Annie and the Grateful Dead

by Denise Dietz

  “Yes, I know you’re hungry,” she said, misunderstanding, “and I promise to feed you after I check my email.”

  I thought I heard someone lurking at the bedroom’s entrance, but when I slunk over to the doorway, swift as a lithe shadow, Robert was still snoring away on the couch. To me, his snores sounded fake, but before I could digest that implication on an empty stomach, I heard Annie gasp, and I turned toward the computer, atop a desk in the corner of the room.

  “You have to see this, you have to see this,” Annie managed, barely able to speak.

  I leapt onto her lap.

  “You silly cat,” she said, stroking my ruff. “I didn’t mean that literally. It’s just . . . oh my gosh, Grateful, look! I have four emails from authors who saw my cat-show poster and want me to do their e-book covers. One says she’s been paying an artist five hundred dollars and would pay me five hundred too, and another, a famous romance author, says a painting on my website would be perfect for her latest book, and . . . and she says she knows several other authors who need an artist of my caliber.”

  I purred as loud as I could, unable to mouth the words I told you so!

  “And here’s the best part, Grateful. A man who owns an art gallery saw my poster and he wants to hang my work in his gallery. Can you imagine?”

  I certainly could!

  “I’ll take a quick shower then cook up some bacon and eggs, to celebrate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  You bet I would!

  I heard Annie singing in the shower — Jane Powell’s song from Seven Brides for Seven Brothers: “Beautiful, glorious, heavenly, marvelous, wonderful, wonderful day!”

  My whiskers quivered in a cat-smile as I cleansed my paws, face and tail.

  To my surprise and delight, Robert wasn’t in the living room or the powder room, but Annie had barely placed the egg carton on the kitchen counter when we heard the slam of the front door.

  “Breakfast,” Robert said, handing Annie a McDonald’s bag.

  Before she could open her mouth, he lightly stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Sorry, Annie,” he said. “I was so anxious to see you yesterday, I didn’t stop for food or sleep, and, well, I was exhausted, not thinking straight. Of course I’ll donate the money from my CD sales. I can’t believe I said what I said last night. Will you forgive me?”

  He’s lying, Annie! Don’t forgive him!

  She grinned and said, “You had me at ‘sorry.’ ”

  Evidently Robert has never seen Jerry Maguire because he looked mystified. Annie and I have watched the entire movie once, the ending four times.

  “Of course I forgive you,” Annie clarified.

  “You take GD to the show in your car and I’ll take my bike, okay? I have a job interview. Patricia said the store that sells guitars needs an assistant manager.”

  “Patricia?”

  “Your neighbor. Her husband died last year. He was mugged and then shot. We went to the funeral together, remember? Just before I left for Vegas?”

  “Yes, I remember. They never found the sneaky weasel who killed him.”

  “I saw Patricia on my way to McDonald’s, Annie. She knows the guitar store manager and called him right away.”

  “Wow, that was nice of her.”

  “So I need you to schedule me before the tap dancers. Then I’ll leave for the interview. After the interview, I’ll pick up a bottle of champagne and we’ll celebrate.”

  Job interview, my furry butt! Don’t trust him, Annie. Something smells fishy, and it’s not my food bowl.

  While Annie and Robert gnawed Egg McMuffins and Cinnamon Melts, I gnawed my new rubber mouse.

  Have you ever tasted a rubber mouse?

  It’s definitely not one of those “don’t knock it until you try it” things.

  Rubber mice taste like . . . rubber. Blech!

  I chewed that rubber mouse so I could prove to Annie that, although catnip is yummy, it disappears quickly. Rubber lasts a long, long time.

  Robert is catnip.

  ON THE PROWL FOR A MATE

  You’ve heard of a bird’s-eye view, right? Try a cat’s-eye view.

  Although Annie doesn’t stint when it comes to my wellbeing, and I was encased in a comfy carrier, all I could see of the park’s show grounds were feet, socks, legs and knees. Oh, I could make out the small children who ran around legs, benches and trees, chased by the desperate cries of their parents, and I saw a few feline faces through the mesh of their carriers. But I viewed everything through the mesh of my carrier, so objects looked freckled.

