A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella

by Mazy Morris

  A Cat Called Cupid

  A Romantic Comedy Novella

  By Mazy Morris

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella ©2014 Mazy Morris. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Cover Art © beaubelle-fotolia.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  More by Mazy

  Chapter One

  My name is Cupid, and I’m a cat. I was saddled with the vapid name of Cupid solely on the merit of having arrived on My Lady Ann’s doorstep in a pink basket attached to a large heart-shaped helium balloon. Someone—I’ve heard the name Dave mentioned from time to time in connection with my early origins—had tied a pink bow around my neck. I was a Valentine’s Day gift to My Lady from her man-of-the-moment.

  Humiliating, I know. But none of us can choose the manner in which he enters this world, so I try to make the best of it. I didn’t know any different at the time, of course. How could I? I was just a kitten. I still have pink-tinged flashbacks occasionally, but indulging in liberal quantities of catnip on a regular basis helps.

  Seven years and eight boyfriends of varying quality have passed since the day I was deposited by Dave on My Lady’s doorstep. Some of Dave’s successors have been reasonably tolerable, some have been less so. However, the present male human excrescence who possesses the honored title of My Lady’s Boyfriend is the worst. By far.

  Jimmy is a blatant and unrepentant Cat Hater. Cat Hater is constantly indulging in gratuitous—and highly questionable—comparisons between cats and dogs. Dogs are more intelligent than cats, he claims. He’s obviously never tried to engage in a thoughtful discussion of current events with Fred the Mastiff from 12B.

  Cat Hater also claims that cats have disgusting habits. He can’t understand why any animal would want to lick itself clean. In my opinion, we’d all benefit if he’d start licking himself clean. Believe me, those gallons of cologne he splashes on as a substitute for showering after he’s done at the gym aren’t fooling anyone.

  Cat Hater’s misguided views on the supremacy of dogs are not the only reason he makes for an unattractive accessory to one’s existence. For one thing, he hangs around My Lady’s apartment far too much. I understand he has gainful employment somewhere, but one would hardly know it based on the number of hours he spends lying on Ann’s couch watching football and other projectile-based sports at full volume. Another of his unsavory qualities is that he’s incredibly careless with his feet. Sometimes I think he steps on my tail on purpose.

  Clearly, my life would be immeasurably improved if Cat Hater would take a proverbial hike. I suspect My Lady Ann is not completely convinced that Jimmy is the Supreme Deity’s gift to female humankind, either.

  I think My Lady suspects that Cat Hater is stealing from her. I know he is. It amazes me what Cat Hater will do under my watchful eye. It’s as if he doesn’t think I’ll notice if he sneaks the odd twenty from My Lady’s purse.

  Ann’s not much of a girl for getting all teary-eyed—with the exception of isolated circumstances which I’ll address later—but lately she’s been crying several times a week. These tearful episodes invariably commence after Cat Hater departs for his own domestic premises—thank the Supreme Deity that he still maintains his own private quarters somewhere several miles away—and I do my best to provide aid and comfort.

  I make it my invariable policy to jump up on Ann’s lap and provide her with the most ameliorative purring I can produce. Hard on the vocal cords, of course, but what’s my alternative? I’ve found that drinking from the toilet bowl, rather than from my water dish in the kitchen, helps sooth the larynx for some reason.

  My efforts at quieting My Lady’s distress meet with mixed results. Sometimes they are effective. Sometimes not. On those occasions when my efforts fail, Ann usually turns to her friend Flavia. If I were feeling more generous, I would describe Flavia as a kind and gentle soul. But I’m not feeling generous, I’m feeling truthful, and the truth is that Flavia is a sentimental sop. When I tell you that—on more than one occasion—Flavia has patted me on the head and addressed me as “you poor sweet pooty-poo,” you’ll understand my objections to this misguided creature’s displays of affection toward me. Fortunately, Flavia lives forty-five minutes away, so the bulk of My Lady’s communications with Flavia take place over the phone.

  My point is, the whole denigrating display of emotion and the subsequent hashing-out should never have been necessary in the first place. Ann does not deserve to cry, and that odious Cat Hater is completely to blame for the current miserable state of affairs.

  It was about a month after My Lady’s crying jags had become a regular part of our domestic routine that I made the acquaintance of the cutest little Siamese lady-cat who’d recently moved in downstairs. She’s a thing of beauty: big green eyes, long whiskers, and a tail that goes on forever. It wasn’t until we’d been carrying on a standing flirtation for almost a week that I discovered she was more than just a pretty face. She came complete with the most perfect male companion-human in existence.

  I’m basing this admittedly bold assessment on the fact that, before we’d even been formally introduced, this man-among-men offered me an entire can of tuna.

  No doubt, at some point during my early weeks of life, my mother had warned me against accepting offers of food from strangers. I don’t remember, to be honest. My early weeks are a bit of a blur. I do have a hazy recollection of vicious competition for access to our food source, and I seem to recall a couple of siblings who seemed to enjoy nothing better than using me as their own personal mattress.

