Without the Cat

No chickens ever made it into my father's heart. It was broken when the cat died: mangled, if I'm honest. We thought hens might help, but he didn't let them in. Worse, he began to defend them when they were broody. We thought he'd like gathering their fresh eggs for breakfast. Stealing babies, he would say. He'd spit in the frying pan and take his porridge to his room.

One morning, shifting with angry pride, he came back into the kitchen with his bathrobe covered in shimmering green poo. Our egg-plate by the cooker was empty: he'd put them all back. That's when we knew the chickens had to go.

Potato-head, they used to call him at school. Danny the Doorknob. Wally Weston. But there were no special schools then, and he wasn't a wally at all. Mum knew that when she was around. Dad was a genius. He won the Farnell Prize for his work in genetics back in his day.

Mornings bring me guilt because of how much I wish I didn't have to explain him to people. He's inappropriate. Announcements about his toilet needs emanate from the living room, guests or no guests. We have to do all the shopping because he stands there for ages reading the ingredients on every item's packaging. It wasn't this bad before.

We haven't tried anything since the chickens. My brother Phil says there's no hope without the cat. My sister Annie thinks he should go to a home. But this is a home, I say.

Weekdays, I take him a tea when my alarm goes off. Usually he's staring blankly at the wall, propped up dead-centre in his bed. One cannot tell when he's woken up, or if he ever went to sleep. This is when it feels that he is most at peace. Somewhere reflected in that wall lies the inner world of our father. Our chicken-defending, potato-headed, bathrobe-sacrificing genius of a father.

If I'm lucky, in the flash of a moment, I catch the cat in his eyes.

Author's Note

Would like to submit to Mash Competition - deadline 15th October. The rule is you have to use three words: bathrobe, chicken, and potato.