by Joseph Andre Thomas
Content Warning
Animal-related violence.
Day 1
Arriving home from work one unseasonably cool Wednesday evening, it’s immediately obvious that Jeff Francoeur isn’t feeling well. He’s bunched up behind my computer desk, curled into a gray ball, emitting a low, sustained mewling. Chris Taylor and Giovanny Urshela—my two youngsters—meow and paw around the desk.
I might not have even noticed (Jeff Franceour is prone to hiding) except that the bowl full of Captain’s Boil! Feast had gone untouched. Jeff is the only one of my utility men who likes the Captain’s Boil! Feast flavor.
When I lift Jeff from behind the desk, he’s limp and saggy, obviously unhappy at being manhandled but too low-energy to vocalize much displeasure beyond that depressed mewling. He smells, too—a sour, slightly acidic stink, like milk slightly gone off.
I give him a lot of attention that evening after coaxing him into eating a few catnip treats. Jeff Francoeur is a gorgeous, fluffy, gray British shorthair. Normally active and affectionate, tonight he’s groggy and irritable. He can barely rise for more than thirty seconds before miserably plunking back down on my lap.
I run my hand along the back of his neck and feel a small bump I hadn’t noticed before. Something small and whitish, maybe a scab? Nothing I would normally be concerned about but, under the circumstances, I resolve to take him to the vet ASAP.
By bedtime, around 10 pm, the other cats are looking at Jeff Francoeur jealously. I understand. Catnip is usually reserved for our weekly Caturday Fiesta, where all the utility guys get involved; but in Jeff’s ailing case I’d made an exception.
I don’t have the energy for an impromptu Weekday Fiesta. (They’ve been known to happen.) Three of them—Ben Zobrist, Rance Mulliniks, and Tony Phillips—all lie nearby, staring, while the others are peppered throughout the living room, varyingly aware of the attention I’m giving Jeff Francoeur.
I apologize to them earnestly and promise an extra dose of ‘nip come the weekend.
Day 2
Dr. Chau, our veterinarian, is happy to see Jeff Francoeur the following morning. He hadn’t improved overnight. If anything, he seems more sluggish and unhappy. Getting him into the cat carrier, usually a battle, is like pouring batter into a baking pan.
“Nothing obviously wrong with him,” Dr. Chau says, examining Jeff’s bloodwork. “He appears to be fine.”
“Well, something’s up!”
She lifts Jeff by the scruff and shines a penlight into his eyes, making his little brown pupils constrict. “It’s possible he’s having an allergic reaction. Have you changed his food recently? Bought any new toys?”
“I buy new toys every week. As for the food, no. All my utility guys are on a standard weight-control, hypoallergenic, indoor diet.”
“It could be the toys,” she says, scratching Jeff’s lethargic, gray chin. “You never know about cross-contamination in the pet store.”
“What about this?” I say, pulling back the hair around his neck, revealing the white bump I’d found yesterday.
Dr. Chau switched her glasses. “Probably just an adipose bump. A lipoma, possibly. It could be a bite of some kind? Does your building have an infestation or has it in the recent past—spiders, bed bugs, mice, roaches?”
“Not that I know of.” I consider her words. “Do cockroaches really bite?”
She nods, gravely. “Cockroaches have been known to devour entire dead bodies, for lack of a better food source. I doubt this was a roach bite, though. I’m not sure it’s a bite at all, it’s so small. In any case, if it were anything problematic, it would’ve likely come up in the bloodwork. If it is a bite, however, it might’ve caused a reaction. I’ll prescribe some general antibiotics and anti-inflammatories. You might also check with your neighbors. If one of them recently had an infestation, it’s possible the critters pushed out into your apartment.”
“I’ll do that. Thanks, Dr. Chau.”
“I’ve always wondered about Jeff’s name. Did you name him after someone?”