  I tried to spot a new mate for Annie, but the crowds were too dense. Too bad I can’t file a patent for binoculars imbedded in feline goggles. It was I, Grateful Dead, who thought up that stick that catapults balls for dogs to chase. The idea came to me when Apple the Irish setter was standing too close to the fence that barricades my yard from his.

  I’ll never understand why Apple and his fellow dogs chase balls over and over again. It reminds me of those races where cars speed ‘round and ‘round a track, going nowhere. Robert likes to watch those races. I bet if he were a dog, he’d chase balls.

  A cat-show volunteer had borrowed cages from a friend who put on cat shows, and the felines who came early were being brushed, bathed, glossed and styled. Annie told me that cat show felines have to be poked by numerous individuals, including but not limited to vets and judges, so it’s essential they tolerate the primping. I don’t mind being primped, but I’m not sure I’ll be able to tolerate the poking.

  I’ve watched Miss Universe contenders prance, and no one pokes their tails and ta-tas.

  I spied cars and vans with pet carriers and small cages resting on what Annie called “tail gates.” I thought she was making a pun until she said, “People aren’t allowed to barbeque in this park, so the food concessions should make lots of money,” and I pictured the tailgate parties I’d seen on TV. Annie loves football. I get a kick out of watching humans attack each other, especially when they are called Lions, Panthers and Jaguars, although I can’t fathom why a football team would call itself the Miami Dolphins. When I shout, “Watch out, there’s a killer dolphin!” to The Fluffster or Apple, they don’t even flinch.

  “A few committee members wanted to charge admission,” Annie continued with a ladylike snort. “I proposed huge jars at the entrance and exit. For donations. Although it’s still early, it looks like the entrance jar is filling up fast . . . hi, Patricia.”

  Through the mesh I saw The Fluffster’s owner, and again I had the feeling she looked familiar. But the memory-stab faded when she said, “Fluffy’s cage is big enough for two, Annie. Why don’t you put your cat in there, with Fluffy.”

  Oh, bliss! Say yes, Annie.

  “Thanks, Patricia,” Annie replied. “I’m sure Grateful Dead would love a roomy cage, and it will be nice to have both my hands free.” In a thoughtful voice she added, “Before I do anything else, I need to make sure the tent for the money is set up and running smoothly.”

  “Tent for the money?”

  “It was Ellie Bernstein’s suggestion. The diet club leader? She’s here with her cat, a black Persian named Jackie Robinson. Ellie’s fiancé, homicide detective Peter Miller, is one of the judges. So is his partner. They are both off duty, of course, since we don’t anticipate any caticides.” Annie laughed.

  Patricia laughed, too. Then she said, “Why do you need a tent for the money?”

  What a dumb question! Like Robert, Patricia wasn’t the smartest cab off the rack.

  “When the concession money reaches a hundred dollars,” Annie said, and I could tell she was trying to keep from sounding condescending, “one of the volunteers will put the money in an envelope and drop the envelope off at the ‘money tent.’ Same for the raffle money. And the donation jars. When the jars are full, or close to full, they’ll be emptied inside the tent.”

  “What about the cat-show money? I paid for Fluffy in cash.”

  “Those fees have a
lready been turned in, Patricia. The cut-off was noon. Since we don’t take credit cards, half the fees we’ve collected are in cash, half in personal checks.”

  “Do you have a safe?”

  “Why would we need a safe? Everything was donated, even the trophies and ribbons and a year’s worth of free cat food. Who’d be sleazy enough to steal money that goes to charity?”

  Whoa! A year’s worth of free cat food? Please clarify, Annie.

  “How much do you think we’ll make, Annie?”

  We? None of your beeswax, lady!

  “I don’t know, Patricia. I hope we make five thousand, but it could be a lot more. Some of the raffle items are . . . well, the donors were unbelievably generous. A cruise to the Bahamas, a hundred-dollar gift certificate from a local epicurean restaurant—”

  “And don’t forget your painting, Annie. I saw that little blonde girl who posed for it, at the booth where it’s displayed. She was selling raffle tickets and there was a long line of people waiting to buy them. It helps that she’s in a wheelchair. People like to buy from cripples. It makes them feel good.”

