Ethical Cat Food

 Heather Paulson was a big girl, and terribly insecure because of it. “Buxom Lass,” her Scottish-born mother had called her. But her older brother, the athletic football player type, had never missed an opportunity to call her “fat.” In spiteful ways, he’d check to make sure their parents weren’t listening, and then say things like, “I’ll be hungry after practice, so try to keep your fat ass from eating all the food in the house.”

Heather rarely ate past being full; she always ate her vegetables and usually skipped dessert. It wasn’t her fault she took after her heavy-set father. She ate in healthy ways, and still, she was genetically dispositioned to look like all she ever did was eat.  

So she hid herself from the world, terrified that everyone was thinking the same hateful things her bully brother always said. Thankfully, she’d not seen much of him since he left for college on a football scholarship. Heather had hated all of school except for art class, but had not been a good enough painter to pursue higher education in art without falling into extreme debt. She had barely finished High School, and hadn’t seen a classroom since then. Now, at 25 years old, she is still living at home with her elderly parents: her mother, Martha, and her father, Bob. They live in a small, one story home in the suburbs of Colorado Springs, Colorado. Both her parents were retired, partially deaf, and extremely lazy. They’d have full conversations yelling at each other from opposite sides of the house. Luckily, the house had a big backyard. Always in good weather, and sometimes even in bad, Heather spent most of her time in their backyard with her cat, the brown-black siamese mix tomcat called Shadow.

She idolized Beatrix Potter and Georgia O’keeffe. She’d spend happy hours creating detailed watercolor paintings of flowers, somewhere between scientifically accurate and sexually suggestive. The unassuming, organic beauty of flowers she loved more than anything. She’d sit in the shade of any of the four trees in their yard, and think of herself as a flower that bloomed in shade. Heather was very pale and very blonde; her rosacea would flare up whenever she thought about all the assumptions and expectations that a person had to face to pass through any doorway into any building. Even her parents couldn’t help but daily express disappointment that she seemed to have no motivation to find either a job or a relationship. 

“You’ve got to get a job my dear!” her mother would yell at her with a thick Scottish accent. “She’s got plenty of time to find a man to support her!” her American father would yell back. Then they’d continue to discuss the disappointment that was their daughter as Heather would grab a sandwich and escape to the backyard.

One fine spring day, Heather came in from weeding one of the flower beds. She saw her parents sitting uncharacteristically close together in the living room and she knew they were waiting for her. So she took off her sun hat and garden gloves and sulked into the room to find out what boring lecture they had planned for her. 

“Heather, my dear, we won’t be here forever and we worry about your safety after we’re gone,” Martha started out what was bound to become a strong suggestion and borderline order. Bob sat next to her looking resigned to agree with what Martha was about to say. “You know my friend, Patsy Ford. Her brother owns Family First Meats and has agreed to give you a position in the slaughterhouse that’s just less than a mile aways from here. You don’t seem to mind any kind of weather and the walk to work will be good for you.”

“Shadow prefers food made from fish…” Heather replied. 

“This isn’t about Shadow,” Martha’s temper began to flare. “This is a full-time job with benefits. It’s Monday to Friday, 9 to 5 and the best someone with your lack of education can hope for.”

“It’s a great opportunity, sweetheart,” Bob chimed in. “You can meet friends, or meet a man. He doesn’t have to be a rich man. We just want you to be happy.” Both her parents were clueless what would make Heather happy would not involve a man.

Martha continued, “Your paintings are lovely, my dear. But you’re not a saleswoman and paintings that you never show anyone will get you nowhere. Babysitting occasionally is not a career. It’s a big favor to us that they got you this job and I want to hear you promise you’ll give it your absolute best!”

“...ok”

“What’s that, Lassie?!”

“Ok, Mom”

“There’s a good girl. You start Monday at 9am and I want to see you out the door by 8 to be sure you’re on time.”

Monday morning, Heather was up at 7. She fed Shadow, packed herself a lunch box and had a breakfast of some granola with plain yogurt, milk, and raspberries. She sat on the front porch eating and admiring the garden she took such pride in. Why did she have to run off to join the rat race of capitalism?..

