“I can’t believe you’ve been keeping a damn cat in our house for months,” my father complains, looking down at the unmoving ball of fur on the ground next to the hole Sam is still digging.
I’m assuming the cat used to be a very pretty one since Aunt Bobbie wouldn’t stop crying about his long, shiny white fur and beautiful green eyes. Sadly, after being run over by the giant wheel of a Ford truck, his coat is now matted and covered in dirt and with his eyes wide open in death, they’re more of a blood-shot color at this point, with one of the eyeballs enlarged and looking like it’s about ready to pop out of its socket.
“I wasn’t keeping him in your house,” Aunt Bobbie complains, pulling a handkerchief out of her cleavage and dabbing at her cheeks. “Turd Ferguson was strictly an outdoor cat. He had too much pride to cross the threshold of a home where he knew he wasn’t wanted.”
I know I shouldn’t laugh, but every time she says the damn cat’s name, a hysterical giggle bubbles up in my throat and I have to cover my mouth to keep it from escaping. As soon as Aunt Bobbie came running out into the driveway, dropped to the ground next to Sam’s truck, and saw the cat lying lifeless next to the tire, she wailed to the heavens, asking God why he would do this to her, and then demanded we have a proper burial for Turd Ferguson in the backyard. I couldn’t help it. I laughed…very loudly. I was then promptly scolded for making a mockery of Turd Ferguson’s life and as penance, Aunt Bobbie demanded I give the eulogy.
“I don’t understand why you couldn’t have taken that thing to your place and buried it,” my dad grumbles. “I finally got all the decorations where I wanted them and now I’ve got to figure out how to camouflage a freshly dug grave.”
My father, annoyed with all of the wedding talk and arguments, took it upon himself to spend the last few days decorating the front and back yards. Not only does my father overdo it with Christmas decorations, he also gets a little obsessed about the Fourth of July. It took a month for my mother and I to convince him that it would be okay to skip the decorations just this one year so we could have the wedding at their home. I love America and the Fourth of July as much as the next person, but my father takes this decorating business to an unhealthy level.
There are red, blue, and clear lights hung from every branch and trunk of every tree, for as far as the eye can see. More than twenty, by my last count, plastic, light-up American flags that are as big as a car scattered everywhere, so many life-sized, blow-up Uncle Sam’s that I’ve lost count, strands of flag lights lining the entire length of fence that wraps around the yard, a spotlight on the house that lights it up at night to look like fireworks are exploding against the front of it, American flag bunting hanging from the porch ceiling and railings, and over two-thousand tiny little American flags on wooden sticks, lining the sidewalk, either side of the driveway, the walkway around the house leading to the backyard, and randomly scattered all OVER the yard.
Suddenly, the notes of the song God Bless America blast through the yard, and my need to laugh quickly disappears. I forgot to mention that my father also hooks up a sound system, with speakers all around the house, giving the neighborhood a free concert every night with his Fourth of July playlist he has on a CD.
“You did a wonderful job with the decorations, Reggie,” my mother tells him with a smile. “The yard looks like Christmas in July!”
“Except it’s supposed to look like a wedding in July, not like America shit all over the lawn,” I mutter under my breath.
“This is my year, I can feel it,” my dad says excitedly, rubbing his hands together. “Max Monroe won’t know what hit him.”
Sam pauses his digging, pushing the shovel into the ground next to the hole and leaning his elbow on the handle. “Who’s Max Monroe?”
I sigh and shrug. “No one knows. I’m pretty sure he’s a figment of dad’s imagination.”
“HORSE SHIT!” my dad shouts. “Your mother has met him. She can back me up. He will not win the firework display contest this year. Wedding or no wedding, I’m taking that guy down.”
My dad continues talking to himself and Sam shoots a questioning look over to my mother.
“Reginald, there is no such thing as a firework display contest!” she argues. “It’s just you two idiots trying to outdo each other every year instead of enjoying time with your family.”
She glances at Sam, who still looks confused, and I don’t blame him. I’ve witnessed this war on fireworks every year since Mr. Monroe and his family moved in a few houses down, and I still don’t have a clue about any of it.