I’m more than ready for this question. “Yes, utility outfielder for the Atlanta Braves, Kansas City Royals, New York Mets, Philadelphia Phillies, and Florida-cum-Miami Marlins, Jeff Francoeur—A.K.A. ‘Frenchy.’ He didn’t have a very flashy or noteworthy career, but he was a committed, part-time guy who showed how far hard work can take you in the bigs. A real team player. In 2007, he even won a Gold Glove for his defense. He retired in 2016.”
“Oh,” says Dr. Chau, furrowing her brow. “Okay?”
I thank Dr. Chau and pack Jeff Francoeur into his carrier, then we make our way home.
Day 3
Jeff Francoeur remains listless. I administer the prescriptions with his meals, knowing it’s all I can do before heading to work, but the sight of the anemic little gray blob fills me with guilt.
Before leaving, however, I follow up the infestation angle. The Romanian couple next door don’t speak much English, but, with the help of a translation app, they’re able to communicate that they haven’t dealt with pests recently. Neither has the young woman, Mary, my other neighbor. I ask her if anything has seemed off with Garfunkel, the very overweight black tabby she co-owns with her ex-girlfriends; but he appears to be fine.
I dread calling Tim, my landlord. I’d prefer not to have him in the apartment. There is a good chance he would not be pleased with its current state. The initial move-in notice said: “Owning a cat is fine.”
A cat—singular. I have nine.
I’ve also mounted tiny pathways along the walls and ceilings and half-a-dozen cat castles of various sizes throughout the apartment. My utility guys, though exclusively indoor, like exploring. Mercifully, Tim is a laissez-faire landlord; he rarely emerges from his marijuana-trance for longer than it takes to collect rent. I call him anyway on my commute to work. I need to get to the bottom of this.
“Huh? Nope, no recent infestations that I know of, dude. Maybe someone is balling the Arkin man?” He guffaws.
“Well, thanks, Tim.”
“Hey, you catch that Mariners game yesterday?”
“I did.”
“Talk about a choke-job!”
It was. And I proceed—against my better judgment—to discuss the minutiae of that epic bullpen collapse for my entire drive to work.
I’d like to have this conversation with someone other than Tim, but it can’t be helped. There is only one thing in this world that I love in the same way as my cats. America’s pastime. The great bat-and-ball sport of nine men vs. nine men. High socks, sunflower seeds, chewing tobacco, sunny afternoon ball. Bury my heart in left field.
Specifically, I love utility guys, the role players who don’t make the cover of Sports Illustrated or get featured in ESPN articles. The guys who might not be the fastest, the strongest, the most coordinated or talented, but the ones who put their noses to the grindstone and bust into the bigs. Those are the guys I watch baseball for. My heart is full to bursting when I watch a 28-year-old, minor league .250 batter make his big league debut.
The trend of naming my felines after them came from my dad buying me a British shorthair for my eleventh birthday. “Son,” he said, placing the Triffid-esque orange cat into my eager little hands. “Say hello to All-Star outfielder/first baseman, Ken Griffey, Sr.” He guffawed, like it was the funniest joke in the world.
I didn’t think it was very funny. I loved Ken Griffey, Sr.—cat and player.
Day 4
Two days after our vet visit, Jeff Francoeur does start to seem a little better—but different. He eats ravenously—a great sign—and he’s up and about, though I’m somewhat concerned about the way he half-limps, half-drags his hind legs behind him. I’ve never seen him do that.
Additionally, he’s standoffish with the other cats. He keeps making an odd, burbling meow—somewhere between a belch and a growl. His eyes, too, are strange: barely open, lids at half-mast, his pupils unable to focus on anything. Just gazing vacantly in whatever direction he happens to be pointed.
Rance Mulliniks—the ancient Siamese patriarch of the family—gives him a wide-berth. Chone Figgins, normally pals with Jeff, won’t go anywhere near him, just perches on the cat-paths, staring down at him. The youngsters Chris Taylor and Giovanny Urshela are the only ones who go near him, out of kittenish curiosity, but they receive only burp-growls for their trouble.
I take it as a good sign, at least, that Jeff Francoeur is up and about. Hopefully his general demeanor is only a side effect of the medication.
