by Mazy Morris
With cats, of course, the preamble to a fight is always marked by a lot of aggressive posturing and low-register growling. It’s much the same with humans. It began with My Lady circling the couch and Cat Hater determinedly ignoring her circumnavigations.
“Why don’t you want to go, Jimmy?” My Lady demanded.
I think she was referring to her proposed trip to the Botanical Gardens. She’d floated the idea last night, in between delivering Cat Hater a plate of spaghetti and loading the dirty laundry he’d brought over into the washing machine.
“Why would I wanna go spend hours walking around and smelling a bunch of dumb### flowers and ####?”
It’s my understanding that Cat Hater works in Customer Relations—whatever that is—but with such a gift for erudite expression, he really should be on the public speaking circuit. He could go on tour with his collection of shirtless selfies. His keynote speech? “Uhh-these are like some ####### awesome pics I took of myself. I’m so ####### hot and stuff. That’s it. Any ####### questions?”
It’s cruel to mock the foolish, I know, so I try not to indulge in it too often, even when the object of my derision clearly deserves it. To that end, I turned my attention back to the present and found that the argument was still going strong.
“But we never do anything together anymore!” Ann was saying.
“The #### we don’t! I’m over here every ####### evening.”
That was absolutely true. Cat Hater was there every evening. And most weekends.
“By doing things together, I don’t mean you hanging out here watching TV.”
“We do lots of other #### together.”
“Like what?”
“Like what we just did.”
It was the wrong thing to say, but Cat Hater has very little intelligence. This reasoning, as I anticipated, did not go over well.
“That’s about all we do.”
“Oh, come on! Ya gotta be ####### kidding me! It’s been three ####### weeks!”
It had been three weeks and two days. I’d been keeping track. However, I could have told him that pointing out the facts never does any good in cases like these. It only encourages the other side to come back with facts of their own.
“You think cooking supper for you every night, doing your laundry and propping up your sad little ego puts me in the mood? I’ll tell you one thing—”
We never got to find out what that one thing was, because My Lady picked up a porcelain figurine of a puppy in repose off the coffee table—tawdry and tasteless, I know, but don’t be too hard on her, we all have lapses in good judgment when it comes to matters of style and taste.
“Yur gunna ####### throw that ####### puppy at me? I can’t believe yur actually gunna ####### throw that ####### puppy at me!”
I don’t think My Lady had ever actually intended to hurl the porcelain puppy at Cat Hater. She’d certainly never thrown anything at anyone before, but there’s a first time for everything, so I took cover under the couch. My position under the couch severely hampered my powers of visual observation, so I had to rely on my ears. There was a brief period of heavy breathing—I think that was issuing from My Lady—followed by a snort and then the sounds of a hasty retreat. The door slammed, and I heard Ann go and turn the deadbolt.
I emerged with caution. My Lady is a gentle soul, really, but one never can be too sure of how the most predictable of creatures will behave under extreme provocation. Abruptly, Ann threw herself onto the couch and started to sob.
My Lady generally limits her crying jags to sedate sniffling and the dignified dabbing of the eyes with a neatly folded facial tissue. Sobbing was unprecedented, so I kept my distance and waited for her boiling emotions to return to a simmer before I attempted to render comfort and aid.
I was worried. On one hand, a breakup appeared imminent. That was terrific. On the other, I was nowhere nearly prepared to substitute a suitable replacement. Craig and Ann had yet to meet in passing, as far as I could tell, and even if they had, that was not enough. Once they’d casually crossed paths even a few times, all hope would be lost. They’d be stuck in that stage where neighbors politely smile and wave, but never actually speak.
Drastic action was called for, but I didn’t know what.
The next several days were quiet. There was no sign of Cat Hater. Then, one early morning as I made my usual rounds to terrorize the local bird and rodent population—no good can come of letting lesser species get above themselves—it came to me.
After I patrol the perimeter of the complex, I usually do a quick inspection of the parking lot. I have to exercise caution, because a large number of residents leave for work early in the morning. Craig is one of them.
I loitered in a flowerbed, nibbling on a blade of grass, and watched as Craig came out of his apartment carrying a briefcase. Judging by the documents he leaves lying around, Craig is a lawyer. Surprising, I know. I’d always assumed that lawyers are the human equivalent of veterinarians—necessary evils, but not to be trusted.
