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Carl (standard:Fan Fiction, 11295 words)
Author: Reid LaurenceAdded: Dec 19 2005Views/Reads: 2100/1734Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The story Carl centers around a case of mistaken identity and asks the question...Are we really who we think we are, or could there exist some other force, much greater then we, compelling us to do the things we do? Read on and find out.
 



Organogenesis: The formation of body organs during embryonic stages in
mammals for the respective term of gestation. Which in humans, is 
usually nine months. In elephants, twenty-three months; chimpanzees, 
eight months, but in small domestic cats that number dwindles to a mere 
sixty days, or two months. That is to say, that is the usual amount of 
time we'd expect a pregnant cat to give birth in but then, things don't 
always go according to nature's plan. Things happen... anomalies, 
deviations, defects, anything from genetic flaws to great athletic 
and/or intellectual blessings. But what of these attributes we've come 
to think of as blessings? Are they what we'd like to think they are, 
out of envy or jealousy? Or are they merely weights to bear for whom 
they've been bestowed upon? I really can't say for sure, but since my 
family and I met up with Carl, my eyes have opened to an entirely 
different range of possibilities. Possibilities I never even knew 
existed, until we witnessed this one unique, fantastic deviation of 
evolution... 

“Mom,” said Natalie. “I told you we should've gotten Cat spayed. Now
look at her.” “Gosh almighty,” I added. Walking into the living room 
with my t.v. remote in one hand and a glass of soda in the other. 
“Looks like ol' Cat went an got herself knocked up don't it?” “You 
always know just what to say, don't you Reid,” replied my wife, chiding 
me and mocking my commentary. “Any more bright observations you'd like 
to make?” “I just call'em as I see'em Mary. What's for dinner anyway?” 
“I don't know,” she answered. “At a time like this, and all you're 
worried about is dinner? Can't you see we've got a problem here? What 
in the world are we going to do with kittens?” “How should I know?” I 
replied. “Stir-fry?” “That was sick, dad,” said Natalie, as she turned 
to look at her mother sitting beside her on the living room sofa. “What 
about an ad in the paper?” she continued. “It could read; FREE KITTENS 
TO GOOD HOME. What's wrong with that?” “That outta do it,” I said, 
opening the refrigerator door, in search of man's best friend - which 
was, at a time like this... a package of bologna. After our informal 
discussion and through the late night hours of the evening, I wondered 
what it would be like to once again become a “cat dad”. I'd already 
been one some years previous to this and thought I had a good idea of 
what to expect from our furry companion, Cat. Of course I expected her 
to grow in dimension, suitably adjusting herself to the task at hand 
both physically and emotionally, as any good mammalian female would. 
Then, like any cat about to give birth would do, I expected her to find 
some warm, dark place under a bed or in a closet and help bring her 
children out into the strange, but interesting world in which we live. 
And as I hit the off button on the remote, I knew that was precisely 
what my wife and two children expected also, as most people would have. 
Now, I thought to myself. As long as we're all on the same wavelength 
here, what could go wrong? So we'll put an ad in the paper and wish 
them all a happy, safe life. What's wrong with that? But as I turned 
the lamp off on my night stand and stared out into the dark of the 
bedroom, a strange feeling of insecurity passed through me. A feeling 
similar to the kind a parent has when he or she doesn't know the 
whereabouts of their teenager and panic begins to set in. Hmm, I 
thought. I know Ellies' in her room sleeping and Natalie's tucked away 
in her bed too - then why do I feel like this? Could it be a 
premonition? I wondered. Could I be subconsciously warning myself? 
“Nonsense,” I said out loud, as I closed my eyes, turned over on my 
stomach and peacefully nodded out. 

The next morning went as routinely and smoothly as any other. I dragged
myself out of bed at seven o'clock to let our three dogs out to relieve 
themselves. Then I promptly met my younger daughter in the kitchen and 
blindly, bumped shoulders with her, as we struggled to find our way 
around the kitchen in a state of half sleep, half wakefulness. “Oh, 
excuse me dad,” she muttered under her breath, searching for a good 
spot on the counter top to stir the two raw eggs she was carrying 
around. “Sure Ellie,” I replied. “You want coffee?” “Sure, I'll take a 
cup,” she answered, even though she and I both know, she rarely touches 
the stuff. “How would'ya like some coffee crap in it?” I responded, 
hoping that the Irish Cream flavored coffee additive I was using might 
make the offer more appealing. “Oh, I don't know,” she said, on her way 
to the microwave to complete her scrambled eggs. “Not right now, it's 
just something else I'll have to carry in the car.” “Okay then, suit 
yourself,” I quietly answered, while I poured way too much water in the 
coffee maker as I usually did, resulting in way too many cups of 
leftover coffee. Next to rise from her silent slumber was my wife, 
Mary. Bumping shoulders as we usually did, vying for position in the 


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