8:05 her mother stuck a bleary-eyed face out the window, “Time for you to go, pumpkin! I know how slow you like to walk.” So she came back in, rinsed her bowl, grabbed her shoulder bag that held her lunch and made her way to the grind that American sociopath sadists love to glorify. 

Her bag also contained her ancient flip phone she never used. The internet scared her and she didn’t want a portable device that connected to it. But she had a phone and a number, more as an obligation than as a pleasure. It was a free part of the cell plan that her parents paid for. Though they never cared to learn to text each other instead of yelling at each other. 

She arrived on time and was greeted by a woman with very red hair, very red lipstick, and heavy rouge on her cheeks. The foundation on the trainer’s face was thick and half a shade lighter than the skin on her neck. Heather wore no makeup as was her usual.

“Hello! You must be Marthat’s girl?!”

“Yes, m’am.”

“Welcome to FFM! We really are a family here, and not the abusive kind!” The trainer paused for laughter but Heather did not oblige. Undaunted, she continued in an aggressively upbeat fashion, “My name is Kris and I’ll be your trainer today! Do you have any questions for me?”

“Where do I start? What do I do?”

“You’ll be a hooker! Have you been a hooker before?!”

“...”

“My dear, you’ve got to get a better sense of humor. ‘Hooker’ is just a nickname we have for poultry receiving. Your starting position will be poultry receiving. Basically you open the crates and hang the birds’ feet on hooks. Follow me this way.” 

They walked down a maze of narrow metal hallways. Heather did what she could to keep her breathing even and remember the route they were taking. The smell of blood and the frantic shriek of birds was shaking her soul to the core. They got to a platform that had crates of protesting birds on the one side next to hooks about five feet off the ground moving along a conveyor belt. Another “Hooker” was already working there. He was a short bald man with thick rimmed glasses. 

“Heather, this is Tom,” Kris introduced them. Tom barely looked away from his work long enough to give a nod. “We like to have two or three people in poultry receiving,” Kris continued, “but it’s necessary to have at least one until an order is received or the birds will spoil from being caged too long.”

“What do you mean, ‘spoil’?” Heather wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

“Well, they haven’t been fed for about three days and haven’t had water for about a day. It makes them docile for hanging but it also makes the occasional chicken mad with rage. It’s never good to open a crate and find the chickens have already torn each other to shreds.” Heather’s face was a mix of shock and disgust. But Kris seemed not to notice and continued on, “Chicken are the only birds we slaughter here. It’s what the machines are equipped for. There are ten per crate and it looks like Tom here is about to open a new one. Let’s watch this one and have you help with the next one.”

Each had a wooden base with wooden frames for the sides and top that held chicken wire between. Tom worked with a violent silence as Kris narrated what he was doing and how it should be done. A crow bar was used as a lever to pop off the roof of the crate. The loose nails were thrown in a bucket to be reused. The loose top slate was put in a rack to be reused. The empty crate was stacked neatly inside a stack of empty crates. “Because the chickens have been fasting, there’s not much mess inside the crates and they wash them at a different location for reuse.” Heather couldn’t help but think “fasting” was not the right word for forced starvation. “Do you have any questions for me or Tom?”

She doubted the friendliest question could get more than a word or two out of Tom and was already sick of Kris’ relentless positivity, “Not at this time.”

“Good. Follow me to the break room where we can set down your bag and get you suited up.” Heather hung her bag in a tall locker, then donned a hair net, rubber apron and rubber gloves. “You look ready to go! I’ll be in the office if you need anything, but don’t be scared to ask Tom questions! He’s a bit quiet but he’s been here for five years and knows what he’s doing. We’re usually off at 5 but you’ll end work at 4 today then come to the office for some new-hire paperwork. We do paper checks biweekly. I’ll see you at 4!”

