"The Ninth Life" by Leah Mueller

The Ninth Life

As I climbed uphill towards the abandoned hospital, I sensed that I wasn’t alone. A feral cat crouched in the underbrush, its bent tail twitching. The creature was jet-black and emaciated, with streaks of mud embedded in its matted fur.
Midsummer desert breezes blew across my skin and reverberated into the weeds. Their impact created a faint, eerie whistle. The late-afternoon heat seared my shoulders, reminding me that I had forgotten to apply sunscreen.
Lately, I forgot everything. When to pay bills, what time to get up, even the day of the week. My husband had been dead for a month, after a two-year bout with colon cancer. He’d closed his eyes for the final time and gone to wherever escaping souls reside.
I had no idea where that was, though everyone tried their hardest to tell me. People seemed so certain about the afterlife’s heavenly reward. Easy enough for them since they weren’t the ones grieving.
During Russ’ final months, we took many walks to the hospital. The three-story building perched on top of a nearby hillside, staring malevolently at us like an image from a Stephen King novel. It hadn’t always been a hospital. Before its vacancy, the structure had gone through a variety of incarnations — most recently as a low-income housing project.
At first, the abandoned building appeared pristine, waiting for its tenants to return for their last remaining possessions. Bedframes, wooden chairs in perfect condition, canned foods arranged in neat lines on countertops. During the ensuing months, people arrived at night to vandalize the property. They shattered windows with bricks, stole furniture, left bloodstains on the nearby sidewalk.
I grew to despise the building, but the more it fell apart, the more Russ loved it. I think he identified with its deterioration. Despite my protests, we continued our evening walks to the structure. We poked around its perimeter, then strolled downhill to our house. The entire trip totaled less than a mile, which was all my husband could handle.
The two of us had noticed the cat several times. It always crouched in the same spot, staring at us with slitted eyes. If we tried to get the creature’s attention, it vanished into the underbrush. After a while, we gave up and walked past without looking, like wild animals that had learned to coexist.
Today was different, however. The cat emerged from its hiding place and made its way in my direction. I watched, amazed, as it brushed against my bare legs. After fifteen months in the Southwest, I still wore sundresses, even though the prickly foliage threatened to lacerate my skin.
“Hey kitty,” I whispered. “What a sweetheart.”
The cat continued to rub against my calves, staring up at me with an adoring expression.
That suspicious creature had avoided me for months, but now it wanted my attention. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Russ and I owned two cats while our kids were young. One of them eventually ran away, and the other went to live with another family after we were forced to move to an apartment that didn’t allow pets. In both instances, we’d been devastated.
Though neighborhood felines often lounged in our new yard, we never had time to get another cat. My husband and I were preoccupied with his illness — our weekly trips to Tucson for treatment, my hours-long preparation of high-calorie meals. A valiant battle destined to be lost.
I reached down and scooped up the cat. It slumped into my arms and allowed me to caress its dirt-encrusted back. The animal was half-starved, and bare patches of skin showed through its dark fur. Somehow, it managed to find the sustenance it needed to remain alive.
A line of metal sheds ringed the edge of the parking lot. They held an assortment of abandoned tools, broken toys, mattresses, and other junk. Obviously, the cat resided in one of the sheds and emerged during the day to hunt. Though desert pickings were meager, it was determined to survive.
The two of us had a lot in common. Both of us alone, forced to scramble for whatever we could find. My own situation was new, however. I had spent most of my adult life in one relationship or another. Since the cat had gone out of its way to befriend me, I sensed it hadn’t always been feral. Someone had probably fed it food from a designated bowl and provided a comfortable bed.
“I’m going to take you home. Would you like that? I bet you’re hungry.” A friend gave Russ a can of salmon after his diagnosis, but we never bothered to open it. It would be best to feed the cat small portions, so the poor thing wouldn’t become ill from nutrient-rich cuisine.
I gingerly made my way downhill. The cat squirmed a bit, then became still. I continued to run my hands through its fur, trying to soothe its anxiety. My house was only four blocks away, but those blocks would seem interminable. The nearby homes were ramshackle and drab, their front yards cluttered with trash and automobile parts. 
Most of the yards contained untethered, vicious dogs. Nothing but glorified burglar alarms, barking incessantly at cars, falling sticks, and passersby. I never understood why people in poor neighborhoods owned so many dogs. These folks had few material possessions, and no love to bestow upon their hapless pets.
As I picked my way along the street, the dogs threw themselves against their owners’ chain-link fences, trying their hardest to leap over the enclosures and tear out our throats. Boredom turns dogs into monsters. They need constant attention. One of the main reasons why I’d always avoided canine companionship, preferring feline independence and detachment.
The cat became increasingly anxious. It flailed wildly, trying to escape. “It’s okay,” I said. “We’re almost home.”
One of the yards had four enormous dogs. Six cars in various states of disrepair ringed the edges of the fence. A vehicle’s bumper sticker read, “They were fools to let me out.” When the dogs attacked the fence, the cat almost escaped. It thrashed harder and clawed my arms. I kept a firm grip on its torso, and eventually it subsided.
Finally, I reached my own porch. The cat had given up struggling and submitted to its fate. As I fumbled in my purse for my keys, it suddenly surged upward, catapulted from my grasp, and escaped. It stood for a moment on the porch, regarding my yard with confusion. Then it took off running down the street in the direction of the abandoned hospital.
The whole thing happened in a matter of seconds. I contemplated chasing after the cat but figured it would only run faster. Besides, I’d look ridiculous. Not that the neighbors would care. No one pays much attention to absurd behavior in a low-income neighborhood.
I unlocked the door, collapsed on my couch, and burst into tears. I’d tried so goddamned hard to rescue the cat, but it didn’t want salvation. The cat refused to trust my promise of security. It preferred the uncertainty of scrambling for stray rodents and food scraps.
How futile and ridiculous for me to think that I could nurse the cat back to health. Its fate had been sealed, just like my husband’s. Arizona summers were brutal — unrelenting heat followed by a six-week monsoon season. Despite its tenacity, the cat wouldn’t survive.
At least it would die on its own terms. That was the best anyone could hope for. My husband hadn’t had that luxury. He didn’t want to leave me and had stayed alive for as long as he could. I kept feeding him until he could no longer eat. In the end, none of it mattered.
I dried my eyes, poured myself a glass of wine, and contemplated another rescue attempt. Perhaps I could drive up to the hospital and toss the cat into the back seat. That way, it wouldn’t be frightened by the dogs. I would only need to hold onto its squirming body when I opened my car door. Once I had it inside the house, my mission would be complete. A couple of bowls of canned salmon, and the feral cat would be transformed into a domestic pet.
Two glasses later, I decided to scrap the plan. The cat was unlikely to grant me a second chance. Its lack of trust had kept it alive for months and would do so for several more. I needed to respect its boundaries. Like the cat, I would have to learn how to be alone.

Leah Mueller

Leah Mueller is an indie writer and spoken word performer from Bisbee, Arizona. She is the author of nine prose and poetry books, published by numerous small presses. Her latest chapbook, Land of Eternal Thirst (Dumpster Fire Press) was released in 2021. Leah’s work appears in Rattle, Midway Journal, Citron Review, The Spectacle, Miracle Monocle, Outlook Springs, Atticus Review, Your Impossible Voice, and elsewhere. Visit her website at www.leahmueller.org.

Headshot: Leah Mueller

Photo Credit: Staff