by Nina Auril
***
“What the fuck is that god awful noise?”
I glance over at Carter who just let himself into the apartment.
“Bah, Humbug,” I reply as I continue decorating the tree I got this morning. It’s my biggest one yet.
“Seriously, is that Mariah Carey?!” He covers his ears and heads to the kitchen.
“There will be no negative words said about Mariah in this apartment. If you don’t like it, feel free to leave.” I hear him scoff and mumble something about ‘craziness.’
“Nice try, but there’s an issue with the game, and we need to… What the fuck is that?” I look up at the sound of horror in his voice and peek from behind the tree to see what he’s pointing at.
“It’s Beau,” I say nonchalantly.
“Yes, but… what have you done to him?”
“I dressed him up as an elf. Isn’t it cool?”
“Cool is not the word I would choose.” His eyes grow even bigger.
“Whatever,” I shrug and go back to decorating. “His followers love it.”
He considers this for a moment and then seems to accept it.
“What do you think?” I say once I place the last ornament on the tree, and step back to admire my handiwork.
“I think,” he says while surveying my apartment, and finally the tree. “That Christmas got drunk, and puked all over your apartment.” He gives me a big fake smile and sticks two thumbs up in the air.
I roll my eyes and slump down on the couch, already exhausted from all the decorating. “What’s this about the game?”
“There’s an issue with the new Christmas update. The ads keep getting stuck, and the developers suggest we…” I tune him out and pretend to be listening, but I’m really wondering if I should switch out the red tinsel for the green ones along the window. I never understand all the technical stuff anyway. I just want to draw my pictures, and write my jokes.
It’s already late afternoon when Carter and I have sorted out all the issues with the game and various other things. We both have a slice of pizza and a beer in hand when Beau comes struggling through the cat flap. Sans outfit. Again. I frown. I guess he doesn’t like the costumes as much as I thought he did, but I can’t for the life of me figure out how he gets them off.
He heads to the kitchen and meows at me when I don’t immediately get up to feed him. I sigh and drop my slice into the box to do his bidding. He’s face first into the bowl and I shake my head at him and his never-ending appetite. Once he’s done, he jumps up on the counter and rubs his head against my stomach until he has my attention. This is weird. He never wants cuddles after he’s eaten and only ever loves me when he wants something. Maybe he really is sick. I rub his head as I contemplate taking him to the vet, but then I’m distracted by on his collar. It looks like a piece of paper that must have gotten stuck somehow.
“What did you get into?” I ask and remove it from the collar. At closer inspection, it looks like a rolled up note. I unroll it and… “What the actual fuck?”
“What?” Carter asks with his mouth full, but I’m too shocked to respond as I read the note again.
“What the fuck?” I repeat. Carter gets up and comes to grab the note from my hand.
“I don’t know what kind of psycho dresses up other people’s cats,” He reads the note out loud. “But I’ve kept both outfits, and if you come near my cat again, I’m getting the police involved. Call someone and get some professional help, sicko.” Carter starts laughing so hard he collapses on the floor while I stare at Beau accusingly. Seriously, what the fuck?
CHAPTER FOUR
Ophelia
With a huff, I delete the 2K words I’ve written in the last hour. Just when I think I’m going somewhere with this stupid Christmas story, I just find a way to fuck it up.
Even though it’s barely past noon, I walk to pour myself a glass of wine. It must be five PM somewhere in the world, and trying to write a heartwarming, cheesy Christmas story is already pushing my limit, so I need this wine to keep me going.
I consider the idea of burning all bridges with my publisher, but I’m not a damn adolescent that throws in the towel this soon. I’m a writer, and I can write this fucking book and be done with it. If only doing this was as easy as talking to myself.
I check the time, it’s showing one p.m., and I grab my cell phone, and wait for the call from my personal assistant . Before I can even take a sip from my glass, my phone rings.