  At any rate, this early warning about taking food from the hands of strangers—assuming my mother ever got around to issuing it—was no match for the rich aroma of tuna emanating from the open can.

  The man downstairs—Craig, I’d learn his name was later—showed even greater sensitivity by allowing me to lick the can clean and apply a dampened paw to the juice which had splattered on my chin before attempting to ingratiate himself by scratching me behind the ears.

  It was not many days later, after my relationship with Craig had passed the viability stage—I’d allowed him to rub my belly as a testament to our eternal bond—that I made a momentous decision.

  I’d been born for a reason. I guess we all are, but some of us are called to greater tasks than others. Some are called to be mousers. Others are born to bring comfort to the elderly. Some are merely meant to be ornamental. I’m referring here to show cats—a useless breed, if I ever saw one. One would almost be willing to lump show cats in with poodles and those little yappy dogs named after highly processed meat products. But I digress.

  At the moment of my epiphany, I would have appeared to any passerby to be an ordinary cat dozing in a patch of sunlight while enjoying the companionship of an attractive member of the opposite sex. But I was no longer an ordinary cat. I was a cat awakening to his life’s purpose. I was a cat about to live up to his name.

  I would save My Lady from the odious Cat Hater who
was doubtless leading her down a road to a life of misery. She was already washing his socks, and what could be a more sinister harbinger of things to come than that?

  I couldn’t let it happen. I wouldn’t let it happen.

  I stood up and stretched. Bella, my beautiful companion, opened one eye. I emitted a confident and committed meow. I had spoken. No longer would I simply be called Cupid. I would be Cupid.

  Lofty resolve is fine and good, as far as it goes, but I soon discovered that the will to win was not enough. I needed a plan of action, and I didn’t have the foggiest where to begin.

  I finally decided that the best place to start was not in the camp of the enemy. Initially, I’d contemplated a brazen attack. I’d fantasized about clawing Cat Hater’s favorite jacket to shreds and peeing in his shoes, not that that wouldn’t have simply improved their aroma, although I doubt he would have agreed with me.

  After mature consideration, I decided these crude methods, while they might still prove to be useful at some later stage, were hardly enough to achieve my intended aims.

  Frontal attack might easily backfire. No good could come from making My Lady choose between us, and I had no doubt that Cat Hater wouldn’t take much in the way of blatant harassment before issuing an “It’s me or that #### #### cat!” ultimatum.

  I decided the key to the success of my mission lay in recognizance, and I decided to start with Craig downstairs. It would not be enough to simply oust Cat Hater. I had to have a suitable replacement waiting in the wings.

  I’ve seen how My Lady reacts to breakups. Generally, it’s a solid week of crying and frantic late-night calls to Flavia. Then the place gets strewn with empty tubs of premade cookie dough, chocolate wrappers and take-out containers. Finally, it’s on to the next man who shows the slightest interest. Harsh, I know, but one has to be willing to acknowledge the weaknesses of those one loves.

  I started by hanging around outside Craig’s door. This was not an unpleasant task because, sooner or later, Bella was sure to show up and give me a glimpse of her glorious whiskers.

  I’m a master of impersonation, and I soon became proficient at imitating the tone and timbre of Bella’s meow. Some, less secure in their status as Tom Cats, might shrink in horror from such a task. I, however, did not find it emasculating. It takes a confident Tom to be comfortable getting in touch with his feminine side.

  My mastery of Bella’s meow had its intended effect. I’d pour on the pathos, Craig would open the door, and I’d dart in. More often than not, Bella would emerge—stretching and yawning—from behind a curtain or under the bed, but by that time the damage was done. I’d already breached the fortress.

  Once inside, I would make myself as inconspicuous as possible. I’d curl up in a chair or find a quiet spot to lurk under the kitchen table. It was in this way that I gathered a wealth of information about Craig and his personal habits.

  I established almost immediately that there was no lady on the premises, unless one counted Bella, and this came as a welcome relief. I had not been looking forward to the task of extricating Craig from the clutches of some human female. I was experiencing quite enough anxiety while contemplating the enormity of the task of ousting Cat Hater.

  I couldn’t afford to get too sanguine about Craig’s single status, however. It’s been my observation that humans are capable of coupling and uncoupling faster than a coven of alley cats—given the right circumstances. Some might find that a crude way of characterizing the human race, but I say it like I see it.

  Given this fickleness of human nature, I determined to be vigilant. No woman must be allowed to sully the sanctity of the man I’d reserved as the rightful mate of My Lady.

  Vigilance proved to be exhausting. One can be vigilant with one’s eyes closed. After all, human beings are notorious for being unable to complete the simplest of tasks without producing an amount of noise equal to a herd of elephants passing over a tin bridge—not that I’m claiming to have actually witnessed such a phenomenon. The problem with closing one’s eyes, however, is one’s propensity to then fall asleep.

