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"The Lion in the Garage" is a story exploring the collision between the ordinary and the absurd. A routine family favor—babysitting a cat.

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The Lion in the Garage

by Harry Arabian

Jack and his girlfriend Diana had planned a day-hike up Wachusett Mountain and needed one small favor before sunrise: could I babysit their cat? I agreed, with one condition—that the cat remain in the garage. Jack promised this would not be a problem. The cat was calm, he said. He would bring a tent-style enclosure, sufficient food and water for the day, and everything would be neatly contained.

They arrived very early, well before my first cup of coffee had even occurred to me. The morning already felt unreliable, as though it had begun without consulting me. Half-asleep, I registered hurried footsteps, a muffled goodbye, and then the unmistakable whine of Jack’s Forester snow tires spinning as they departed into the darkness.

I shuffled into the kitchen to start the coffee when another car door slammed. For a brief, disoriented moment, I wondered whether Jack had returned with a forgotten essential—cat litter, a leash, or some other necessity. Instead, it was Rick, my younger son, pulling up in his blue Highlander.

Still in my pajamas, I slipped on my sandals and moved quickly toward the garage, suddenly concerned that he might startle Jack’s cat. Rick was already there, standing inches from the enclosure, hands on his hips, peering inside with exaggerated seriousness.

“I told him,” Rick said, without looking at me, “that is not a house cat. That is a lion cub. Look—he already has a male lion’s mane.”

“Are you here early to check on Jack’s cat?” I asked.

“No,” Rick replied. “I needed my tent—the one I store in your garage. I see Jack decided to use it as an enclosure for his lion.”

“Did you say lion?” I asked, leaning closer, uncertain whether this was a joke I had not yet fully awakened to understand.

I crouched to inspect the enclosure. The animal inside stared back at me—large, fluffy, golden, with paws that seemed slightly oversized for its body and an expression of mild, ancient disdain. Its ruff flared around its face in a way that made the tent appear suddenly inadequate. I had to concede that Jack was not entirely mistaken. The animal resembled a lion cub waiting to grow into itself.

Unsure how to respond to this realization, Rick and I retreated to the kitchen.

Jill was already there, still in her robe, arms crossed, squinting at the dark counter like a general surveying a battlefield.

“You forgot to turn on the coffee machine,” she said. “It is impossible to see the power switch with the kitchen light off.”

 

“There is a lion cub in our garage,” I announced.

She paused, reached for a mug, and nodded calmly. “We will investigate once we have had our first cup of coffee.”

 

And for once, we all agreed that nothing—not even a lion—should be confronted without caffeine.