“A huge hello from the best PA to the best author,” Angela greats me before I can open my mouth. She’s always overly energetic; I’m thinking she mainlines energy drinks.
“Hey there,” I murmur, swallowing a big gulp of wine before sitting back in front of my computer.
“How is it going with the Christmas story?” she asks
“One step forward, two steps back.”
“That doesn’t sound good, Ophelia.”
“Because it’s not.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” she asks with her usual eagerness.
I sometimes don’t understand why this woman wants to stick with me, all I do is bitch about things and make her life hell.
“Yeah, kill this Christmas spirit,” I groan, and she laughs.
“Just write a book that makes you cringe with sweetness, it will be good.”
I snort. I really can’t do sweet. Tell me to surf in the dark waters and dance with the monsters, I would do it without batting an eyelash but tell me to write a romantic, sweet Christmas story and I want to slit my wrists.
“Anyway, is there anything I need to know,” I ask Angela and wait while she shuffles through her notes. The woman carries two planners, two notebooks, a tablet, and two different cell phones with her wherever she goes. Completely anal. But it works for both of us.
“You have an interview tomorrow. I’ll email you the questionnaire in a few minutes. Also, you have a signing next month in New York. I’ve already booked a hotel and purchased our tickets. And your new swag came in this morning; it’s gorgeous.”
“Great. The blogger will come to my house tomorrow for the interview, right?”
“Yeah, I have already given her your address and warned her not to ask anything about this Christmas story. I don’t want you to hurt the girl because she loves Christmas too much.”
“Ha. Funny,” I tell her sarcastically, but seriously, I don’t want to hear or see anything about Christmas until I finish this fucking book.
Just when I’m about to say this out loud to Angela, Austin comes inside through his cat door...in a fucking Santa costume.
“What the fuck?”
“What? What did I do now?” Angela says with panic after my outburst.
“It’s not you. I gotta go, Angela. Talk to you later.” I end the call before she has a chance to reply and lift Austin onto my lap in disgust.
“Is this a fucking joke?” I look at his costume.
As I take the ridiculous outfit off of him, I notice there’s a note on his collar. Whoever is doing this also dared to write me a message?
Shaking my head, I unroll the paper.
*I don’t know who the hell you are or what kind of fucking fetish you have with costumes but leave my cat alone. I can dress him however I want.
PS: Give the costumes back. *
“My cat?! How on earth is he your cat?” I yell at the emptiness since Austin already jumped from my lap to go to the kitchen to eat his meal.
Grabbing a piece of paper, I start writing.
*Have you ever heard of Animal Rights? You can’t do whatever the fuck you want to your cat. And he’s NOT your cat! He’s MY cat. His name is Austin. Leave him alone and don’t come near him with your disgusting Christmas spirit ever again.*
I attach the note to Austin’s collar and start typing angrily at my keyboard. I don’t even give a fuck if I like any of these characters at the moment.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hendrix
“Disgusting Chr
istmas spirit…” I scrunch the note up into a ball and turn to glare at Carter. “Is this your idea of a joke?” I accuse him. He looks up from his computer, confusion written all over his face.
“Um…” He frowns. I hold the crumpled note out to him as if I’ve just caught him red-handed. “Are you asking if I find crumpled balls of paper funny?” His head tilts to the side. “Are you okay? Do I need to call someone?”
“No, idiot. The notes. You think you’re funny?”
“I’m going to call someone.” He says and grabs his phone. I grab it from him.
“I know you’re the one writing these notes. Where are Beau’s outfits?” I demand.
“I didn’t write any notes. I wouldn’t have written you notes, you ignore all of my notes. If I wanted your attention, I would send a stripper gram. And I don’t know where his outfits are. That cat hates me. How would I have gotten close enough to take them off?” I open my mouth to respond and then close it again. He’s right. I frown.
“Are you sure this wasn’t you? Whoever wrote this clearly hates Christmas and the only other person who finds Christmas disgusting, is you.” I narrow my eyes at him.
