Natural Selection

by Kathleen Hood Haskins

My cat is lying here beside on the couch pretending she's a mountain lion. I can tell from the look in her slanted green eyes that she's considering what kind of snack our dog would make if she pounced now while he's sleeping at my husband's feet. Her tail flicks occasionally, but she is otherwise still. Bonkers makes funny noises in his sleep, unaware that he is being stalked by a feral animal, one who lives with him and shares his water bowl. The tip of Sheba's tail jerks again and I feel her small muscular body tense. She rises very slowly to her feet, the light orange hair on her underside still brushes the couch, and she moves toward the edge of the cushion. Peering over at Bonkers, Sheba pauses, as still as death, her tail making its barely perceptible movements, and watches. In his sleep, the beagle is chasing something and his paws move gently as if he's running or treading invisible water. Such an affectionate dog, Bonkers has no idea that his best friend is staring at him with malice in her kitty heart.

I watch this wildlife miniature with amusement. It isn't the first time, of course, and I'm sure it won't be the last. One animal is resorting to her natural role as predator and the other is fat, dumb and happy in his ignorance. Domestic animals have such great lives. Someone feeds them, waters them, cares for their health, sees that they have shelter from the elements, and actually loves them just for being there. They have virtually no worries (aside from Bonkers' obvious need to be a little more cognizant of Sheba's predilection for attacking when his eyes are closed), and they can ignore their human beings completely and we'll still love them, waiting for them to reciprocate.

Aaron looks up at me from behind his Sports Illustrated. He smiles lazily, without emotion, before going back to his magazine. I wish he was absorbed in the swimsuit issue. Then I could actually understand his interest in the pictures - hard-bodied, tanned and perfect-breasted young women clad in the most minute of bathing suits - over the softer, looser, much paler (I think this might be a good use of the word "faded") skin of his forty-something wife dressed in a pair of baggy navy sweat pants and a well-worn donor's T-shirt from the local blood center.

But he's not looking at swimsuit models. He's reading articles about basketball or baseball or hockey, whatever is in season right now. Aaron loves all things sporting and if he isn't actually attending a game, he's watching television or reading magazines. It's Tuesday, no event to attend, so I take a backseat to the latest statistics or a biography about some rookie or some article about the latest drug making the rounds of professional athletes. I couldn't get his attention for more than a minute unless I set the house on fire.

And, to be honest, that might not even do it.

I watch him from across the room. He's a lot like Bonkers, fat, dumb, and happy, completely unaware that he's being watched. Aaron turns a page and continues his reading. His hair is thinning on top. These days I've noticed that he wears ball caps way more than he used to. Trying to cover up his impending baldness, I suppose. Aaron tries to compensate for lots of things he perceives as weaknesses, failings.

He's all about compensation.

When was our last conversation? When was the last time he said he loved me? Aaron and I share a home, a bed, and what passes for a life. But we share nothing important. We are strangers who happen to be married. We are strangers who occasionally have mediocre sex. For me, he is the one who brings home a check every month, who is reasonably low-maintenance, and who provides for some of my basic human needs. To Aaron, I am a necessity: a fairly presentable, if not beautiful, wife who manages the house, never questions his need for sports, and spreads her legs on those rare occasions when he needs release. We play our roles as defined by the world - docile wife, masculine husband.

My ass. I am not docile and Aaron doesn't even border on masculine anymore. Sometimes I wonder what I ever saw in him. The handsome young college jock that I fell in love with, the one who said he was going to become a doctor, was eaten alive, slowly over time, by the man on the other side of the room. Aaron stretched his shoulders and reached for the can of beer on the table beside him without lifting his eyes from the page. The irony of his obsession with sports is that his idea of exercise was getting out of the chair, walking the twenty feet to the fridge, and retrieving another Bud.

The lawyer sat across the table from me yesterday and asked a million questions. I answered them as honestly as I could. I wanted to get out; I wanted a divorce. No; he didn't beat me, he didn't hurt me, he didn't drink to excess, he didn't leave me alone to go out with the guys, he didn't do anything illegal, he didn't cheat on me. Yes: he kept a job, he made a good living, he didn't deny me anything, he had been a good father to the children, and he was there. I had no other man, no hidden agenda: I simply needed to be anywhere but here.

A part of me wants to tell him that he'll be served with papers at the office tomorrow. Unlike Sheba who lies in wait to sink her claws into poor Bonkers with no regard for his complete innocence - because she's going purely on instinct - somewhere inside me is a woman who remembers the man she used to love. She screams out that he will be hurt, screams out that he deserves a chance to make up for the years of silence, the maw of nothingness that lies between us.

I feel the cat tense and wriggle her agile body into position beside me. In complete silence, she lowers her upper body and prepares to launch her six pounds onto the dog's thirty. But she has the advantage and she knows it. Bonkers is clueless and has no time to react before she's made her attack. He jumps to his feet and lets out a loud yip in defense, insulted by the betrayal, but Sheba has already moved on. There's no blood or permanent damage, but Bonkers won't sleep well for a while. His pride is bruised and he pouts, watching her hop back onto her perch atop the couch, grooming her only-slightly-ruffled orange fur, her shiny cat eyes half-lidded as she smiles at him.

I look back at Aaron and, as I watch him, I know. Nothing will change. At first he'll be shocked. The attack will surprise him because it comes out of left field with no warning. He'll feel cheated, as if I'd done something unfair. There will be a meaningless show of hurt, maybe he'll even say he still loves me and can't imagine why I would want out. But, in my heart, I have already moved on. If he's honest with himself, of course, he'll realize that he asked for it. He got too comfortable, closed his eyes and slept through our marriage without paying attention to it...or to me.

I rise from the couch, slowly stroking my hand down Sheba's strong back as I pass her, and walk past Aaron's chair. Doing something I haven't done spontaneously in ages, I tell him I am going to bed. He looks up, slight surprise registering in his eyes. My own eyes are half-closed as I smile at him and I wonder as I leave the room if he felt the slight prick of my claws as my hand grazed his arm.