It was the sight of Craig leaving for work, combined with my ruminations on lawyers and vets, which presented me with my Big Idea. It was brilliant, simple in its execution, and could not fail to produce the intended results. Unless, of course, I died in the process. But as they say, War is Hell.
In preparation for the execution of my Big Idea, I abandoned my preemptive rodent control measures and nosed around the complex dumpster. Nasty places, dumpsters. Although from time to time one finds a tasty morsel worth a second look. I was not, however, looking to supplement my diet. What I needed was an expendable decoy. At first nothing presented itself. At least nothing that I had the capability of extracting from the dank recesses of the dumpster. Then, tucked behind the hulking receptacle, I found the perfect object, long abandoned and ripened to the perfect state of crusty staleness.
I tentatively tugged at the plastic bag covering the moldy loaf of bread. It was the perfect size and nicely hardened. After confirming that I would be capable of dragging its weight for the necessary distance, I nudged it back to its original hiding place and went about my business.
The morning of D-Day, I was up with the robins, scratching to get out. I dared not risk the possibility of missing Craig; I must be in place before he came out of his apartment. I retrieved the loaf of bread from behind the dumpster and dragged it, under the cover of the bushes skirting the foundation of the building, until I had Craig’s car in my sights.
So far I’d been relatively immune to detection, but now I had to make my way through two rows of parked cars without exciting curiosity. I waited until the coast was clear and set out across the expanse of concrete. I was exhausted already. Pulling half of one’s body weight with one’s teeth is no picnic.
I had to pause several times in the shadow of cars to let human residents make their way to their cars unimpeded. I don’t think any of them noticed me. Such was not the case with Fred the Mastiff from 12B.
Now, I know Fred, and he’s more bark than bite, but he—like most dogs—will eat anything, no matter how disgusting. He made some aggressive sniffs in my direction and was bounding over to investigate—no doubt with the intention of absconding with my rightful loaf—when his owner called him back.
That’s the main reason I’ve never had any real respect for caninekind. They have no minds of their own. Humans refer to dogs such as Fred as being “well-trained”. I think brainwashed is a more accurate assessment.
With Fred properly restrained and no longer a threat to life and property, I resumed my journey and finally reached the sanctuary of the underside of Craig’s car.
Now for the trickiest part. The placement of the loaf of bread required finesse. Place it too far behind the wheel, and Craig was sure to spot it. Place it too close, and it would not create the proper verisimilitude when the moment of truth arrived.
After a great deal of fussing—placing the loaf and standing back to look, moving it a little to the left and standing back, and moving it a li
ttle to the right again—I was finally satisfied with the placement. I retreated to the hood of Craig’s car for a little light grooming and a much-deserved rest.
I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew Craig was standing over me, speaking in that treacly voice humans use with animals. I’ve never liked that voice, but it seems to be a universal trait amongst animal-lovers, so I’ve learned to be indulgent.
The gist of Craig’s honeyed words was that I had to get off the car because he was late for work. I pretended not to understand. That’s the best way, I always think. No use in letting on that one fully comprehends every word they say.
In the end, Craig lifted me down himself, tickled me under the chin and sent me on my way. I made a show of sauntering off in the direction of home.
Craig got in his car and started up the engine. Unbeknownst to Craig, I had gone no farther than the car parked in the space to the right. I was lurking underneath, which gave me an unobstructed view during the moment of impact.
The loaf of bread, as a realistic imitation of a feline body being struck by a car in motion, could not have been better. I waited until Craig had shut off the engine. Then I darted under his car. I flung myself against the back of his front passenger-side tire, obscuring the flattened loaf of bread as fully as possible, went limp and waited.
I couldn’t see Craig, of course, with my eyes closed. But as soon as he caught sight of me, he employed one of Cat Hater’s favorite words. Normally not a practice I smile upon, but appropriate in this case.
I let out a piteous moan, just to let him know I was still alive. Craig then used Cat Hater’s second favorite word. I let out another piteous moan and opened one eye halfway.
Craig had his phone out. I could feel him messing with the tags hanging from my collar. It was all I could do to keep from smiling to myself and giving the game away.
“Hello,” I heard Craig say. “Are you Ann? I’m terribly sorry, but I think I just ran over your cat.”
Chapter Three
The vet said it was a miracle. Right after “the accident,” I’d taken the precaution of refusing to get up. Of course, I made a show of trying. I’d struggle to get on my feet, and I’d manage to get up on my front legs for a second before sinking back to the ground. From time to time I’d give out another piteous moan, as if I were, even at that very second, being interviewed by St. Peter at the pearly gates. Cats go to heaven, you know. I’m sure felinekind will be much more highly represented in the green fields of paradise than, say, Senators or Boston Terriers.