  Annie took a deep breath and I could see her hands tremble with the urge to punch Patricia in the snout. Instead she said, “The little blonde girl’s name is Becky, and she’s medaled twice at the Special Olympics. Isn’t she the prettiest little thing?”

  Tempering her temper, Annie knelt, placed my carrier on the ground, and gazed at me through the mesh as though she’d asked me the question.

  Yes, Annie, I must admit that Becky is prettier than me. But let’s get back to that free cat foo—

  “I’ll put Grateful Dead in with Fluffy now, if you don’t mind,” Annie said, rising, and I shelved the free cat food at the thought of spending all my free time with The Fluffster.

  From her cage, situated on top of a sturdy wooden table, I had a better view, and I could see Annie chatting with a few of the other volunteers who, like Annie. wore black pants and red shirts. She appeared in high spirits until she encountered a portly man with long hair, trying, I thought, to look like Willie Nelson. Nobody can look like Willie Nelson except Willie Nelson. Despite his girth, a significant hint that he loved food, Portly Man was too old for Annie. He kept shaking his head, his long gray braids swinging. Annie looked sad then angry then sad again.

  Patricia paced in front of our cage. She looked anxious, tense. I didn’t think she had anything to worry about. In my humble opinion, The Fluffster would win her CATegory.

  That’s what the show called the various groupings: CATegories. Since felines weren’t being judged by breed, their names were drawn from a fishbowl, ten cats per CATegory.

  The afternoon sped by. The Fluffster won her CATegory, beating out a splendid orange tabby by a whisker. The only feline who even came close to my gorgeousness was a gray tom named Mittens, who possessed exquisite white paws. I kept my head high, my sinuous tail aloft, and tolerated the poking. Mittens, however, objected when one of the judges picked us up and stretched us out, as if he were planning to hang us from an imaginary clothesline.

  The Fluffster and I both made Best Of Show, along with seven other felines.

  The competition for Best of Show would be held after the entertainment.

  HOW I LEARNED TO STOP WORRYING AND LOVE THE BOMBE

  Annie took me out of The Fluffster’s cage before the entertainment was due to begin. She carried me in the crook of her arm. I didn’t object. No way did I want to be on the ground, amidst the rug-rats, toddlers, and Birkenstocks.

  From her arms I saw a booth where three volunteers were busy selling bombes. Thanks to Chef Ratatouille, I knew that bombes were a French dessert made of ice cream layers, but I had never tasted one. I wanted to taste one. I purred and felt Annie hesitate, then doggedly walk past the booth. Her mother, The Toothpick, had invaded her head.

  With obvious pride, Annie introduced me to several people as “My gorgeous cat, Grateful Dead, who won his category and will soon be competing in Best Of Show.” Everyone agreed I was gorgeous, as well they should, but the human who made the most excellent impression on me was Lieutenant Peter Miller’s partner, homicide detective Michael Jon Rubenstein, aka MJ. He lightly scritched me under the chin and whispered, “Peter and I aren’t judging Best Of Show, Grateful, so it’s okay if I tell you that you are the most beautiful feline I’ve ever seen.”

  Feline? Did he say feline?

  A head taller than Annie, MJ looked like Tiger Woods. Did he wear a wedding band? No! Lots of married men eschew rings, but the way he was gazing at Annie hinted at all kinds of interesting possibilities.

  I heard Annie ask, “Do you have a cat?”

  “No,” he replied. “I’ve got a dog. Her name is Miss Grace. I call her ‘Amazing Grace.’ She’s half Catahoula and half Karelien Bear dog.”

  Bear dog, I echoed in my head.

  “Bear dog,” Annie echoed aloud.

  “Bear dogs chase bears,” MJ said.

  “You’ve got bears in your neighborhood?”

  “An ex Chicago Bears football player once rented the house next door. Does that count?”

  “Grace chased him?”

  “No. She chased his Nerf football. Miss Grace knows that chasing bears is not allowed.” MJ sighed theatrically. “I’m still working on cars.”