Day 5
This morning, I have to separate Jeff Francoeur and Howie Kendrick. Jeff spent the whole morning stalking his younger teammate, eying menacingly, priming like he’s about to jump him. Those two have never gotten along, so I try not to read too much into it, but I keep them in different rooms for the rest of the day.
Day 6
Apparently the apartment does have an insect problem. Tony Phillips yelps from my closet; he’d found the corpse of an enormous, hairy spider on its back with its legs curled tightly into its stomach like it’s about to do a cannonball jump. Tony had been batting at it; the spider is nearly the size of his head.
Sweeping up the nasty thing’s body, I notice something on its back. A big white marking. I examine it, fighting nausea. It appears to be a skull, white, with huge surprised eyes. That’s not normal, is it? I’m by no means an expert on spiders or spider physiology. Could this have been what bit Jeff Francoeur?
Jeff’s still acting strangely, standoffish and pissy. But he’s also been full of energy, which is unusual. He’s normally a sleep-18 hours-a-day kind of guy. He sits by the window, staring hungrily at insects and passersby. He’s been there all morning, growl-belching. Something’s definitely gotten into him. He’s never shown any desire to go outside before.
I sweep the dead spider into a tupperware container and make a few phone calls.
Day 7
There’s a bug zoo in town, but they’re not interested in the giant dead spider. According to the polite lady on the line, they’re more focused on “educating youth about wildlife” than species identification. But she gives me the contact of an entomologist at a nearby university: Dr. Pigot Legge. He agrees to make time for me that afternoon.
So I take the afternoon off work for a “family emergency”— not, in my opinion, a lie—and drive to the campus. It takes a little over an hour. The campus is huge. A security guard helps me find the biology department.
Dr. Legge invites me to hang out while he examines the spider. His lab is covered in all sorts of posters and diagrams and display cases of insects. While he works, I tell him all about the situation with Jeff Francoeur. He’s very friendly and seems happy to have someone to talk to while working. His accent is some kind of Scandinavian, I’m not sure which.
“You are a baseball fan, then?” asks Dr. Legge, after I explained the origins of Jeff’s name.
“Yes.”
“So American! Interesting. I cannot say I follow this sport closely, but once I wrote an undergraduate paper on the physics of pitching, out of curiosity. I was so very intrigued by the elasticity of movement, over just 90 feet, that players are able to achieve at high velocities. Using only their arms—fascinating, what the human body is capable of!”
“Pitchers are all entitled whiners.”
“Oh?” says Dr. Legge, squinting at me.
For once in my life, I’m not interested in talking about baseball. He places the spider on a brightly-lighted screen beneath a complex microscope.
“Well, the first thing of note,” he says, “is that this is not a spider.”
He uses a needles-and-tong set to uncurl the insect, waving me in closer and counting its legs. There are twelve—twelve long, spindly very spider-like legs. I hadn’t noticed this when they were all bunched up together.
“By definition,” Dr. Legge continues, “arachnids must only have eight legs—not counting their pedipalps, the teeny little legs near the eyes—so this must be some other species, though I’m not sure what. At first glance, its body appears to be that of an ordinary wolf spider.” He must notice my eyes go wide. “Wolf spiders are hairy and oh-so-gross, but they are not at all dangerous to humans. They are common to wooded areas in North America and oftentimes make the jump to urban environments.”
“Oh. Good?”
He uses the needle-and-tongs to extend its middle legs under the microscope. “And the legs… they’re simply confusing. Eight of them appear normal, but these ‘extra’ four are longer, paler. Can you see?”
Fighting my anxiety that the thing might burst back to life in my face, I lean in closer. He’s right. At full extension, four of the legs are a lighter hue and longer than the other eight by about an inch.
“I wonder if they have something to do with this white marking. Some kind of odd mutation, perhaps?” He sounds very excited. I want to vomit. He flips the ‘spider’ and taps gently on the skull with his needle. “It reminds me of the marking on the death’s-head hawkmoth, the famous moth from the Silence of the Lambs posters. Great film! But I have never seen anything like it on a spider before.”
