The Trolley Problem With Pets and Superpowers
“Listen, pal. I’m not coming down from this tree. That bitch is crazy,” said Meow-Meow, the Hendersons’ orange tabby.
“He sounds so scared!” squealed Sophie. “Please, sir. Can you help him down?”
All I could think was that I had better things to be doing. It was definitely a mistake to reveal my powers this year. I thought I could use them for good, but all it really involved was soothing animals that were about to be put down for biting somebody. Or slaughtered. Turns out people really like to feel good about themselves when they’re killing a living being. And this cat did not want to come down from the tree.
Of course, all Sophie and her parents heard was aggressive meowing. They didn’t realize that they were the source of it.
“Listen… I don’t think he wants to come down.” I was trying to break it gently.
“YA THINK!?” Meow-Meow said.
Mr. James Henderson reached for his wallet. “If it’s about cash, I’ve got a couple of hundreds here…”
I sighed. “No, no. It’s just–well–how do I put this… Meow-Meow wants to be independent, I guess.”
Mrs. Karen Henderson scoffed. “Tell that little shit to come out of the tree or I’ll take him out myself–with my handgun.”
Sophie, gentle soul she was, started crying.
“What’s she saying, Phil?” Meow-Meow asked.
“She’s saying she’ll shoot you if you don’t come out.”
“What the fuck?”
“Listen, I’ve got a plan. I’ll help you down, but then you run like the wind.”
Meow-Meow yowled. “I can barely run! I barely got up this tree. Why do you think these stupid fucking humans like to feed us so much?”
“There’s no other option, dude.”
“Fine.”
Out of nowhere, Meow-Meow leaped out of the tree.
Onto my face.
I fell ass-backwards onto the Henderson’s lawn, and of course, I fell right into a steaming pile of dog shit. I turned around to see Meow-Meow making a break for the suburban road. The Hendersons helped me up.
“Please get Meow-Meow home safe, sir.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her Meow-Meow would’ve eaten her if he had the chance. “I’ll bring Meow-Meow back, Sophie. Trust uncle Phil.”
Mrs. Henderson put a hand on my shoulder. “Calm down, buddy. We barely even know you.”
Okay, fair enough.
It was then that out of the corner of my eye I noticed the Hendersons’ Yorkie, Rufus (pronounced Rough-Us) hopping off the sidewalk merrily, and onto the road.
“RUFUS! DON’T DO IT!” I screamed.
The Hendersons screamed as well when they saw their precious little pooch saunter onto the asphalt.
“I can’t take it anymore, Phil. I’ve tried to be a good doggy. But I can’t do it.”
I ran towards him. “THIS ISN’T THE ANSWER!”
Rufus ignored me, and sat in the middle of the road. He was so small, the approaching Buick went full speed. I ran so fast I was cramping. “RUFUS! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE ROAD!”
He still ignored me. A hair’s breadth away from his scruff, I grabbed him and yanked him back to the sidewalk.
“What the heck is wrong with you?” I asked him.
He looked at me with anger. “How dare you stop me.”
“Yeah. No problem, dude.”
For some reason, the Buick was stopped.
That’s when I heard a loud yowling sound from behind me. I turned around to see a bloody Meow-Meow lying in the middle of the road. Dear fucking god.
“Rufus…stay. Please.” I set him down on the sidewalk and he scowled at me.
I went to check on Meow-Meow, who the Hendersons, and the driver, were surrounding. He looked so fragile and delicate, and despite myself, I found tears coming from my eyes. We’d had so many good conversations. He’d been like a younger brother to me.
I lifted his broken body up. “Why’d you come back, man?”
He mewled softly. “Y-you can call me by my cat name, you know…”
“What’s your cat name?” I said, beaming with pride in spite of the moment.
“Bill…”
“Why’d you come back, Bill?” The tears flowed freely. Every onlooker remained silent, except for Sophie, whose wails could be heard for miles.
Bill slowly closed his eyes. “I… was… hungry.”
Bill’s grave is located in the Hendersons’ backyard. At night, when they’re asleep, I climb over the fence in the back to pay my respects. I kneel at the ground and put my hand on the tiny little shrine Sophie set up for her lost kitty. I can’t help but feel bitter, because even though she may have adored the cat, she could never have loved Bill the way I had.
Not even her fault.
I leave when I hear a shout from the inside: “Honey, there’s somebody in the back. Get the shotgun.”