  A mob gathered to watch the entertainment. Ten rows of folding chairs had been set up in front of the raised stage. For a few minutes it was chaos as people played musical chairs — minus the music — but once the chairs were occupied, everyone settled. Quite a few people stood behind the chairs. Several female teens and a motorcycle gang who’d entered their cat, Miss Evel Knievel, in the show, stood chair-side. Annie sat in the first row, between Peter Miller and MJ, but she handed me over to MJ when it was time to present “Rocky Dove.”

  I expressed my pleasure with a low, vibratory murmur deep in my throat, while, at the same time, I rubbed against MJ’s stalwart chest. He thought I was hungry. “After the show,” he said, “I’ll buy you a hamburger. Perhaps Annie would like one, too.”

  Oh, bliss!

  Maybe it was my imagination, but I thought Annie’s Rocky Dove introductory spiel lacked gusto.

  Robert sounded like a police siren, and yet the gaggle of teenage girls shrieked, squealed and gyrated to his sinister distress signal. Then, to my surprise, they lined up to buy his CDs.

  I stayed on MJ’s lap while Annie presented the tappers.

  They danced to “Get Up Offa That Thing” by James Brown. After thunderous applause, they tapped “Ain’t Nothin’ But a Hound Dog,” amps at full blast. I sang along.

  During the lull between “Hound Dog” and the third dance, a loud yell that sounded like “Peter” came from the direction of the money tent. Someone, I thought, had a great pair of lungs.

  Lieutenant Peter Miller and MJ took off. In any other circumstance I would have sunk my claws into MJ’s stalwart chest, but he held me safely in the circle of his arms, his stalwart legs pumping at full speed, so I retracted my claws and went along for the ride.

  Ellie Bernstein, diet club leader, was the one with the great set of lungs. She stood in front of the money tent, bleeding from a cut on her forehead. Ropes dangled from her wrists. When she saw Miller, she took a few steps forward, staggered, and might have fallen had he not caught her.

  “I’m okay, Peter,” she said, standing straight again. “You need to catch the thief who stole the cat-show money.”

  “Man or woman?”

  “Man. I couldn’t see his face because he wore a black helmet with a full-face fiberglass composite shell, but he smelled of cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes from a . . . Harley, I think.”

  “She has an extraordinary sense of smell,” Miller said. “He tied you up — that’s not a question. How’d you get free?”

  “It pays to be a Tony Curtis fan. I’ve watched Houdini more times than I can count.”

  “Too bad there are more cyclists here than I can count,” Miller said with a wry
grin. “A whole gang stood near us during the entertain—”

  “The thief smelled like cinnamon too, Peter, and I didn’t see any food booths with cinnamon buns. Round up the cyclists and smell them, pretend you’re taking DNA samples.”

  Annie caught my eye as we both had the same thought. Well, almost the same thought. She thought Rocky while I thought Robert.

  I’m sure we both thought McDonald’s Cinnamon Melts!

  And there he was, Robert / Rocky, strolling nonchalantly toward the exit. In one hand he held his motorcycle helmet. In the other, a bombe.

  “You weasel!” Annie shouted, and started running toward him.

  MJ shouted “Annie, wait!” while I leapt from his arms and took off after her.

  Robert made a mad dash for the exit. I’m fairly certain he meant to drop his bombe, but he dropped his helmet instead.

  Even though Annie had adrenaline on her side, I knew she’d never catch him, especially when she took a few precious seconds to scoop up his helmet.

  I pictured Antonio Banderas as Puss in Boots as I sprinted past Annie and cut Robert off at the pass. In other words, he tripped over me and sprawled on the ground. His bombe landed near me and I took a few licks.

  Annie caught up to us and began pummeling Robert with his helmet.

  “What are you doing?” he cried. “Annie, stop it!”

  A nanosecond later Miller and MJ reached us. “Stay on the ground,” Miller told Robert, while MJ kept the frenzied crowd of onlookers back.

  “I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to,” Robert said. “Make her stop clobbering me with my helmet.”

  Annie finally paused for breath. Miller cuffed Robert and yanked him to his feet. Annie said, “Where’s the money, you weasel?”

  Robert said, “What money?”

  Annie said, “Don’t play innocent. The cat-show money.”

  Robert said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Annie said, “Then why were you running?”

  Robert said, “I didn’t want to be late for the job interview.”