Hubert and the Cat
By Donald Jones
Growing up I had my favorite relative. Uncle Hubert was one of those I liked. He was my favorite because he would lit me snick a puff of his cigarette when he would be sneaking a sip of his bottle he had hid out behind our shed. He was the black sheep on my mothers’ side of the family. Somewhere in his past his marriage broke up and he never seemed to get over it. He became a drunk. He was the kind of drunk that would test your soul when he was around and your patience also. He would make every one angry with him. He was the only man that made my dad so angry that he told him to leave our house. Now that was something. Especially when my dad was known for his love and hospitality. Everyone was welcome at our house even the stranger would get a hearty welcome at our door. Uncle Hubert made himself an acceptation. I remember when he tried to come back, he had to beg my dad for forgiveness. Dad accepted, but under the rule that he had to show up sober, and could not bring a bottle with him. If he broke the rule, dad would call the sheriff, and put him in jail. Before this truce there was an event that lead to this moment.
There was a girl next door named Brenda, known for being mischievous. Hubert had been on a binder and had come to our house. Dad was a way and Mom said he could sleep it off on the front porch in the swing.
Now Brenda decided it would be funny if she got our cat, which was not to friendly with Hubert to began with, and toss the cat on to Hubert’s face while he was snoring. Startled, Hubert jumped up cussing like none of us had ever heard before, and grabbed the cat by the neck while it was clawing and spiting at him. He walked deliberately to the well out back, and raised the lid, and threw the poor cat to its death. Water was important to everyone in the early 1950s, because in the country there was not any utility service for water. If you wanted it, you hauled it, or dug for it. Time passed and eventually the county laid water lines by our house. After that, we had an indoor bathroom and a kitchen sink with running water. The well fell into disuse, and was used only for watering the garden.
After this incident, no one wanted to drank from the well again. Dad was not very happy about what Hubert had done to the well. Hubert was now on my dads, very short list of undesirable people, to welcome in his house. Brenda had to stay away whenever Hubert came to visit. After that, the old well was relegated to being our privet dump. It took many years before we filled the well up with trash.
I suppose that in a thousand years some archaeologist will discover that pit and wonder what a bottle of Dr. Pepper is doing buried with the bones of a cat. Perhaps they will think we were some kind of cat sacrificing cult.