Jon Trobaugh

The Smith’s tomcat proved too quick, so he shot it as it appeared from under the smokehouse. The rest he collected live in a tow sack and dragged into the kitchen. He finished the lunch they had interrupted – tuna sandwich, apple, and milk – after scrubbing his wounds in the sink.

With the bag squirming on the floor between his feet, he set to his work, cutting a small hole in the burlap with his penknife. He then laid the sack on its side and pressed his foot down on the end opposite the hole, to a chorus of hisses and howls. He held the knife in his mouth as he punched and stomped the cat-filled sack, kneading it like a frustrated baker, until an underbelly appeared in the hole.

He seized the animal through the bag and fished out its testicles. He gripped the set tightly between the thumb and forefinger of one hand.

‘Hush, hush... ’

The knife’s blade was rusty and chipped along its length, but with enough pressure it made the cut. It reminded him of slicing through a rotten peach. The sack hissed and jerked as the blood came, and the animal’s cries grew wild.

He wondered which neighbour owned the queen in heat that these toms were after. He wondered too if he had accidentally captured this female with the rest. Ten cuttings later, he knew that he had not. He would scrub the kitchen floor, and then he would finish up with the women.