Mammoth by Eva Baltasar

Author:Eva Baltasar
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literary fiction;lesbian;short novel;motherhood;rural;Catalan literature;family;LGBTQ+;Boulder;Permafrost;International Booker Prize;Spain;Catalonia;rural;urban;pregnancy
Publisher: And Other Stories
Published: 2024-05-14T15:46:35+00:00

I’m starting to understand the hostility toward big pond folk. Counting the one today, three cats have now been abandoned near the house. The minute a cat gets so old it starts pissing itself, there’s a certain kind of owner that comes to see remote farmhouses as permanent homes for their ailing pet. They arrive on weekends – fat cats with luminous fur and the manners of castrated divas. They’re completely useless, but still get into the house through the cat door and help themselves to Knock-Knock’s kibble. I’m not a fan of cats. The sight of them makes me shudder. So, I decide to take drastic measures: I grab a couple of wood planks, a hammer, and a few nails, and block the entrance. I enjoy a few days of calm and quiet while the cats put their heads together and discuss how to screw me over. Then, when I’m least expecting it, they mount a counterattack. They set up in the barn, which is full of hiding places: the firewood rack, old wicker baskets, gas cylinders, bags of mortar, carpentry and bricklaying tools, and a busted fridge that no one had the wherewithal to get rid of. I’ve tried encouraging Knock-Knock to scare them off, but whenever I take him to the shed and shout ‘Scram, cats!’ he gives me a strange look, turns right around, and pads away with his head down.

And then, just as I’m starting to think that without food or scavenging experience the cats will either leave or die, it happens. A sudden, premeditated onslaught. Relentless. The little assholes resort to the only weapon they have: urine. They piss on the kitchen doormat, in a laundry basket of clean clothes. They piss on the firewood and in the shoes I’ve left airing out. They tear at the sheets hung to dry with the same claws they use to scrape dirt over their shit and, when the mood strikes them, piss on those as well. They’re like the seniors at nursing homes who rebel by locking their medicine cabinets and throwing the key down the toilet. At night, before going to sleep, while I stoke the fire so it stays lit until morning, I also stoke thoughts of murder. What other choice is there? Say I liked them – even then, if I kept every cat that got dumped on me I’d wind up like one of those nutcases who know all fifty of their little pussycats by name. At the moment, there’s one group I hate more than felines: their owners, who are so sensible and human. The big pond folk: criminals through and through.

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