushed to grab the packet, but the cat was gone. I quietly followed it back to the kitchen. And I watched as it lifted its paw and deliberately shook the poison into my oatmeal. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, lunging for it. Mark came in, saw the mess on the floor and the powder in my bowl, and just laughed. He scooped up the cat. “You’re such a little rascal, Mittens,” he said, tapping its head affectionately, not a hint of reprimand in his voice. My own voice was shaking. “She put rat poison in my oatmeal! I could have died!” Mark glanced at the bowl, completely unconcerned. “It’s not a big deal. Just throw it out. She’s a cat, she doesn’t know any better. She was just playing.” The cat nuzzled against him, its eyes fixed on me, a clear challenge in them. Seeing Mark’s nonchalant attitude, a fire ignited in my chest. “She doesn’t know any better? How did she know where the poison was? How did she know to open the box? And how did she just happen to put it in my oatmeal?” Mark’s expression soured. “What are you trying to say? That she’s trying to poison you? She’s just a cat. What kind of evil plan could she possibly have?” I looked at the cat in his arms. It was squinting, as if it were smiling. How could it have been so precise? Mark put the cat down. “Alright, stop standing there like a statue. Throw out the oatmeal and make a new batch. And from now on, put that stuff on a higher shelf, where Mittens can’t get to it.” Then he went back to the living room with the cat, as if nothing had happened. I stood in the kitchen, staring at the poisoned oatmeal, a chill spreading through me. I was more certain than ever. There was something very, very wrong with that cat. It wasn’t playing. It was trying to kill me.

3 This silver tabby was Rebecca’s cat. After Rebecca’s accident, Mark brought it home. He bought it the best food, luxury collars, and took it for regular grooming appointments. He even brought it with us when we visited my parents. My mom’s dog, a friendly old golden retriever, came up to sniff the cat, and the cat hissed. Mark immediately clutched the cat to his chest and yelled at me. “Can’t you control your dog? What if it scared Mittens?” My mom quickly pulled the dog away. “He was just curious,” she said. But Mark wouldn’t let it go. “What if he had bitten her? This cat is all I have left of Rebecca. If anything happened to it, could you afford to replace her?” All our relatives were staring. I just stood there, speechless. All of our money went to the cat. I contributed my salary to the household expenses, so it was my money buying those luxury cat supplies. And the cat hated me. It bit and scratched me at every opportunity. Once, it bit my arm so hard it broke the skin. I had to get a rabies shot. I had a bad reaction to the vaccine and broke out in a rash all over my body. I called Mark to tell him I was having an allergic reaction and needed to go to the hospital. “Okay, I’m taking Mittens for her grooming appointment. I’ll deal with it later,” he said, and hung up. He didn’t even ask if I was okay. I went to the hospital by myself and got some medication. When I got home, Mark was already there, feeding the cat treats. “This rash is really uncomfortable,” I said. “Mm-hmm,” he replied, not looking up. The cat hissed at me, pawing the air. “Don’t do that, you might scratch her,” Mark said, holding its paw down. “Aren’t you even a little bit concerned about my allergic reaction?” I asked. He finally looked up, his voice tinged with annoyance. “It’s not a big deal. It’s just a rash. Take some medicine and you’ll be fine. Stop making a mountain out of a molehill. You’re ruining my quality time with Mittens.” The cat nuzzled against him, its eyes glinting. I thought about the stares from my relatives, the scratches on my arms, the painful rash, the rat poison. A wave of despair washed over me. Mark was still talking. “Mittens has been through so much. Rebecca’s gone. If I don’t spoil her, who will? You’re the woman of the house, can’t you be a little more gracious? It’s just a cat. This is ridiculous.”

4 After the rat poison incident, I started to notice more and more strange things. The cat was too smart, too human-like. The way it looked at me was exactly the way Rebecca used to look at me. I even started to wonder if Rebecca’s soul had somehow possessed the cat. Whenever Mark and I tried to be intimate, the cat would interfere. It would either jump on the bed and scratch me, or it would start meowing incessantly until we gave up. Mark never blamed the cat. He would just coo, “Is my little Mittens jealous? It’s okay, Daddy loves you too.” Then he’d turn to me and complain, “Can’t you wait until she’s asleep? She’s just a baby, she needs attention.” I didn’t argue, but the suspicion in my heart grew stronger. The final straw came last week. Mark said it was time for the cat’s annual check-up and asked me to drive it to the vet. I put the cat in its carrier on the passenger seat. The moment we got on the highway, it started thrashing around, clawing at the bars of the carrier and yowling at me. I glanced over for just a second, and the car swerved violently toward the guardrail. I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt just inches from a crash. My heart was pounding in my chest. I turned to look at the cat. It was calm now, but its eyes were filled with disappointment. In that moment, I knew. It was Rebecca. She had tried to make me crash. She wanted to get rid of me and take my place. A cold fear washed over me. I didn’t say anything. I just drove to the vet, got the check-up done, and drove home, my hands shaking the whole time. When Mark saw a small scratch on the cat, he demanded to know what happened. When I told him about the near-accident, he, a grown man, actually burst into tears.

