by Lea Tassie
***
After about ten days, when I was sure the King had bonded to us and his new territory, I let him out. Green eyes wide and nose questing the air, he crept belly down across the front veranda. Then under the veranda. Ben hovered in the background, asking, "Where is he now?" every thirty seconds or so. I couldn't tell whether Ben was concerned about the cat getting lost or hoping he would.
I called to George to reassure him that his head slave was at his beck and call. He floated onto the veranda and turned to gaze at the sloping meadow and trees which separated our farm from the beach properties below.
Does all this belong to me, too?
I told him it did. Tail high, he trotted down the steps, turned left and raced through the orchard into the thick blackberry vines that separated Cal's land from ours.
"Doesn't he have sense enough to stay in his own yard? Cal's goats will eat him." Ben didn't sound particularly sorry about the prospect.
"He'll come back," I said, secretly worried that he wouldn't. "He's just exploring."
We waited ten minutes. George did not reappear.
"I suppose I'll have to go look for him," Ben said. "The stupid animal is probably disoriented and confused." He disappeared down the road, calling, "George! George!"
I decided to join the hunt myself and started by calling George from the veranda. He bounded out of the brush, galloped across the yard and joined me.
"Good boy! This is where you live, remember?"
He butted my hand with his head and trotted off to examine the meadow, stopping to sniff every second blade of grass. I got on with making lunch.
Twenty minutes later Ben returned. "I can't find him anywhere. He must be lost."
I led him to the veranda and pointed.
"I suppose he was here the whole time I was walking up and down the road yelling my head off. The neighbors must think I'm crazy."
"I doubt it. George probably does, though."
George was delighted with his territory and spent much of his time exploring it. Since he wanted to make short but frequent forays, we spent much of our time letting him out and letting him in.
"This is ridiculous," I said. "Let's put a cat flap in the back door."
"I agree," Ben said. "Why should we have to open doors for him twenty times a day?"
"He's been waking me up almost every night for butler service, too. I'd be much happier if he opened his own doors. I don't like stumbling up and down those stairs at two in the morning."
"He thinks it's your duty," Ben said. "But it isn't fair that His Majesty should be forced to go to the trouble and effort of rousing us."
"Rousing me, you mean. You sleep through all of it."
Ben and Cal took time off from the workshop project to install a cat door, only to discover that George thought it beneath his dignity. Why should he push that silly flap with his head when he owned two perfectly good servants? I tried coaxing. I tried swearing. I tried tuna. Nothing worked. George stalked away every time and I resigned myself to door duty.
A couple of mornings later, I let George out of the kitchen French doors and started washing dishes. Suddenly he was sitting at my feet.
"How did you get in?"
He kneaded the linoleum and stared at me with wide, innocent green eyes.
When Ben and Cal came in for lunch, I said, "George finally used the cat door on his own."
"I'm glad he caught on," Ben said. "Now you won't have to go crashing down the stairs to let him out and I can get a good night's sleep for a change."
"That cat's living in clover with a door all his own," Cal said, dunking a cookie in his coffee. "Daisy stays outside all night." Daisy was Cal's cat. I'd seen this multi-colored fluff ball from a distance but hadn't yet managed to make friends. "My girlfriend, Sylvia, has two cats and they stay out overnight, too."
I was surprised to learn Cal had a girlfriend. He'd never mentioned a wife and we assumed he was the crusty old bachelor type.
"Where does Sylvia live?" I asked, ignoring Ben's frown. He thought I was prying. I was. But only because I liked Cal.
"Ellis Bay." This was a settlement of some two dozen houses at the southern end of Adriana, a distance of thirty miles of rutted gravel road.
Before I could ask Cal why he and his lady didn't move in together, Ben finished his coffee, stood up, and said, "Well, let's get back on the job." Cal grabbed another cookie and followed him.
As it turned out, Ben was wrong about George accepting the cat door. His Majesty proceeded to instruct us on protocol. A royal personage has the right to be waited on. Otherwise, what's the use of being royal? He ignored the cat flap during the day and demanded butler service at the French doors, the front door to the veranda or the back door. In, out; out, in; and if we didn't obey instantly, he yowled his displeasure at the top of his semi-Siamese lungs. I could and did ignore him much of the time but Ben leapt up the moment George yelled. After one particularly busy evening, Ben said grimly, "I'm going to design a family crest for that cat with the motto Vexo."
"Vexo? What does that mean?"
"It's a Latin verb meaning 'I pester'."
"I've told you why he pesters. He'll get over it when he feels more secure."
"I know he had a rough time in the past, but like Cal said, George is living in clover now."
"He isn't sure it will last. And he doesn't understand that you can't stand the sound of a cat crying."
Ben snorted. "He can cry all he wants. I don't care."
That didn't fool me for a minute. I was amused by the 'vexo' label, though.
Next morning, I saw George creeping up on a squirrel. "Come back here, Imperial Vexator!" I realized at once this was too big a mouthful to scream across the yard. And, not only did George ignore me, but the mailman, shoving mail into our box from his open car window, looked at me as if his doubts about my sanity had been confirmed.
It wasn't long before the Imperial Vexator struck again. When Ben and Cal came in for coffee, Cal said, "Don't suppose you could keep that cat in during the day, could you? Every time I climb up the ladder, he climbs up after me and then he won't move when I want to come down."
