A Curious Moon

By Arthur Lauritsen

Both cat and owner were bespectacled. The owner, mostly because he had small round glasses on his button nose but also because he had a bespectacled name: Bob. He was neatly dressed even when outside in the garden. The cat was bespectacled because the cat was wise beyond his years, and like most cats, he knew the answer to every question. Whether he shared the answer with you was a completely different issue.

“Morris, you old reprobate,” said Bob, rubbing him behind the ears. “Time to eat.”

He held the cat under his belly with one hand and set him down. Then he opened the refrigerator—a 1962 Hotpoint built with the English aplomb for rounded Art Deco edges that made it easy on the eyes—and found the liver behind a tomato and beside a bottle of Coleman’s mustard. He cut up a portion and mixed it with the cat food. The cat was bristling with anticipation and rubbing against his leg. “Elevator coming down,” Bob announced, holding the dish out.

“Tenth floor, ninth floor…”

The cat’s purring sounded like an old Model T chugging down the road.

When the food reached ground level, Morris pounced.

There were few things in life that Bob could say—if asked to answer honestly—made him happy. He lived in one of the identical low-set tenant buildings outside Manchester. The roof leaked, and the garden was a small triangle butting against the wall, but the cat made it feel like a home. Bob watched as the cat chomped noisily. He wore a coat of blue-gray fur and handsome, gentlemanly whiskers with sharp, pointed ears that twitched at the least provocation. Bob sighed. “My cat,” he said. 

Without preface, the cat stopped. It tilted its head sideways, the pupils in his eyes bobbing uncertainly. Then it started. The cat arched his back and gave six hacks in slow succession.

“Morris!” Fear gripped him. The only thing in life that made him happy was now choking. “No!”

As suddenly as the storm came, it abated. Morris gave one final hack, and like giving birth to a small, round, and tangled creature, a single hairball plopped out. With not even a modest nod to what had just transpired, Morris went back to chomping his food.

“Oh, Morris,” he said, the happy glow returning to his face. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought for sure you were going to…” He paused and bit his fist, “choke to death.”

At that exact moment, the buzzer rang. Bob looked up and frowned. It was an odd time for a salesman to drop by. He walked over to the door expecting to give a “thank you, but no thank you” and return to his humdrum life; however, when he opened the door, the most unexpected sight greeted him.

It was a man. Not that being a man was unexpected, but there was something about this man that felt unexpected. Perhaps it was the size. He was the shortest man Bob had ever laid eyes on. He wore a pinstripe suit with a fedora, and under his nose—a nose of remarkable proportions—was a mustache so thin it looked penciled in.

“Selling something?” Bob asked.

“I’m here to take your cat,” he replied with a perfunctory nod.

“Excuse me?” The abruptness took him aback. “I’m sorry, but he is definitely and most positively not for sale.”

“I’m not here to buy. He’s dead, right? I’m here to take him away.”

“Oh heavens no. Why would you say that?” Morris was licking his paws.

“Sorry. I came too early. I’ll return in five.” He bowed curtly and headed down the steps.

Bob was quite certain this salesman was not like the others. “What are you talking about?”

The salesman turned back and, after a quick sideways glance, answered. “Angel of Death. Undertaker. Soul Collector. The guy who will take your pet across the river Styx. Capisce? That’s me.”

“Never heard of you.”

“Here’s my card.” He pulled out a messy bundle held together with a rubber band and handed one over.

“Angel of Death, Undertaker, etc.,” it read with a smiling icon of a Japanese-esque caricature holding a sickle. Written in the lower right-hand corner was a contact number: 016-555-0199.

“I’ll be back,” the Angel of Death replied and tipped his hat.

Bob closed the door and looked at the business card. Angel of Death? He turned it over in his hand, scowling the whole time. “Just who does he think he’s fooling?” he said out loud. At that moment, something inspired him. He pulled the curtains back and peeked out the window just in time to see the Angel of Death disappearing around the corner. Bob opened the door, slipped down the steps, and, quiet as a mouse, followed. He got to the edge of the house and peeked around the corner.

There he was again, the half-pint bugger. He was stepping into a limo—black as the bottom of a well and drawn by two white horses. A scraggly man in a top hat cracked the whip, and after a bumpy start, lifted into the air, and disappeared through a halo in the overcast sky.

Bob gasped. This was no ordinary salesman. Bob stood and watched the empty space where the visitor from the netherworld had been. “Well, at least I won’t see him again,” Bob said to himself that night before he went to bed and gave a sigh of relief.

· ✶ · ─ ·⏾· ─ · ✶ ·

It was early the next day, right about seven-ish. Bob sorted through the mail. Electric Bill. 1¢ Cassette Club. Ad for carpet cleaner. A trip to—a place he could never afford—some tropical island. He came to the last piece of mail.