5 He clutched the cat to his chest, burying his face in its fur. “My poor baby,” he sobbed. “Don’t you ever leave me, okay? Daddy was so scared. I promise I’ll never let you out of my sight again.” He stroked the cat’s soft fur, his eyes filled with a profound sadness. “Oh, Rebecca,” he whispered, “you were taken too soon. This little cat is all I have left. If anything happened to her, I could never face you.” The cat snuggled against him, mewing softly. I stood there, watching this pathetic display, and then I said, my voice flat, “It’s simple. Take her to a breeder. With her pedigree, you could charge a thousand a session. She’d have a waiting list. She has a litter of kittens, and your precious memory can live on.” Mark stared at me, then his expression hardened into a snarl. “Absolutely not! Mittens is pure. How could I let her breed with some random, dirty cat? What are you thinking?” The cat, startled by his shouting, flinched and tucked its tail between its legs, its eyes wide and wet. But through the act, I saw a flash of anger in its eyes as it glared at me. Keep pretending, I thought. Mark immediately softened his tone, cooing at the cat. “It’s okay, baby, I wasn’t yelling at you. I was yelling at her. No one is ever going to make you do that.” He turned back to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “What is wrong with you? This is Rebecca’s legacy. How could I subject her to something so degrading? What are you trying to accomplish?” I just smiled. “What could I possibly be trying to accomplish? You’re the one who’s afraid she’s going to die. This is just a way to ensure she has offspring.” “Not like that!” Mark’s face was flushed with anger. “Who knows where those breeder cats have been? What if they have diseases? What if they hurt her? No! Absolutely not!” The cat in his arms preened, a flicker of triumph in its eyes. I didn’t argue. I just looked at the cat. So, you don’t like the pampered, purebred tomcats at the breeders? Fine. Don’t blame me for what happens next. There were plenty of dirty, mangy strays in the park. And when they were in heat, they weren’t picky. Let’s see how your precious Rebecca enjoys being “loved” by them.

6 The next day, Mark had to go on an unexpected business trip. As he was leaving, he held the cat, reluctant to let it go. “You have to take good care of Mittens,” he repeated for the tenth time. “Feed her on time, don’t let her get upset, and don’t you dare hit her.” “I will,” I said. He still didn’t look convinced. “I’m serious, Abby. If I come back and find out you’ve mistreated her, I will make you regret it.” The cat looked at me over his shoulder, a smug expression on its face. Mark finally let it go and left, looking back every few steps. The moment the door closed, I turned to the cat and smiled. It seemed to sense the shift in the atmosphere and backed away, its eyes wary. I went to the kitchen, and when it wasn’t looking, I took a small vial from the cabinet and sprinkled its contents into the cat food, mixing it in thoroughly. The cat hesitated, but it was hungry. And probably confident that with Mark’s protection, I wouldn’t dare do anything. It started to eat. A few minutes later, it started to wobble, its movements uncoordinated. It stared at me, its eyes wide with terror. I knelt in front of it. “You’re Rebecca, aren’t you?” It stiffened, stumbling backward, a low growl in its throat. “You tried to poison me, you tried to make me crash my car, all to drive a wedge between me and Mark. Did you ever think it would end like this?” My voice was calm, even. It scrambled backward, its paws scrabbling on the floor, trying to escape but unable to stand. It staggered to the coffee table, grabbed my phone, and, with its nose, managed to unlock the screen. It tried to dial Mark’s number, but his phone was already off. He was on the plane. The cat stared at the blank screen, its terror turning to despair. It swayed, then collapsed. I picked it up and walked out of the house. I took it to the park and placed it on a bench. It was still unconscious, its body twitching occasionally. A few mangy stray cats started to approach, their eyes glowing in the dusk. Just then, my phone rang. It was a video call from Mark. He had just landed. “Abby, where are you? How’s Mittens? Does she miss me?” I aimed the camera at the bench. Mark froze. His eyes widened. “NO!” he screamed.