Key West cats, September 1993

The night we arrived in Key West, my roommate let his cat out of the cat carry-on to sleep with us in the 1975 Volkswagen van we had driven from Missouri. We left the windows open and the cat escaped, never to be seen again. Santeria? Maybe. That would have been cool. Probably not, though.

The cat shouldn’t have been too hard to find, as she was HUGE and fairly recognizable. Fabulously fat, in a very downtown Manhattan, faux-sophisticated with cheezer roots sort of way. But that cat was gone, without a trace. Back to New York, maybe? After all, you can’t transplant a cat used to the glamour of New York to Key West without some serious turbulence. Maybe she figured out what was coming and split. I would have.

Or maybe… she became the obese Queen of one of the packs of evil cats who only come out after sunset. They stalk their prey seemingly whenever and wherever they please, blood from the last kill still caked on the whiskers they’ve neglected to clean. Their preferable prey is, of course, young and pretty, as the young ones are most pleasing to their palate. They form two groups, a smaller reconnaissance two or threesome, and a larger pack laying in wait in the absolute blackness of the shadows, which engulf smaller streets entirely.

The re-con pack promises knowledge of food and mating, and lures the hapless victim(s) further from the others, into the recesses, cajoling and inviting. “Real cat Fun!” A sure thing. When the victim is at the appropriate location, the whole pack attacks quickly and without remorse.

The cats themselves have become slaves to the kill, not enjoying victory, killing for habit, and now, basic need. They kill again and again, or, at least, they try. You see, even though these cats are killers, they’re not really that good at the hunt. The magnetic/electric force of the island and the repetition of the ritual have dulled their senses and abilities.

Sometimes they cannot quite convince an innocent into the recesses, or because they are too drunk on the blood from previous kills, their prey will escape. And this is humiliating to the killers. The cats are most visible at this time, stepping from the shadows to mewl loudly in self-beration. The evil accomplished even in the recent past is not a comfort. Must kill –every night…every night.

These situations replay themselves all over Key West with startling frequency. The results, with little variation, are the same. It’s quite a show, and if you’re observant, it’s not hard to see. Look for them; watch them in action.

Open your eyes; it replays itself nightly. Don’t try to stop it; you can’t. Learn from your observations. Someone should. Lord knows the cats won’t.


So maybe what was to be our cat became their Queen. Maybe she was their victim. Or, maybe, she made her way up to Florida Street and adopted some kind old large woman, hip to the upward exchange of her guardianship.