He turns to me with a smile on his face. “Do you know what I’m about to tell you?”
I shake my head.
“Well, I don’t want to jump the gun, but I think there’s the distinct possibility we might be naming a new species after you!”
“Oh, wow,” I say. But think: Please don’t.
“Or perhaps we will name him after this ‘Jeff Franceour.’ Frenchyae Tarantulus! I’ll need to confer with some colleagues, run more examinations, consult the scholarship, etcetera, etcetera. Would you be willing to leave the specimen with me?”
“Definitely.”
He thinks for a moment then adds: “And you are worried it might have bitten your cat?”
“Yes, one of them.”
“Hm.” He turns back to the foreign spider splayed out on the bright surface. “Obviously you want to take precautions, but it’s probably not a big deal. Opposed to common phobias, the majority of spiders are not deadly or poisonous. They’re actually quite kind and sweet creatures!”
“I’ll take your word for it.”
Dr. Legge walks me to my car, vigorously shakes my hand, and agrees to be in touch if there are any developments. I can’t say that I expected the weird dead insect from the back of my closet to represent such an exciting development in an academic’s career, but there is something strangely infectious about his enthusiasm.
On the drive home, I can’t stop thinking about the weird skull-like marking. When I get back to the apartment, I find Jeff Francoeur sleeping in the bathroom sink. Mercifully sleepy and docile, I turn him over and examine the whitish marking on the back of his neck.
Maybe it’s my imagination. Maybe the stress has been getting to me. The marking is a bit shapeless and oblong, but it could—could—be the shape of a skull.
Days 8—11
As though Dr. Legge had been some kind of entomological exorcist, things around the apartment immediately mellow out. Jeff Francoeur, in particular, relaxes. He goes back to sleeping near-constantly, rising only to eat. The other cats all seem relaxed out around him, too.
Over the next four days, I don’t hear from Dr. Legge and figure I probably won’t. In retrospect, he strikes me as the kind of overeager academic who gets excited over the possibility of any new discovery. As unique as it might be to have a new species named after me—or Frenchy—I’m not sure I want to remain forever associated with that thing, whatever it is. I figure that if I ever hear from the doctor again, I’ll let him have the honors.
I just thank God for a little bit of normalcy. We have a lively Fiesta that Caturday.
Day 12
I do end up hearing from Dr. Legge again, five days after my visit to the university. After finishing a work meeting, I notice I’d missed three calls on my cell from an unknown number, all within the last twenty minutes. Just as I’m about to call the number back, my desk landline rings.
“Hello, Mr. Redgrave?”
“This is he.”
“It’s Doctor Legge—Pigot Legge. I’m afraid I have some bad news. No—not necessarily bad. Interesting news! So, just to confirm, you did say that spider you brought in was dead when you found it?”
“Yes.”
“And it, uh, remained dead the entire time it was in your possession?”
“Uhh… yes?”
“Right, well, here’s what happened, Mr. Redgrave.” Dr. Legge takes a deep breath on the other end of the line. “This morning, as I was going about my business, I decided to take another look at your ‘spider’—and to my surprise it started to move! More accurately, the four distended extra legs started to move the spider’s body around. Fascinating stuff! Absolutely fascinating!”
“Forgive my language, but what the fuck?”
“Yes, indeed. Here’s where things get really interesting. I figured, hey, I had better, you know, really get in there, so I performed some exploratory surgery and pretty rapidly discovered that—well, are you sitting down?”
“…Yes.”
“Turns out, well—” he laughs mirthlessly “—turns out that the spider is dead. But the skull marking on the spider’s back? It is not a marking at all. It’s a separate organism, a parasite of some kind. It grafted onto the back of what was, indeed, a run-of-the-mill wolf spider and slowly, slowly drove these imperceptibly tiny, root-like appendages into the spider’s brain, forcing the two of them into symbiosis—forcing, in essence, a mutation that became those peripheral ‘spider’ legs. Nothing I’ve ever heard of before! Really, really unbelievable stuff.”