“You shut your mouth when you’re talking to me! He started this war, and now I’m going to finish it,” my father informs her.
“Just because he happened to light off one firework, immediately after you did, down the street at HIS OWN PARTY TEN YEARS AGO, does not mean he declared a war!” she fires back.
“Next you’ll be telling me it’s a coincidence that he lights off a firework after every one I do, and it’s always bigger and better!”
“No, it’s not a coincidence! It’s the FOURTH OF JULY and every yahoo in America is lighting off illegal fireworks until all hours of the morning!”
Sam holds up one hand to halt the argument.
“Wait, did you say illegal fireworks?” he asks. “You know I work for the government, right?”
My dad shakes his head at Sam, stomps over to him, and yanks the shovel out from under his arm, causing Sam to stumble a little bit before he gets his footing.
“And as a Marine, you have a duty to serve and protect,” my dad tells him, pointing the shovel at his crotch. “It is your duty to serve me beer while I light off illegal fireworks that I may or may not cross the border into Pennsylvania to buy and smuggle back in my trunk, and it is your duty to protect my reputation as the King of all Firework Displays by keeping your trap shut about it!”
Aunt Bobbie suddenly lets out a screeching wail, the sound a hundred times louder than the music blasting from the speakers.
“HAVE YOU NO RESPECT FOR TURD FERGUSON?!” she screams. “HE LOST HIS LIFE IN THIS GREAT NATION! YOU HAVE THE FREEDOM TO EAT YOUR WEIGHT IN HAMBURGERS AND HOT DOGS AND LIGHT UP THE NIGHT SKY BECAUSE HE DIED FOR YOU!”
“Uhhh, I’m pretty sure that’s not what happened,” Sam mutters.
“I can’t respect a cat named Turd Ferguson,” my dad chimes in.
“I will have you know, he loved his name,” Aunt Bobbie informs us. “It was a charming, unique name and he loved it!”
She starts crying all over again and my mother quickly rushes to her side and wraps her arm around Aunt Bobbie’s shoulder.
“How is being named after a lump of shit charming? Can we get this thing over with already?” my dad complains. “There’s a guy down at The Walmarts selling M-80’s out of the trunk of his car. I need to get there before there’s nothing but duds left. I can’t very well make Max shit his pants if I’ve got nothing but duds in my arsenal.”
Aunt Bobbie huffs, shooting my dad a dirty look before walking over next to the poor, dead, cat.
“Sam, will you please do the honors of putting Turd Ferguson into his final resting place?”
With a small nod, he bends down and scoops the cat’s dirty body into his arms as gently as possible. I wince when Turd Ferguson’s head flops back over his forearm and make a vow to God then and there that even if Sam’s penis never works again, even if he becomes severely depressed from years without ejaculating and gains a hundred pounds from stress-eating, I will love him until the day I die. Any man who can cradle a dead animal named Turd Ferguson in his arms so gently and lovingly without once cracking a smile whenever his name is mentioned, is the best man in the entire world.
Sam squats down next to the hole and Aunt Bobbie gives me a sad smile and a nod, indicating I should start my eulogy.
“We are all gathered here to celebrate the life of Turd Ferguson,” I start, hiding my giggle with a cough.
I quickly compose myself and continue. ?
??Um, he was a good cat. Best friend to Aunt Bobbie and, uh, all-around good feline. Not very smart considering he decided to curl up in the wheel well of Sam’s truck for a late afternoon nap, but, I digress.”
Sam slowly leans over, lowering Turd Ferguson into the hole as I try to come up with something else to say about a dumb cat with a stupid name.
Suddenly, the music being piped through the neighborhood goes from the soothing tempo of America the Beautiful by Ray Charles, right into the loud, shouting, voice of Kid Rock as he belts out the start of American Badass.
If you ask me, everything that happened next moved in slow motion, but I’m pretty sure Sam wouldn’t agree.