  Staying awake was essential. I took to sneaking clandestine sips of My Lady’s coffee in the mornings while she was distracted—coffee seemed to work wonders for her. The first time I tried it, I drank far too much and spent the next several hours with a pounding heart and quivering whiskers. I started at the slightest sound. Mrs. Jackson from next door dropped a plate, and the crash sent my heart to my throat. Several blocks away a set of brakes squalled, and I jumped three feet in the air, tail fully-fluffed.

  The next time I forayed into the world of hard drug use, I proceeded with a great deal more caution. I’ve now learned that the best way to get the correct dosage is to wait until My Lady leaves her empty mug in the sink, and then lick my way around the rim. A gentle jolt to the nervous system, but nothing to set one’s fur on end.

  While I kept Craig under close observation, I began compiling all the data I could on Cat Hater. Up until now I’d avoided him as much as possible, never bothering to take much interest in his activities unless they interfered with my own. I now reversed this policy.

  I began to keep careful track of when he came and went and how long he stayed. I made note of what he said or did on the days My Lady was reduced to tears. I also commenced a systematic program of electronic surveillance.

  This was remarkably easy. Cat Hater, not unlike every other male of the human species I’ve ever had the opportunity to observe, was madly in love with his phone. He took it everywhere, even to the bathroom.

  There was one place, however, where it never accompanied him: that place was Ann’s bedroom on those occasions when they went in together and shut the door. When this occurred—and it seemed to be occurring with decreasing frequency—Cat Hater would leave his phone on the coffee table.

  Now, you may ask, and quite reasonably so, what could a cat possibly gain from access to a phone lying on a coffee table? No doubt you are surmising that I intended to destroy the despised device by knocking it roughly to the floor, or perhaps that I planned to drag it to a place of concealment, thereby inducing a fatal anxiety attack in the bereft owner. If that’s your highest estimation of feline cunning, than you are gravely underestimating the capabilities of an intelligent and determined cat.

  Chapter Two

  My plan regarding Cat Hater’s phone was subtle. I prepared by closely observing him when he input his code to unlock the phone. I don’t have much of a head for numbers—my gifts are more of the literary variety—and I worried that once having discovered the code, I would immediately forget it. I needn’t have subjected myself to such anxiety. 1234 is hardly a secure password.

  Having cracked Cat Hater’s nonexistent cyber-security, I waited for an opportunity to put this information to use. I had to wait three days before Cat Hater overcame his media addiction and felt sufficient need for human contact that he made amorous overtures to My Lady Ann. His efforts—such as they were—were met, if not with enthusiasm, then acquiescence, and the two of them retreated to the bedroom and shut the door.

  Now, as a general rule, I’m not much of a one for modern technology. It’s my opinion that if the Supreme Deity had intended for us to go around with electronic devices constantly at our paw-tips, he would have skipped a step and embedded them in our bodies at birth. However, I am by nature curious—most cats are—and, as one ill-put but apt expression puts it, this propensity for curiosity frequently kills us. This innate inquisitiveness of mine had resulted in a moderate level of proficiency with electronic devices.

  Due to the size of my paws, navigating the miniscule touchscreen on a phone is a challenge, but I managed to log in to Cat Hater’s phone without a hitch. Utilizing one’s nose helps, although it tends to leave unsightly and incriminating smudges.

  I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. Texts to other women? Lascivious photographs? Evidence of felonious acts? It didn’t matter. When it comes to taking down an enemy, no information can be immedia
tely dismissed as inconsequential.

  I decided to start with Cat Hater’s photographs. This proved disappointing. They were all of him. Cat Hater posing shirtless after a workout. Cat Hater posing shirtless at the beach. Cat Hater in shirtless selfies shot with the aid of his bathroom mirror.

  Whatever unflattering light these images shed on Cat Hater’s narcissistic tendencies, they hardly told me anything I, or Ann, didn’t already know.

  I moved on to perusing his text messages. The sheer volume of data was overwhelming: 8,765 messages. It would take me weeks, possibly months—unless either Ann or Cat Hater’s libido kicked in at a heretofore unforeseen level—to sift through them all.

  Nevertheless, I had to start somewhere, so I began to read. The first few held nothing of interest. Things like: “Your pizza is now ready to be picked up,” and “Your car is due for an oil change on—”

  I’d finally come across something interesting—“Dude!!! Whrs my muny???”—when my spying activities were curtailed by the emergence of My Lady and Cat Hater from the bedroom. They certainly hadn’t been in there long, but they both looked happier than they had in weeks, so who was I to unfairly critique the fleeting nature of the procreant proclivities of another species?

  By the time they reached the living room, I was posed innocently on a window sill pretending to be in the midst of my midmorning nap. I miss those midmorning naps—generally followed by a mid-day siesta and an afternoon snooze. Alas, they are no more. Those napping days are behind me. I’m a working cat now.

  After exiting My Lady’s boudoir, Cat Hater immediately threw himself down on the couch, flipped on the TV and picked up his phone. One screen at a time is never enough for Cat Hater. It takes two or three to satisfy his need for stimulus.

  Before I relay what happened next, I should probably mention that up until that morning, My Lady and Cat Hater had never engaged in a full-fledged fight.