“Mother of actual God.”
“Indeed, absolutely. Well, the good news is we are dealing with a new species, I think, for which you should still get credit! The less-than-good-news is that, um, that cat you said you think was bitten?”
“Oh no, oh God.”
I stand, panicked. Almost knock my chair over. Dr. Legge reiterates that there’s (probably) nothing to worry about. That Jeff Francoeur is (probably) fine. It’s then I realize that the unknown calls I’d missed weren’t from Dr. Legge; I’d put his number in my phone. Choking back panic, I thank the doctor and call back the unknown number.
A young woman picks up on the first ring. “Hi, is this Hank?”
“Yes, who—”
“It’s Mary Zhao, your neighbor. I got your number from Tim. Are you at home?”
“I’m working.”
“Oh. Because there’s a lot of, like, uhh, screaming? Coming from your apartment? And what sounds like stuff getting thrown against the walls?”
I’m running to my car before even ending the phone call. My commute normally takes twenty minutes, but I make it home in ten. I slam my car in front of the apartment complex and bolt inside. When I get off the elevator, Mary and a few other residents, including the elderly Romanian couple, are standing at their doors—all their attention on my apartment door.
I pull out my keys, hands shaking like twigs in gale force winds. Indeed, as Mary warned, all sorts of noises come from the apartment, making my addled brain think of onomatopeia from a comic book: Krash, Kerrang, Snutch, Whump. A royal rumble localized entirely within an 800-square foot apartment.
I exchange an apprehensive glance with Mary. She’s frozen to the spot, hand over her mouth. Then I open the door.
The first thing I notice is the sustained wailing. Chone Figgins is bundled in the corner of the living room, letting out a loud, steady noise. Julio Franco has somehow leapt from a cat tree up to the ceiling fan, clinging to one of the blades for dear life, shrieking. Along the cat-paths, Chris Taylor, Marwin González, and Howie Kendrick crouch together, staring toward the bedroom, terrified.
Rance Mulliniks—my oldest—lies motionless in the middle of the room. Pooled with blood. I drop to my knees, scoop him up. Fighting back tears, thinking him dead, I cradle him to my chest. I practically scream with joy when he starts to move and mewl. He looks up at me stoically. Whatever has happened, our glorious Siamese patriarch clearly put himself in harm’s way to save the younger cats.
Tony Phillips limps toward the living room from down the hall. He, too, is bloody. He has a long gash on his left leg but doesn’t appear to be too badly injured. I quickly grab him, along with Rance Mulliniks, Chris Taylor, Marwin González, Howie Kendrick, and a still-shrieking Chone Figgins—I figure Julio Franco is safe up on the ceiling fan for the immediate moment—and run to the hall.
“Here!” says Mary, throwing her door wide open. “They’ll be safe!”
I drop my utility men in her living room as gingerly as I can in my panicked state. Garfunkel, puzzled, licking himself in the corner, cocks his obese head at us.
That’s seven cats safe.
Two left.
Steeling myself, I re-enter my apartment, averting my eyes to the pools of blood. Turn down the hall. Make for the bedroom.
Kiting one another in the middle of the room are Ben Zobrist and…Jeff Francoeur.
“Good lord…”
Jeff Francoeur—what had been Jeff Franceour—has sprouted four extra legs—long, spindly, pale, spider-like legs—from the sides of his torso. They raise his body well off the ground; he’s nearly up to my waist. His tiny cat paws dangle uselessly between the hideous new peripheral legs.
Upon entering, he turns to me, head tilted. He growls—a nauseating gurgle. His eyes glint black, pupils filled entirely, a dead slate—obsidian cataracts—somehow still conveying fury. Loathing.
Even from the doorway, on the back of his neck, it’s obvious the marking has spread: a huge, embossed, white skull.
Jeff Francoeur looks from me back to Ben Zobrist, loudly burble-hissing, unsure which victim to prioritize. I dive for the closest ad hoc weapon—a baseball bat signed by Mario Mendoza—and position myself between the two, readying the bat like it’s the home run derby.
