Zigzag Street by Nick Earls Page B

through the infectious melody of ‘Rose of Tralee’. My Can of Worms screen saver emerges and chews its way through my document. I tell Hillary this will all take careful consideration, as there are several competing interests and I must achieve a delicate balance.
    And she says, Good , but warily.
    I stay till six-thirty, but I’m not sure that I get anywhere. Perhaps all I create is confusion. I go home, as though there’s any less confusion there.
    Greg’s fleas are going crazy, multiplying at a quite unsustainable rate but appearing to sustain it so far. I actually wonder if there’s any of Greg left in there at all, or if the fleas have hollowed him out and are now operating his limbs in order to maintain the pretence of a cat. I take him to the vet. The vet is not impressed.
    He should probably have come in a while back , she says. He’s not looking good .
    I realise it would be stupid at this point to say I’ve been busy, as I would only end up getting an obliquelecture about the responsibilities of pet ownership. Then I’d have the choice of taking it on the chin, or explaining myself as a victim of circumstances. That it took a death and a trashing to bring Greg and me together. My theory, that every conceivable interaction has the potential to lead back to the trashing, holds. I choose to say nothing, and I try to look contrite.
    He’s really quite infested , she’s saying, and he’s reacting and he’s starting to scratch. Have you noticed the scratching? You must have noticed it. He starting to break skin .
    I nod.
    Have you noticed it ?
    Well, I’m out during the day.
    This is clearly more like a confession of neglect than an answer, so I am compelled to go on.
    He’s my grandmother’s cat, actually. And she hasn’t been well lately, so I’m helping look after him. It’s not ideal, but hopefully things’ll be back to normal soon.
    The problem with this is that every time I go the lying option, I tell a different lie. And I don’t keep track of them. I’m scattering lies all over town to avoid talking about the trashing, and I expect this will backfire soon enough.
    The vet, of course, displays compassion when she hears the lie, and this only reinforces the likelihood that I will lie again.
    She says we will need to use a strong flea wash and if that fails, or if Greg keeps scratching himself, we may need to cut an ice-cream bucket and fit it around his head while we apply something else.
    So now I am turning the cat into a loser too. A month or so ago he was entirely functional and flea-free. In a week’s time he could have patchy hair loss, widespread self-inflicted wounds and an ice-cream bucket around his head. And they say people grow to resemble their pets. I think I’m dragging him down.
    The vet says, You might find that even if this workshe may have a few fleas left. Probably the easiest thing to do if that’s the case is wash him with some dilute Martha Gardener’s Wool Mix. But give it a few weeks first .
    Wash him with what?
    Wool Mix. You know the stuff? Just make sure it’s mixed in with a lot of warm water, and rinse it all off after you’ve washed him .
    I take him home. I explain to him the importance of the flea bath and how calmness is essential. I tell him this is for his own good.
    At first he fools me by crouching down low and giving a long whining growl. This intensifies when I drench him and rub the liquid into his fur. I tell him how good he is, how well this is going. I start to wash it off. He loses it.
    Every one of his muscles spasms at once and he rips up my arms like a fearsome wet gremlin and over my shoulder, landing on the floor with an inelegant splat. He runs for the door and out into the backyard. I chase him, but he’s gone.
    I am standing in the dark, quite alone, with no cat sounds apparent in the relative quiet. When I go back into the light and see the mess, I