There comes a time in life when a man must be a man; a bush must be a bush, and a dead cat, unfortunately, must be a dead cat.
Welcome to the final chapter of Bushes; the now legendary tale of a cat whose stinking dead body resides beneath the bushes which surround my apartment building.
I would first like to confirm that it is in fact, a dead cat. I know this because one particularly breezy afternoon I used a broomstick to part the bushes; the initial smell blast hit me like a clenched fist and I immediately took two very large steps backwards; it stunk like a mixture of forgotten tuna in a tupperware container and Wendy’s Chili placed in the microwave for two minutes on high.
You know when you breathe something deeply enough that you can taste it?
If not, consider yourself lucky. Very, very lucky.
Thanks to the dry, hot spring weather of the past week, the cat’s body has finally begun to dry out, which not only removed the hordes of flies which were going in and out of the bushes, but has also caused the body to harden and mummify; downgrading the stench and giving the cat a dusty, shell-type casing which sort of smells like roof tar and pencil shavings.
Thank God, I think the worst of it is finally over.
I can now return to writing about things that interest me. There have been a lot of things happening around the world that I would like to address; unfortunately, my mind has been preoccupied with cats and bushes. For those who followed the Bushes Trilogy, thank you for taking this journey with me; I hoped you enjoyed a laugh or two.
The cat is finally at rest
My only concern is that there is one issue left for this semester of The Houstonian, what on earth will I write about now?