“Oh my,” he exclaimed. It was a letter—completely out of the blue—from an on-again, off-again friend, that quirky inventor who seemed to be always inventing new ways to get into trouble, Gunkafunukas. In one incident, Gunkafunukas was on the run and had invented a transmogrifier—a device used for shape-changing that could change you to any number of objects, both animate and inanimate—and turned himself into a horn-bellied blue frog, then into a poodle, then a snake, then a Republican politician, and finally back to his old form—that is, if you didn’t count the easy-to-hide horse’s tail.

“Don’t let this letter fall into enemy hands,” Gunkafunukas wrote with his typical penchant for the overly dramatic, a plea which elicited an audible chuckle from Bob. He was reading about the location of his secret laboratory in the basement of an abandoned factory when the buzzer rang.

He opened the door a crack and looked out. The Angel of Death greeted him with a sniff. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?” Bob asked, not opening the door.

“Cram it, bub. You know why I’m here.” His nose reminded Bob of the nose of some stubborn little animal caught under the stove that you have to use a broom to scare out.

“I’m here for the cat.”

“Cat?”

“Yeah. Furry animal. Hair. Tail. Four paws. You got one?”

It occurred to Bob where he had seen that nose before. Tampa Zoo back in ‘63. It was the beak of an ill-tempered toucan who got in an especially unseemly fight with a lady’s shoe. “He’s not dead.”

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“How could he be dead? I just saw him.”

“Things happen fast in our business.”

“Sorry to disappoint. Good day.”

“Listen, bub. I got a job to do. Dog on 4th, hamster out on Washboard, and a German shepherd cross-town in the Hamptons. Get a move on.” Bob made a short reckoning of his nose. He figured it could be used as a lethal weapon if he could somehow untether it from his face. “Let’s make it easier on both of us. Just hand him over and call it a day.”

“How dare you!” Bob sputtered, angry and affronted. “Look for yourself,” he exclaimed, gesturing broadly. 

And in that single moment of distraction, the Angel of Death scooted in behind and opened up a burlap bag. “Close enough,” he said, and scooped the cat up.

“No,” screamed Bob. He grabbed the Angel of Death by the ear and gave it a tug. The Angel of Death in turn palmed Bob in the face. Bob replied by grabbing both the foot and nose and attempting to tie them together. The two wrestled like this for the better part of three minutes. Bob, at one point, got the upper hand and threw him to the ground, but the little bugger dove between his legs, came out the other side, and gave him a painful bite to the butt.

At the end of it all, they developed some sort of truce. The Angel of Death dusted himself off, decrumpled his hat, and put it back on his head. “Fine. Be that way,” he said. “I’ll be back tomorrow at four. No excuses this time.”

Bob was panting and still on his hands and knees. “Never,” he managed to say.

“You’re not making this easier for yourself,” he said. He let himself out and marched down the steps. He stopped mid-step and turned. “I have to deal with stubborn customers all the time, but, you know, the results are all the same. Let me just give you some advice, mister. Just between me and you. It ain’t worth the trouble.”

“Out!” Bob shouted.

The Angel of Death sniffed and sauntered down the road. “You just can’t help some people,” he mumbled.

Even after he left, Bob was still shaking with anger. He needed to calm down, so he rolled up his sleeves and washed dishes. “He’s coming back at four,” he said. He stopped, covered his eyes with his sleeve, and sobbed. Big, sploshy, unmanly sobs.

At that moment there was a purring below. The sound was warm and mellow, like the sunrise on a tropical island, far from the gray of Birmingham. “Oh, Morris,” he said. He scooped him up with both hands and sat on the chair—a reading corner chair that he bought from an American furniture company, complete with a mostly unused ottoman. Morris closed his eyes and nestled his chin in the crook of his elbow. In a chaotic world full of bad actors and malcontents, Morris was the lone, furry island of serenity.

Bob worked in a factory painting castles for fish tanks. His boss, a tall man built like a stick with a paper bag-ish head with an angry expression colored on with kid’s crayons. His boss scolded him mercilessly. “You are using the wrong shade of gray, you dimwit.” Morris was the only bit of happiness in his small little life. Life without Morris was like tea without a friend to gossip with. Or a pig without a jig and whistle. It just wasn’t possible.

But what to do? A thought crossed his mind. “Maybe I could hide?” Just as soon as he had the thought, he fell into a funk again. Where can one hide from God?

Bob was at the end of his tether, although Morris, the object of the commotion, was nonplussed. “Oh, Morris, what are we going to…” he started but then stopped. His eyes caught the edge of a letter, the letter from the old rub-a-dub, Gunkafunukas.

Even in his younger days, Gunkafunukas could make all sorts of things from the barest of materials. He could make a working camera from origami paper, a musical instrument from a medium-sized roadkill, and a kid’s birthday present from three rocks and 3 ounces of belly lint. An idea came to him in a flash. Why not a cat, one that was similar in shape and dimensions to the real thing? It was, at one swoop, splendid as it was malicious. He leaned back in his armchair, savoring the idea slowly like the last bite of a rum pudding.

· ✶ · ─ ·⏾· ─ · ✶ ·

Bob showed up uninvited. He had to check the address several times because the old factory did not look like a place of habitation. He gave the door a firm knock and waited. No answer. He knocked again, and this time a head popped out a broken window. “Bob,” yelled the voice, as cheery as he always remembered.

Bob crawled through the window and down the stairs. The basement room was a mess of bubbling test tubes, TVs set on static, twisted creatures preserved in alcohol, and an avalanche of unsorted papers. Bob imagined this lab was very much what the inside of Gunkafunukas’ mind looked like.

“Have a seat,” said Gunkafunukas as he cleared a chair of magazines, an old VCR, and a squawking chicken.

“They’re after me,” said Bob so unexpectedly that it even startled himself.

Gunkafunukas paused, mid-gesture, still holding a bundle of magazines, seemingly waiting for a story of alien abduction.

Feeling a little over-dramatic, Bob began again. “Let me explain,” he said. “It’s my cat.”

“Your cat is after you?” said Gunkafunukas, still holding the magazines. His eyes behind his thick glasses were bobbing uncertainly.

“No. Not my cat. The Angel of Death,” he said.

“Ah, well, that makes sense,” said Gunkafunukas. He went back to busily sorting his room.

“No, what I mean is that the Angel of Death is after my cat. He has been coming around. You need to help me fool him. Build a fake cat.”

Gunkafunukas was completely caught off guard. He choked and dropped the magazines and bumped the table, which in turn tipped a cardboard box of collector item Chucky E. Cheese glasses. They shattered into a million billion pieces, which Gunkafunukas didn’t seem to notice.

Bob patted his old friend on the back but to no effect. He kept choking. “You what…?”

“I want you to help me trick God,” said Bob.

“No, never,” said Gunkafunukas. “I can’t think of a single person who has been able to pull one past the big guy in the sky. Not one.”

“Not yet,” said Bob.

“Do you realize the consequences for…” He shuddered. “Remember the girl who turned into a pillar of salt, for one.”

“Lot’s wife. That was just one person.”

“And how about the flood?”

“Alright. That was everybody. And animals. And even the bugs and the flowers and the trees and alright, yes, everything. But Gunkafunukas, isn’t that what makes it so delightful?”

“Delightful?”

“Yes. Remember the prank that got you kicked out of school?”

“Ah, yes,” he said. His eyes got misty, and a slight smile found its way to his face. Gunkafunukas had fabricated a whole new president, complete with backstory, political philosophy (a hodgepodge of different conspiracy theories stitched together), and social circles. The task called on a level of propaganda worldbuilding that would not be equalled until the Internet age of the 2020s.

“You even had a new monument for the Washington Mall. Wasn’t that—and please excuse me for using the word again—delightful?” The whole construction and logistics of steel and rock were overbearing, but the results were so satisfying.

 Gunkafunukas managed a laugh. “You’re right, Bob, why am I shying away from the ultimate challenge?” It was too much to resist. “I’m in. When do you need him?”

“Three forty-five tomorrow.” And that is when Gunkafunukas started choking again.

· ✶ · ─ ·⏾· ─ · ✶ ·

It was almost three forty-five, and Bob paced back and forth. Behind the curtain, hammering, sawing, drilling, and sporadic moments of bickering. Gunkafunukas peeked behind the curtain.  “No way to call him up and ask for another ten minutes?”

“Not sure if that’s the kind of thing the Angel of Death is known for,” replied Bob.

“You think so?”

“Afraid so. Death is not the kind of chap who postpones things until you’re ready.”

Gunkafunkas grumbled, but he kept to the task, and with only three minutes to spare, he emerged from behind the curtain holding something that could very well be Morris. The fur was matted, with just the right shade of gray, the whiskers handsome, and paws spaced just right.

“What do you think of this?”

“Good gawd. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

“I have?”

“You sure have.” Bob held it in his hands and examined it from all angles. “You’ve done it again, old friend. You’ve saved the day.”

“I have?”

“This is quite extraordinary. I’m at a loss for words,” Bob bounced it in his hand. The weight and feel were both remarkably spot on.

“I just feel like I’ve missed something,” said Gunkafunukas, his brow furrowing.

“Nonsense. This is perfect. The color. The shape. The feeling.”

“But I can’t shake the feeling that something is missing. What did I overlook?”

“Nothing. This replica of Morris is spot on.”

“But…”

“No buts. You’re too much of a perfectionist, Gunkafunukas.” They walked up the stairs and ducked to pass through the broken window.

Bob got in his car. “Thanks again,” he shouted out the window as he drove away, but Gunkafunukas wasn’t listening. He stood rubbing his chin. Long after the sound of the car had long disappeared, Gunkafunukas was still standing under the streetlight, muttering, “What am I missing?”

· ✶ · ─ ·⏾· ─ · ✶ ·

When Bob arrived at the apartment, it was completely dark. He opened the door and flicked on the light. Morris jumped down from the couch and rubbed against his legs.

“Not now, Morris. We have an important guest to attend to,” he said, and picked him up and put him in the cupboard. At that exact moment, the front door buzzer rang.

He thought of a lot of sad things—spoons lost behind the refrigerator, sunsets never seen because everyone was asleep, etc.—to get properly in the mood and answered the door.

There he was, all two and a half feet of him. His shoes were still shiny. His nose was still big and unhelpful. He still had the fedora, and it took a Herculean effort on behalf of Bob to not grab it off his head and toss it around like a Frisbee.

“Time’s up, bubba. Don’t make me do a little arm twisting.”

Gunkafunukas had given him a piece of advice. “Make it real,” he said. “If you believe, he’ll believe. You can sell a bag of rocks if you believe.” It came much easier than Gunkafunukas or even Bob suspected. There was bawling, and warbling, and pleading.

The Angel of Death put the cat in a burlap bag and swung it over his shoulders. Walking down the steps, he shouted out a goodbye of sorts. “Sorry about the cat. Don’t feel bad. I’ve seen worse. Saw one get creamed by a semi. Brains all over the pavement. Helluva time cleaning it up. They don’t pay extra for that either. A crying shame if you ask me. But you know what they say: That’s how the cookie crumbles.”

It was all going to plan, but when he came to the end of the drive, the Angel of Death stopped abruptly and turned slowly to give Bob a quizzical look. He reached into the bag and pulled out the cat. He held it in one hand, bouncing it up and down, studiously calculating the weight.

Bob felt his stomach knot.

“Something’s not right,” the Angel of Death said. “Not sure what it is though.”  He screwed up his face. “Wait a minute,” he said. “Didn’t your cat have a collar?”

The collar. How could he forget the collar? “What?” stammered Bob.

“I said the collar. Now that I think about it, I can clearly remember a collar. Come on, bub. Hand it over.”

“I’m not giving it to you. Scram,” said Bob, screwing up a semblance of courage.

“Don’t make me get nasty, because I can if I want to.“

“Go on and try. This is my keepsake of little Morris. Take it if you dare,” his eyes welled up, tears ready to burst.

The Angel of Death stood scratching his chin. “Well…” He was thinking of making a case out of it but at the last minute changed his mind. He was a busy man after all. He shrugged his shoulders. “Fine,” he said, “have it your way if it makes you happy.” Then he threw the sack over his shoulder and whistled a happy tune as he walked down the street.

When he had gone, Bob cracked the cupboard door open six inches, and Morris bounded out into his arms.

He tickled his cat under the chin. “Supper time.”

· ✶ · ─ ·⏾· ─ · ✶ ·

It must have been twelve years later when Bob got a letter in the mail. Morris, as always, the reprobate, was in great health and nestled on his lap, purring gently.

Notice of Class Action Settlement Regarding Wrongful Pet Death

Settlement and financial compensation for wrongful death between the period of May 1971 and December 1973. As part of the settlement, the defendant agrees to the expanded term of the word “pet” to include beetles, turtles, lizards, teddy bears, stink bugs (if held in pet capacity), belly button lint, and pet rocks. As part of the agreement, the parties involved will agree to drop all grievances against God, prophets, the Angel of Death, etc., or any other related administrators who act on behalf of heaven.

The proposed settlement may affect your rights if you received or will receive an unfavorable or partially favorable…

“Blah, blah, blah,” said Bob and jumped to the end.

Enclosed is your share of the settlement as the result of a class action lawsuit brought by the law firm of Putzel and Shutzel. As part of the settlement, the defendant agrees to new terms and safeguards, including a 100-hour mandatory customer service training for all associates, including but not exclusively prayer line center workers, angel(s) of death, hearse drivers, etc.

Looking forward to your business in the future.

It occurred to Bob that Gunkafunuka’s new hideout was on a tropical island. “Oh, Morris,” shouted Bob, waving the check. “Fancy a trip to the tropics?”

Jubilant Lemon, a.k.a. Arthur Lauritsen, hails from Osaka, Japan. He teaches English and shares his love of words and stories with his students. His current works, all GR—graded readers, books written for ESL students, include The Voice at the Bottom of the Well and two other books coming out early next year, Bad Dog and Tampopo.