Chapter 8
Bring Out Your Dead
Sam
As soon as Kid Rock started shouting about tearing down a stage with his own two hands, it was like a bolt of lightning stuck Turd fucking Ferguson. Who knew Kid Rock’s voice acted like a defibrillator to a dead pussy? I’d like to take a moment and laugh at the absurdity of the situation, but it all happens so fast that I don’t have time, what with all the screaming and my life flashing before my eyes.
Right as I’m lowering the damn cat into the grave I just finished digging for him, he suddenly jerks in my arms, lifts his head with that one creepy, bulging eyeball, and glares at me. He opens his mouth and lets out a gurgled, half-assed hiss. It’s short and quiet, but it very clearly screams, “I WILL FUCKING CUT YOU FOR TRYING TO BURY ME ALIVE!”.
I barely have enough time to cringe in horror when I see that he only has three, random teeth left in his mouth, before I let out the most unmanly scream that has ever escaped me. Turd Ferguson lets out a loud, angry yowl that I’m assuming can be heard from miles away. Dogs start barking, car horns begin honking, and everyone in the yard starts yelling in fear, right along with me. Except for Aunt Bobbie.
“SWEET JESUS IT’S A MIRACLE! TURD FERGUSON IS ALIVE!” she shouts happily over the screaming, yowling, hissing and Kid Rock suddenly asking, “Are you scared?”.
“GET IT OFF ME! GET IT OFF ME! HOLY SHIT GET IT OFF ME!” I scream, as zombie Turd Ferguson digs his claws into the skin of my arms and drags his mangy body up them, still hissing and yowling and looking me straight in the eye the entire time.
Bev stares at me with wide eyes, Aunt Bobbie keeps clapping in glee, and Reggie starts quoting Monty Python in the worst British accent I’ve ever heard.
“Bring out your dead!” Reggie shouts. He changes the tone of his voice to one less booming and then squeaks out, “I’m not dead yet, I think I’ll go for a walk.”
Noel finally realizes that I’m fighting for my life with a previously dead, now very much NOT dead, pissed off cat and rushes over to my side while I frantically shake my arms to try and get Turd Ferguson to let go.
“Oh, my God, what do I do?!” she shouts in a panic while I continue to flail all around and scream like a girl when Turd Ferguson digs his claws in deeper and hisses louder.
“Grab the shovel and knock him off me!” I yell back, in between screams of pain.
“DON’T YOU DARE HIT MY BABY WITH A SHOVEL!” Aunt Bobbie screeches. “Just hold still and calm down! He’s traumatized from that near-death experience. He needs a few minutes to compose himself!”
I try to do as she says. I hold my arm out in front of me with Turd Ferguson perched on top of it, but he won’t stop staring at me with his creepy, googly eye and now there’s foam and bloody spit dripping from his mouth.
I’ve watched The Walking Dead. I consider myself an expert on the zombie apocalypse because of that show, and Alex and I have talked a bunch of times about what we would do in that situation. I’m a Marine, dammit! I’ve gone to war and I’ve studied the art of combat and know how to use every weapon ever made to protect myself and those around me. Regardless, I’m pretty sure that show has taught everyone who watches it what to do in case of a zombie apocalypse, and we all feel a little safer going to sleep at night with this knowledge.
What that show failed to teach everyone, is what the fuck you’re supposed to do when animals attack! It’s all fun and zombie games until Goddamn Turd Ferguson rises from the dead and wants to eat off your face with his three remaining teeth.
“Holy shit, he’s really mad,” Noel mutters, as the cat’s tongue dangles out of the side of his mouth while he continues hissing and resumes crawling up my arm, leaving a bloody trail behind from his claws.
“OF COURSE HE’S MAD! YOU TRIED TO BURY HIM ALIVE!” Aunt Bobbie shouts when I go back to my original plan of shaking the hell out of my arm to get the cat loose.
“What should I do?!” Noel asks again, taking a step back from me when Turd Ferguson aims his unnerving eye in her direction.
“FUCK YOU, RICK AND DARYL!” I shout, ignoring Noel’s question as I squeeze my eyes closed and grab onto a clump of matted fur on Turd Ferguson’s back.
