The cat stands up, births the bullet from its torso and onto the grass. It licks the wound until its sealed. The gun jams when I try firing again. The cat stretches out, laps up its own blood. It looks up at me waiting for an apology. Not a chance, I mouth.
I look at the cat’s body and see where the hair hasn’t grown back in the four other places I shot it. I switched to a smaller caliber after the second shot, see if the bullet would Swiss cheese enough of the cat’s organs to finally bring it down. The bullet, like all the other ones, popped out of it after a minute.
“Why are you here,” I finally ask. It meows, starts walking closer. It stops when I step back and press myself against the front door. My stomach churns. I don’t know what the cat might do to any delivery drivers that might show up but then again, maybe the rising body count, the pizza boxes, the Styrofoam containers drooling General Tso chicken and pork fried rice on the lawn would get me the help I need. I open the door, walk backwards through it. I make sure the windows are closed and locked, again. “There’s always tomorrow,” I say, staring at the can of Italian breadcrumbs.