Heather made her way back to the slaughter platform. “You stand over here and I’ll stand here,” Tom’s voice was high pitched and nasal, “Then I’ll hang on every other hook just ahead of you. You hang on the empty hooks when they get to you.” The day did not go well. She couldn’t seem to pop off the tops without breaking them. Tom was visibly annoyed that he had to pop the top of every crate. Eventually, she got the hanging part right. Ten sets of hungry, sad eyes stared up at her in abject horror and she’d grab their feet to hang on the passing hooks. Most could barely stand from fatigue and the weight of their hormone injected bodies that grew unnaturally fast. ‘This is food for Shadow. This is how it’s done so just go along with it.’ She kept trying to reassure herself she wasn’t a monster but she felt the terror of the birds and wasn’t sure if Tom had always been so cruel or if the job had made him that way. 

“I’m going to the restroom,” Tom said after their first 15 minute break and before their 30 minute lunch break. Heather finished the crate she had and was determined to get the next crate top off by herself. With just the right amount of strength, she popped off the top successfully for the first time. Of course, it was just her luck that this crate had rogue chicken that was ready to fight. The bird flew at her face as soon as the top was off. She almost fell onto the hooks to get caught in the machine before she caught her balance and gave the bird a smack. The bird was down for half a second before it was back at her with a wild rage. In a whirl of talons and feathers it bounced from perch to perch to fly straight back at Heather’s face with the intent to scratch out her eyes.

Heather was terrified but she hadn’t lost her strength or coordination. One scratch on her face was all this fucking bird was going to get. She put all her weight behind a good smack and hit the bird mid air. The bird went flying right into the gears of the machine that were turning below the hooks. With an absolutely awful death scream, the bird was pulled into the turning gears as chicken blood spurted everywhere. The machine came to a grinding halt. 

That was it. She didn’t need money badly enough to be part of this kind of murder industry. Still shaking with panic, she put the top loosely on top of the crate that had 5 sets of scared eyes and 4 bodies that had been murdered by the rogue. She almost ran back to the break room to throw her apron and gloves on the floor, grab her bag, and leave the building without saying goodbye to anyone. 

She was three blocks away before she could breathe easy. Healthy eating was off the menu for today. She needed a sugar fix and she needed it now. Luckily there was a 7 eleven on the way home that she hadn’t been to in ages but knew they’d have what she needed. She opened the door determined to spend some of her savings she’d earned from babysitting neighborhood kids. She needed her favorite and extra of it. She got a king size Snickers and two chocolate Yoo-Hoo drinks and made her way to the counter. 

Today was the strangest day of her life. After facing kill or be killed in a metal prison, she was surprised to see an extremely beautiful latina woman smiling at her from behind the counter. The woman was very thick, almost as big as Heather, but what was absolutely amazing to Heather was the way the gas station attendant was proudly wearing revealing clothing, and the way she was smiling out of joy; not out of fear or insecurity. 

“Did you just come from work? What scratched your face?” Her voice was musical and soothing. Heather just stood at the counter for a while without remembering why she was there or what she had in her hands. Luckily, they were the only two people inside the 7 eleven and the woman behind the counter was in no hurry at all to rush Heather into making a purchase. “Are you ok? What happened to your face?”

“...yes.” Heather finally found her voice. “Yes, I’m ok. I had a work accident at a terrible job I don’t think I’ll be going back to.”

“Oh, honey. It’s ok. Don’t worry. Work sucks and you’ll be fine with whatever it is you do next.” The well endowed latina with the low cut blouse came out from behind the counter. “Do you need a hug?” Heather nodded and almost melted with joy as the worker took the candy bar and drinks out of Heather’s hands to set on the counter and gave her a hug. Touch-starved Heather could not remember ever having a better hug. “There, There… everything will be ok.” It was everything Heather could do to not burst into tears. Gently, she pulled away and wiped her eyes.

“Thank you so much. I’ve never had such a bad day turn out so good.”

The worker laughed an adorable laugh as she strolled back behind the counter. “Oh, honey. I’m here most every day it seems like. You stop by whenever you need a snack or a hug ok?”

“Ok. Thank you. I will.”

“Anything else for you today?” the attendant said in a conversational way as she rung up the candy bar and drinks. 

“How about a lottery ticket? Powerball, random numbers.”

“Sure thing, honey. Just one?”

“Yep, just one.” Heather put the cash on the counter as the worker began to bag up the purchases without even charging the additional 10 cents per bag the store now charged. 