I can’t believe I’ve been a dedicated fan to that show for years and they didn’t even have the decency to teach me what the fuck to do when cats turn into zombies. Now that I think about it, it’s pretty strange there was never an episode with someone fighting off a crazy poodle or a brain-eating hamster. All those people infected by the zombie virus and not ONE fucking house pet came back to life to wreak havoc on their owners? BULLSHIT!
With a growl louder than Turd fucking Ferguson’s, I clutch tightly to the fur on his back and yank him as hard as I can off my arms and toss him away from me.
Noel and Bev gasp, Aunt Bobbie cries, and Reggie continues butchering quotes from The Holy Grail, his accent getting worse and worse each time he speaks.
“It’s got fangs! It’s a killer kitty!” Reggie says with a laugh, holding his fingers up by his mouth to look like fangs and wiggling them around.
“Why isn’t he leaving? What is he doing?” Noel whispers, moving behind me to grab onto the back of my shirt and peer around my shoulder at the cat.
Turd Ferguson stands next to the grave, right where I tossed him. He turns his furry neck slowly and looks down into the hole, then aims his freaky-ass eye right back at me to foam at the mouth, spit and yowl at the top of his zombie cat lungs.
“Holy shit, did he just threaten me?” I ask in fear, wrapping my arms behind me to pull Noel closer as I start stepping us both backward to get as far away from Turd Ferguson as I can.
Aunt Bobbie huffs and marches around all of us, squatting down to the cat’s level a few feet away from him.
“Don’t you worry, Turd Ferguson, Mommy’s right here. I’m sorry I tried to let that evil man bury you alive,” she tells the cat in a soft, baby voice. “Let’s get you cleaned up, and I promise I’ll never make you go anywhere near the cat murderer again.”
I open my mouth to protest and remind her it was an accident, when Turd Ferguson spreads his rage to Aunt Bobbie as well. With two back legs that are most likely broken, the cat uses his front paws to drag the back end of his body across the grass, hissing and spitting and just all-around not having any fucks left to give as he tries to attack the only person in this yard who loves him.
She falls back on her ass when he gets right in her personal space and scrambles away from him when he suddenly stops hissing to just stand there and glare at her.
“Can I hit him over the head with a shovel now?” Reggie asks in a bored voice.
Bev smacks him in the arm and, surprisingly, Aunt Bobbie doesn’t say a word as Turd Ferguson slowly turns and begins dragging himself up to the house. We all watch in silence as he makes his way around the side of the yard and disappears from sight, yowling angrily the entire way.
“Well, that was fun,” Reggie announces, breaking the silence when the cat noises fade in the distance. “Sam, get your shit together. You’re going with me to The Walmarts to see a guy about his trunk fireworks. You should probably bring your gun, those parking lot salesmen are a squirrely bunch. Time to serve and protect me.”
Reggie marches past us and up to the house, not even caring that Turd Ferguson might b
e lurking in the bushes, just waiting to attack. We all wait in the backyard, holding our breaths until we see him open the side door to the house and go inside without any issues.
“I need a drink,” Aunt Bobbie states as Bev helps her up from the ground and the two of them creep toward the house, jumping and jerking their heads around every time they hear a noise.
“Come on, let’s get you inside and wash these scratches,” Noel tells me, coming out from behind me and gently wrapping her hand around my elbow to avoid the cuts and dripping blood.
“So much for a nice, quiet evening at home so we can talk,” I tell her with a nervous laugh, wishing I would have at least been smart enough to get myself a crossbow and keep it on me at all times.
“Don’t worry about anything right now,” Noel reassures me as she pulls me toward the house and we dodge all the Fourth of July decorations littering the yard. “I’ll talk to my dad and let him know you’re too traumatized to go firework trunk shopping with shady people.”
Reggie lifts one of the windows at the back of the house and sticks his head out of the opening.
“Get your pansy-ass moving, bitch nuts! Don’t even think about backing out on me, or I will sell all the ice cream and cheese you’ve ever dreamed about to the highest bidder and you’ll never touch dairy again!” Reggie bellows before pulling his head back inside and slamming closed the window.