“What the fuck, Hen? I have better things to do than undress your cat.”
I frown again.
“Maybe your cat is a Mormon.” He shrugs and goes back to staring at his computer screen.
“What?” I look at him, confused.
“Ya know, more than one family.” I look down at Beau where he’s licking his butt on the couch.
“No.” I think about it for a second. “No. Couldn’t be.” I decide.
“Just saying dude, you don’t know what that fleabag does when he’s not here. And he’s not here a whole lot.” Carter says.
“He’s a cat. That’s what cats do.” I defend Beau lamely. Not even I’m entirely y convinced.
“Yeah, a cat with more than one owner,” Carter mumbles. I stare at Beau and then go over to pick him up from the couch. Is it just me or does he smell weird? Like woman’s perfume. All sweet and flowery.
“Does he smell weird to you?” I say and push him under Carter’s nose.
“Jesus, get that thing away from me.” He scrambles out of his seat when Beau hisses at him. I shrug and sniff at Beau again. “Hen, I say this from a place of love, but you need some fucking help. Stop sniffing your cat, and google a psychologist.” He straightens his shirt and sits back down.
“You wouldn't cheat on me, would you, buddy?” I coo at Beau and scratch his ear. Carter snorts from behind his laptop. “Whoever it is must just be confusing their cat with mine. It's completely feasible that there are two identical cats in this neighborhood.” It's true. This is a pet-friendly neighborhood. It's one of the reasons I chose to live here. Most of the buildings here have pets.
“Only one way to find out.” He says.
“You mean get a tracking device or one of those spy cameras and attach it to his collar?” I put Beau down on the floor and pull my phone from my pocket. I open my browser to search for places I can order something like that from.
“Ooor,” Carter says and looks at me like he just received a call from a village looking for their idiot. “You can just write down your number and attach it to him and wait for the person to call so you can get this mess straightened out.”
“Right. Or that.” I say and search my desk for a scrap of paper.
*Actually, his name is Beauregard and I've had him since he was a kitten. Text me, and I’ll prove it.*
I finish the note and attach it to his collar. I walk to the door and let him out. When I see him go down the stairs I move to the window, my face practically pressed against the glass.
“What are you doing now?” Carter sighs.
“Checking to see where he goes,” I mumble and watch the sidewalk like a hawk for the first sign of him. “There he is.” I point, and Carter comes to stand beside me. Beau walks across the street like he's been sent there, stopping in front of the building right across from mine, the doorman of the building pats his head like they've known each other forever and then opens the door for Beau to go inside.
“That. Little. Bastard.” I mutter.
Carter starts laughing next to me and pats me on the back. “Tough break, buddy. Men, am I right?” He shakes his head in fake dismay.
“How could he do that to me?” I'm confused by my feelings. I'm amused and angry and sad all at the same time.
“Maybe it's not what it looks like?” Carter tries to make me feel better when he sees my expression, but it's too late. Beau walked straight over there, and the doorman recognized him. He's been doing this for God knows how long and I never even noticed.
“Okay, well,” he says when I go take a seat on the couch. “Let's wait and see what happens. I'll order some Chinese.” His words are barely cold when meowing sounds from my phone, the tone that signals an incoming text. I look at my phone but don't recognize the number and swipe my thumb across the screen.
*Is this some kind of joke? Angela, is that you? What number is this? You're not funny.*
I narrow my eyes and start typing out my reply. This could be only one person. The cat thief.
*I don't know who Angela is but I agree, this isn't funny. You're a cat thief*
I program the number into my phone under ‘Cat Thief’ and then open the messaging app and see those three little ellipses bouncing up and down, signaling that whoever it is, is typing a message.
Cat Thief: Angela, knock it off. I'm too busy for this.
Me: Look, thief, I already told you, I'm not Angela. Send my cat back.
