She woke to find the house, as always, empty, but for herself and the cats. There was a comforting feeling to the emptiness by now. It had existed long enough to warmly blanket rather than wetly smother. Today, however, the comfort was gone, and there was only the feeling of blank, empty space -- space that had not been filled yet. She shrugged, for she had felt such things before, when she first moved in, or when she was in one of her black moods. Perhaps she was headed for another. At least the cats loved her. She always had her cats. Cats were better than people. And they required less work than dogs.

Ambling into the kitchen, she busied herself placing dry food and fresh water for her friends, sleepy brown eyes still blinking owlishly from another nap. She was always tired. She was unsure if it was from being alone for years, in the nearly-empty house, or from working the graveyard shift, or both. She was plump and apple-cheeked, average, not a Big Beautiful Woman; cute, not pretty. For the umpteenth time, she shoved her mahogany bangs out of her eyes, thinking absently that she really should get her hair cut soon.

As if by some innate sense, or perhaps smelling the tuna she always cracked open, her two cats and latest rescue kitten scampered into the kitchen, weaving and ducking about her feet, meowing piteously for attention and rubbing against her ankles and her hands and face, as she set their bowls down.

“Silly goobers,” she muttered. “I would never let you starve.” With a skritch under the chin for the tortiseshell, and a few strokes behind his head, she turned next to the multicolour tabby and stroked her protruding stomach, her ears, her tail, and her back. With a kiss to the forehead of the tiny black kitten, barely ten weeks old, she stepped back to her counter and continued lunch preparations.

“Ouch!” she hissed, as the tortiseshell dug her claws into her ankle. “Sadie! Stop that! I’ll give you some tuna in a minute, I always do!”

As she did almost every other day, she fixed her own sandwich, tuna with cheddar on sourdough. The lemon sour, one of her favourites, was already waiting. The bread was warm, the tuna was cold, the cheddar was sharp, the beer yeasty, the cats were appreciative of the tuna brine and half a can of tuna -- without the mayonnaise, of course. Kali usually tried to swipe her sandwich, and he hated mayonnaise.

Maybe I need two cans of tuna, and Kaliyah will stop trying to swipe my sandwiches, she thought.

There was a crash, and her plate clattered to the floor, breaking into several pieces.

“Dammit, Kali!” She glared at her unrepentant tom, who even then was taking giant bites of half her precious sandwich, and glaring at her, making disgusted faces after he got the mayonnaise on his tongue. She bent to pick up the shattered plate -- the better to catch all of the shards of ceramic before they got into the cats’ feet and she had to endure the hell that was a vet visit, and her heart raced. She hated loud noises. Breathing deeply, she stood, opened the cupboards hiding the trash bin under the sink, and tossed the pieces in.

“There, I think I’ve got them all. OUCH, Kali! Dammit! Stop it! You’ve already had half my sandwich, what more do you want?” She looked ruefully at her hand, and could see blood running from several scratches. Her cat was in a mood. She sighed. It wouldn’t be the first time.

As she turned to quit the kitchen, she felt a sharp crack, a deep pain in her chest, like a firecracker exploding inside her. Her eyes misted over, and the light was gone before she hit the floor.

At first, the cats didn’t understand what had happened. The people, her neighbors, the police, wouldn’t understand until later. The littlest kitten nudged the corpse of his mother, and began licking her face with his rough tongue, trying to wake her.

He laid down beside her and snuggled close, not understanding why she was so cold. He never got up again.

Eventually the cats exhausted the tuna, and the dry food, and all sources of water in the house.

Eventually the police were called, and, upon receiving no response from the homeowner, decided to do a well-check visit. They had to break down the door - it was locked. The neighbors had reported a bad smell coming from the house.

The autopsy report showed death by massive, sudden myocardial infarction.

They couldn’t explain the claw or bite marks, though. They couldn’t explain the deep puncture marks on her legs. Or the missing left ear. Or the corpse of the small kitten that was curled up next to the body. The collars looked as if they had been snapped. Their brass ID tags read Sadiste and Kaliyah. The collar on the kitten read Sable.

They never saw the cats, who, each giving their mistress’ cheek one last lick in farewell, sauntered out the door.