“Go, Ben Zobrist! Go!”
Ben Zobrist takes the cue and runs past me into the hall. The Jeff Franceour-thing moves and I swing the bat, but I whiff and the bat slips out of my hand, clattering against the bedroom hardwood. The Franceour-thing is fast, spidering its way between my legs to go after Ben Zobrist. I scramble to retrieve the bat, turning my ankle painfully, and follow them into the hallway.
Jeff Francoeur’s parasitic cat-body moves abjectly down the hall, like one of those quadrupedal military robots that can’t be kicked over, and speeds up. He’s too fast for me—and for Ben Zobrist.
Ben makes for the safety of the cat-paths. Right behind him, the Francoeur-thing launches itself five feet and runs along the fucking wall. It reaches the cat-paths, lunges at Ben, and cages him against the wall with his newfound demon legs.
Ben Zobrist cries for help. The Francoeur-thing lifts his demon-legs, readying the killing blow.
Just then, Mary bursts into the living room brandishing a fire extinguisher. She unleashes a blast of freezing foam at the parasite-cat. The Jeff Franceour-thing screams. He recovers quickly, turning infernally to Mary.
But it opens a moment of opportunity. My body reacts without the help of my brain. I wind up and hurl the Mendoza bat with all my might.
And the thing-that-had-been-Jeff Francoeur explodes.
It’s like a watermelon dropped on a landmine.
“Ben Zobrist!” I scream.
I run to the cat-path. Did I hit Ben? They’d been close. I can’t lose another utility man, I can’t. I dig through the mess, with no thought for the gore covering my arms and face. I find Ben Zobrist’s body and pull him free. He doesn’t move…
“Is he…?” says Mary, still readying the extinguisher.
… until he does.
Ben Zobrist meows pathetically in my arms. I collapse backwards, hugging him. He’s covered in blood and guts and bits of parasite-leg, but he doesn’t appear to be injured. Above us, Julio Franco, still perched on the ceiling fan, lets out a meowl of solidarity. I cry tears of relief and refuse to let Ben go, even as some very confused EMTs arrive on the scene.
Day 13—19
Five of my cats sustained injuries in the Jeff Francoeur attack: Howie Kendrick (lacerations); Chone Figgins (lacerations); Ben Zobrist (a broken paw and lacerations); Tony Phillips (leg gash and scratched eye); and Rance Mulliniks (internal injuries). Julio Franco views the ceiling fan like an old enemy now. Most importantly, after Dr. Chau gave each a thorough examination, it appears none had been bitten in the chaos.
I guess I should count us lucky that only Rance Mulliniks needed surgery. Given his advanced age, the vet suggests I consider putting him down. My mouth can’t even form the word “no.” I just stare until he gets the message. I hold Rance’s paws all throughout the surgery, though this is explicitly disallowed by veterinary rules. They told me to stay in the waiting room. They were welcome to try and make me.
The surgery is a success. Rance returns home, hale and healthy. The others, though rattled, are clearly re-energized by his presence.
Though all my utility guys are indoor cats, I buy a few leashes and cat carriers and take them out behind the apartment for the burial of what little remains of Jeff Franceour. Mary Zhao joins us, her hands clasped in front of her and head down.
I kneel before the grave, clinging to the leads. We’ll get another cat one day—can’t field a team without nine men, after all—but not today. Today is not for us to remember what Jeff Franceour became, but the utility man he had been. A valuable, hard-working member of the team.
It’s a solemn and beautiful ceremony—Mary agrees afterwards—even as, throughout most of it, my guys whine and scream and pule all over me like a human cat castle.
Joseph Andre Thomas (he/him) is a horror writer and literature teacher from Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. His writing can be found in the anthologies Collage Macabre, Howls from the Scene of the Crime, and the forthcoming Between Doorways, amongst others. He loves cats and baseball to what his therapist refers to as a “healthy degree.”