My ruse worked. Beautifully. In response to Craig’s frantic phone call, Ann came rushing down to the parking lot. There were hurried introductions. Craig was beside himself with remorse for running over me, a completely sincere show of contrition which was sure to win him points later on when I turned out not to be mortally wounded after all. Ann stayed beside me while Craig went to get a box lined with a clean towel. On his return, Craig lifted me into the box, and we all got into Craig’s car and made a long silent journey to the animal hospital. I had hoped for more in the way of chitchat, but I suppose the presence of my broken and possibly expiring body in the backseat put a damper on things.
The vet did a very thorough exam. It’s my understanding that the human male fears undergoing prostate exams. Getting one’s temperature taken the old-fashioned way is much the same. After a check of my vital signs had been dispensed with, I was bundled off to the x-ray.
“No broken bones,” said the vet. “It’s a miracle.”
Ann was so relieved that she started to cry. Craig, who’d remained with us throughout, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
“Normally,” the vet said, “I’d suggest keeping him here overnight, but with no broken bones and no evidence of internal injuries—”
“I just don’t understand it,” said Ann. “There’s not a scratch on him.”
“I’m amazed too,” said the vet. “But animals often surprise us with their resilience.”
They took me home. Craig accompanied us up the stairs, and, after Ann set my box down in a sunny spot on the living room floor, they exchanged phone numbers.
“I can’t say how sorry I am,” said Craig. It was the fiftieth such of similar statements.
What followed was a lot of back and forth about who should take responsibility for the vet bill. It seemed that Craig had already paid it, but Ann argued that he couldn’t be blamed. It was her fault for letting me wander free. If Cupid—referring to me, of course—didn’t know enough to stay out from under cars, then perhaps he—again, referring to me—should be an inside-only cat.
I seethed with indignation. Inside-only cat, indeed! And after I’d risked life and limb for her future happiness. However, my wounded feelings were soothed considerably when—after Craig had departed—Ann opened a can of salmon and coaxed me to eat.
I couldn’t wolf it down, of course. I certainly wanted to. I’d missed my breakfast, and the old tummy was putting up a hearty protest, but I restrained myself and took small feeble bites. No good could come of a premature recovery.
I lazed around the apartment for another couple of days. I was hoping that if I waited long enough to agitate for a return to my former free-range lifestyle, My Lady would have forgotten that I was too stupid to be let out on my own. I wasn’t, of course—stupid, I mean—but there is always a price to pay for feigning ignorance.
It was during the third day of my confinement when Cat Hater came crawling back on hands and knees. Not literally, of course. That would have been too dignified. No, the groveling came in the form of a series of texts, each one more loathsome than the last.
It is my theory that Cat Hater had realized that getting take-out every night quickly adds up. Either that, or he’d run out of clean socks.
Whatever the real reason, it was not the one he gave. I sat on the back of the couch and peeked over Ann’s shoulder as the revolting volley of messages came through. I won’t subject you to a play-by-play, but I will reveal that there were a lot of PLZs and U NO I LUV U BABYs. Why the human male persists in the belief that comparing a fully grown woman to a puking, crying, pooping, newly-minted juvenile is an appropriate term of endearment, I’ll never know.
Against all expectations—and reason—My Lady took him back. Within the hour, Cat Hater was back in his customary spot on the sofa. He arrived without dirty laundry, however. I suppose even the dimmest of human males knows when not to push his luck.
Later that evening, there was a conjugal retreat to the bedroom, and Cat Hater left his phone sitting unguarded on the couch.
I took this opportunity to resume my survey of Cat Hater’s text messages.
This time, tucked in amongst a lot of idiotic back and forth about football between Cat Hater and some guy named Rory, I struck gold.
There was another woman. Her name was Vanessa. It appeared that Cat Hater and Vanessa had met online, and although their relationship had not yet progressed to the actual meeting stage, this Vanessa and Cat Hater had been communicating almost daily for months. In almost every instance, the tenor of their texts soon degenerated into the obscene. Some of the indecent suggestions Vanessa put forward would have been enough to make a feral feline with twenty-two litters of unknown patriarchal parentage blush from tail-tip to whisker.
I finally had concrete evidence of what I’d suspected all along. Cat Hater was cheating, or close enough. