Living with Demons

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The first thing I do after dragging myself out of bed in the morning is move a giant pile of stuff. Suitcases, bags, mirrors–these are my bulwark in times of trouble. These are the only items which can protect me during the night. Alas, I have found a way to defeat the cats.

Their arsenal of evil proved itself nearly impenetrable. As the moon rose, their claws sharpened themselves against the thin piece of wood known as my bedroom door. The relentless attacks wouldn’t cease for hours.

Sometimes, I quietly sneak to my door in effort to scare them away by turning on the lights. These missions often fail and the scratchings begin again. The louder they grow, the quicker my heart hardens toward their furry faces. I roll my medicine ball down the hallway like a bowling ball to chase them away. I throw bouncy balls, which they love, to distract them. I even once tried leaving my door open. This merely encouraged them to scratch things in my room and crawl into bed with me.

I could hardly bear their torment any longer. One of the cats escaped over the weekend. I only faced the demonic face of one. We squared off in the hallway and I sprinted to my room, slamming the door behind me before she could run under my bed. She’s done this before. She wedged herself where I couldn’t reach her and meowed worship calls to Satan. I fervently prayed, but my faith was failing.

I tried stacking boxes in front of my door, but the small army clawed, gnawed, and attacked the jungle gym all night. I tried suitcases, which lasted a few nights. My heart slowed and I slept peacefully. Then, a clatter. The meows and scratches echoed so loudly I believed a cat crawled into my bed and tore at my pajamas! But no, she climbed up, over, and around the suitcases and created a trench for herself where she unleashed her hell fire. Even one single cat could defeat me.

Yesterday afternoon, I heard the most wretched sound. I thought perhaps a child had been hit by a car, or a puppy trapped under my house. I rushed out to my porch to survey the land. The horrendous squeals grew louder and then, I saw it. Minnie, flanked by all her pomp and circumstance, sang her battle hymn and sauntered back to the front door. They tortured me all evening. They bat at my computer, rubbed my legs, and laid down right in front of the part of the tv where you point the remote.

A single tear ran down my cheek. No more. I locked myself in my tower at eight o’clock and dared not retreat. I ransacked the area for anything of use. Ah, the mirror! The cats never touch the thing, I believe, out of fear to see the devil inside them. The single suitcase remained outside, but I knew the cats could overcome this obstacle. I found an over sized plastic bag. Its material too slippery to hold their claws, I positioned the bag to cover remaining open space around the door.

They watched me. Their tails flicked back and forth as they plotted their battle. I prayed over my fortress and closed the door once more turning the lock, just in case.

Hours later, I awoke. I heard no claws, no scratching, only the soft sounds of the Despicable Me 2 soundtrack awakening me. The sun, it’s so bright. Food, it tastes so good.

Please, I beg you, keep me in your prayers.