“Thank you,” Heather said as she took her change and receipt. “I’m Heather…” Suddenly she was terrified she had been presumptuous in trying to get more acquainted than just business formality, but for the second time that day she felt a stirring in her heart, as the worker smiled back and responded immediately, “I’m Sophia”

The rest of the day, and the rest of the week, was almost as bad as that morning. Heather’s mother barely spoke to her and the pitiful sympathy from her father was somehow worse. Sunday rolled around and Heather decided that day to stop hiding in her room and get out into the yard to start a painting inspired by one of the blooms out there. Halfway into the light sketch before starting the paint, she remembered the lottery numbers had been pulled and she could check online. She set down her 12” x 12” multimedia panel, gave a snoozing Shadow a good rub, and went into the living room to start up their old desktop computer.

“You better be using that thing for job hunting!” Her mother yelled as she walked past on her way to the kitchen. 

“mmmOM! MOM!”

“WHAT?! What is it?..” Martha walked back into the living room confused by Heather’s expression.

“I don’t think I’ll be needing a job. I think I just won the lottery.”

“BOB! BOB GET IN HERE!!” and the rest of the day was confused happiness. It was decided with smiles all around that Bob and Martha would be going to the very best retirement home money could buy. The kind with an array of hobbies and recreational drugs available to residents under medical supervision of the very best doctors. And Heather, for the very first time in her life, would be independent.

She was glad for the couple days before announcing the win, because there was something she wanted to do first. The next day, at about the same time she’d been there last week, Heather entered the 7 eleven where she’d first met Sophia. This time she was wearing her very best blue dress and just a touch of soft pink makeup. 

“Hello, Heather! Welcome back.” Heather blushed, smiled, and waved, but there were a few customers in the store so Heather wandered the aisles waiting for them to leave. As soon as they were gone, she walked right to the counter, not even pretending to be there for a purchase.

“What’s up?..”

“I..” she stammered. She looked down at Sophia’s hands. The nails were natural and short; a good sign that she knew how to use her fingers for more than just pointing. “I was wondering if I could take you out to dinner this week.”

“Like.. On a date?!” Heather blushed beet red and was about to turn and run. “Haha. Si. Si chiquita. I’d love to go out with you. But you’re buying. How about tonight?”

“I’d love to buy dinner. I’d love to see you tonight...”

“I feel the same.”

“Do you like sushi?”

“Haha, girl… It's my favorite! Here…” Sophia took out a paper and pen and wrote down her number, “I’ll drive and you buy. Text me your addy and I’ll pick you up at 6.”

Heather had never been on an actual date before. She had never felt happier than she was when walking home holding the cherished phone number. She waited until she was back in her backyard, under her favorite tree, before she pulled out her phone to text Sophia.

Just as she was entering the number her phone rang with the contact saved as “Buttface”

“..hello?”

“Hey! Little-Big! I heard you had a windfall! Listen, I’ve got some business ideas and…” Heather hung up the phone and blocked the number. “Little-Big”! As in, little sister who was not so little. Her emotionally retarded brother had seriously never realized how much his teasing had hurt her. Well now he could live out his awful life with his demanding wife without getting a single cent from Heather the billionaire.  

*      *      *      *     *

Three years later, Heather was sitting on the porch of her glass castle with her beautiful wife Sophia. There wasn’t a wall that wasn’t a beautiful mix of clear and tempered glass. In the whole mansion, there was just enough room to walk between the pots of exotic flowers.

American classism became disgustingly obvious when suddenly all of Heather’s paintings were selling. No one wanted anything from her when she was just a mess of insecure needs. Now that her needs were met, suddenly everyone was eager to take what they could from her. She still found joy in painting and only did it when the inspiration struck her. 

A few miles away was a business she owned: Rooster Ranch: an open surveillance animal farm. There were cameras everywhere where anyone could pay to watch online. It was also a bed and breakfast, petting zoo, and adoption agency for anyone looking to adopt a pet chicken or rooster.

With one rooster per ten chickens, the plan was painless slaughter once a year, without any cruel caging or forced starvation, of the meanest birds. Making cat food from the mean ones; leaving the rest to live in a bird paradise.

Shadow still preferred fish based food. But to each their own.