This is the face of pure evil. Her name is Eddie. We call her Special Ed.
I know what you’re thinking. Ah, she’s soooo cute. Wrong. She’s deceiving. Those big dumb eyes are no more than fishing lures. She wants you to pet her, to feed her, to tolerate her. “Please,” she’s saying. “Treat me like a princess.”
Which is all well and good, you might say. She’s a cat. Cats are instinctively selfish beings. They do what it takes to make us love them, because love means food and warmth and tummy rubs. They feign interest because it gets them the attention they need.
Eddie, though, is different from most cats. She’s truly special. She has no soul, very little intelligence, and probably the most amazing natural resource of evil instincts. She can cause a man to reach the edge of his sanity without even trying. Her very purpose in life, it seems, is to coax me into an early grave.
It started with a hiss.
Back in the harsh winter of 2009, on the mountainous eastern edge of Daegu, in South Korea, I was preparing a delicious dinner for my girlfriend, who was working late, when the door flew open and in she ran with a tiny baby cat. She was covered in motor oil and clutching the animal, which at that stage was smaller than I even thought a cat could be. I walked over to help, and the cat looked at me and hissed. In the ensuing hours, dinner was ruined, the cat continued to hiss at me, and all my towels were soaked in motor oil.
It’s a pattern that’s been repeated over the past two years. I make something, Eddie ruins it. I look at her, she hisses. Something exists, she destroys it.
She’s the world’s tiniest natural disaster.
We realised early on that Eddie (who was then known as Sparkplug) was brain-damaged. Not seriously, just a little slow. When Amy had found her she was in the engine of a car, as an old Korean man tried to cook her alive with the heat from the vehicle. She had been starved and tortured and had almost died. She was doomed to be a runt for life.
Eddie learned then that being noisy could save her life and ever since she has persistently meowed until my hair has fallen out and neighbours have complained. She has separation anxiety and cannot stand to be ignored for a moment, or to see another cat being treated well.
Eddie was our second cat, and because the first, Berry, had been such a blessing, we naively opened our hearts and homes to this little demonic ball of fur. We couldn’t have known then that we were harbouring a beast with the capacity to commit cold-blooded murder, to spill gallons of human blood and cost thousands of hard-earned dollars.
We soon learned, though, that Eddie was a troublemaker. She liked jumping on things. Even when she was small enough to fit on the palm of my hand, and I didn’t think for a minute she could jump five feet in the air, she was secretly catapulting herself into the sink to lick unwashed dishes. She decided that her favourite pastimes included doing anything that she was not allowed to do, and doing whatever it took to get extra scraps of food.
She is an unfortunate mix of ignorance and evil. She will do the most awful things with the greatest of kitty cunning… but in the end her stupidity always gives her away. When she has been bad her ears will flatten down Yoda-like (see first photo) and she will make a terrified whining. She also thinks that if she can’t see you, you can’t see her, and it’s perfectly safe for her to rummage through the trash or steal your lunch.
One day I came home from a twelve hour shift at work to find that the house had been painted pink and yellow. It hadn’t been painted by any person, but the culprit was plain to see: a small pink and yellow cat, cowering in the corner, her footprints trailing around the house as irrefutable evidence of her evil.
“Why paint?!” I screamed. “Paint isn’t even delicious!” Of course, I knew the answer: Eddie will do whatever it takes to be annoying.
Another time I came home with a big bag of kibble. I turned my back for a half second and Eddie pounced on the bag. When I turned and shouted at her she shat all over the bag, my shoes and many other things. I tried to grab her before she shat all over the house, and she lashed out with her teeth and claws and ripped a three inch gash in my right hand. The smell of shit and the sight of blood made me vomit, and when I finally caught Eddie, she was covered in her own shit and piss, my vomit, and a lot of bright red blood. This was only weeks after the paint incident, too, and she remained pink and yellow for maybe six months.
A little later, she murdered our two hamsters. Berry, Ed’s older sister, has not the heart to murder a small animal. Once she tried to examine a hamster and was swiftly dealt a tiny fist to the face. Eddie, however, pulled the little creatures through the bars of their cage, spilling blood across the house (again) and devouring all but the livers. She is a cold-blooded killer.
I could go on and on, listing the various scars – mental and physical – that this little abomination against nature has left on me. But instead I’ll skip ahead, suggesting that the above examples were repeated on a weekly basis for around a year and a half, to Ed’s most ingenious trick.
It was not long before I was unceremoniously booted out of South Korea when Ed began acting strange. Not strange as in her usual moronic/despicable actions, but rather shying away from food and hiding even from Amy. We were both worried. Even though I’d always wished Ed hadn’t been born, I didn’t like seeing her sick. I didn’t want her to die.
I took her to the vet and they ran hundreds of dollars worth of tests, and found nothing. Eventually, after much prompting, they ran an x-ray and found that she’d eaten a penny. “It’s a foreign coin!” the vet shouted at me, and proceeded to lecture me on foreign treatment of animals (!!!!!!!).
It cost me a cool thousand dollars to have a Korean penny (!!!!!!!) removed from Ed’s stomach. The vet – after enacting a spectacular dismount from his moral high horse – explained that I owned the only cat in the world stupid enough to eat a coin.
I enact my revenge, of course. Eddie strives to make my life a misery and I am bound by some foolish sense of duty to feed her, to clean her, to keep her warm and to replace the toys she constantly breaks. So I do what I can to get my own back. I fuck with her. I make her dance, I put her in boxes, I make her do taekwondo, I dress her up as a reindeer, I mock her on the internet.
I think for a minute or two that she is my bitch, but then it’s time to clean the litter box as she waits for me to finish so that she can lay a fresh poop.
When Ed returned home, after recovering from penny-removal surgery, she found she had a new baby sister. Having obviously learned nothing from the nightmare that was the previous year and a half, I had rescued a tiny baby kitty on one of my trips home from the vet. It had been thrown from a car window and almost died of starvation. I took her home and got her shots and somehow made the decision to keep her. Her name was Monkey.
Eddie doesn’t like anything that comes between her and her way of life – cuddling with Amy and eating and being bad. Monkey was an extra mouth, another cuddlebug, and not very subtle when it came to misdeeds. When Eddie first met her, she hissed. She hissed and growled and snapped and bit, and for months she continued to be a big, bad bully.
In the end, we had to give Monkey away. It just wasn’t fair to keep her in the same house as Eddie.
You may read this and feel a certain level of sympathy for Eddie. If you met her you would almost certainly fall in love with her. She is what we ask of our pets – cute, cuddly, and a little bit naughty. Life around Ed is eventful. She gives you something to talk about, something to do.
She is, though, undeniably, a degenerate cat. Her sister is a veritable angel compared to this furry greedhead. Not a day goes by without a fantastic attempt to make my life a misery. She is my nemesis, my Nermal. She is the loveable oaf with a heart of pure darkness that no one can see but me.
Words by David S. Wills
Photos by Berry