Cat Thief: Excuse me? I don't know who this is, but I'm going to give this number to the police and charge you with harassment if you don't stop.
Me: Yeah, go ahead. Then I'll charge you with stealing my cat.
Cat Thief: Are you insane? This is MY cat. I've had him for two years.
Me: And I've had him for four.
Cat Thief: Prove it.
I searched my phone for pictures of Beau when he was a kitten. Selecting three I send them. When I don't get a reply, I start typing again.
Me: What? Nothing to say?
Cat Thief: Well it's obvious he'd rather be with me. And no wonder. Who dresses up their cat? Why don't you go back to arranging your shoes or drinking your Pumpkin Spice Latte or whatever it is girls like you do and leave us alone.
I gasp in shock.
“What? What's happening?” Carter asks and peaks at my phone. I show him my phone to let him read the exchange and, to his credit, he tries to hold in his laughter for a full three seconds before he collapses on the couch, tears streaming down his face. I punch his arm in annoyance.
Me: I'm not a girl. I'm a MAN!!
Cat Thief: Oh, caps lock? Does that make you feel more macho? Too bad buddy, you lost your masculinity the first time you put antlers on a cat.
Me: Fuck you, man. I could take you anytime, anywhere.
Cat Thief: I'm not a MAN. I'm a WOMAN. And I'm done with this. Austin clearly prefers being with me, so he's staying. Goodbye.
“Oh, hell no,” I mutter.
Me: Oh yeah? Know what he's up to when he's not with you? You may want to check his IG feed. He probably only hangs out with you because he feels sorry for you. He loves living here.
I attach the link to his feed and send it over. That'll teach her. Whoever she is. Probably some old woman who smells like menthol rub.
I get up and grab a beer from the fridge. Satisfied that I've won.
CHAPTER SIX
Ophelia
I’m shocked. Truly. Like eyes wide, mouth open, kind of shocked. My cat is famous. I’m a writer, a bestselling one, but I have 15K Instagram followers where my cat has 23K. I shake my head as I look at his ridiculously funny videos all over the city, mostly dressed in costumes. Some are too cute for even me to deny.
I lift Austin or Beauregard as this profile claims him to be, to my arms and hug him tight.
“Is this how you spend
your days, Austin? Don’t you like being with Mommy?” I ask him with so much hurt, but it feels like I’m losing my cat; the cat I didn’t even want in the first place, but now takes up such a huge part of my life.
He purrs and snuggles into my arms for a second before jumping out of my hold. Well, that’s about as much affection as I can get from him. He likes me. And I’m not planning on giving up on my cat. No.
Grabbing my phone, I start typing.
Me: This only proved to me why he wants to stay with me. Look what kind of life you forced on the cat? Maybe he doesn’t want to be famous? Maybe he just wants to be lazy around a peaceful home? Leave MY cat alone, you pervert with a costume fetishes.
When I turn to my desk with my coffee in hand my phone pings.
Psycho Cat Fetishist: Is your mind always in the gutter? It’s the second time you’ve said I have a weird fetish. Do you have a fantasy about me? Cause that would be strange. You don’t even know my age. Or wait… do you know? Is this a kind of tactic for you to get me into bed?
What?!
Me: Look, you arrogant asshole. I don’t know, nor do I have any desire to know, who you are. I just want you to leave my cat alone. And trust me, I’m too young for you. You’re probably a seventy-year-old bald man who has nothing to do but dress up his cat.
I hit send, but as soon as I send it, I know how silly my message sounds. I don’t really think he’s an old man. That Instagram account shows that he must be young. No mature person would deal with something as silly as this. He’s more likely a teenager.
I put my phone back on the desk and open my laptop to start writing from where I left off this morning, but my phone starts to ring. Thinking it’s Angela, I answer the phone before checking the ID.
“Angela, you won’t believe it. The guy isn’t right in the head, and I’m sure he has a strange fetish, like having naked dolls all over the house!” I rant to the phone.
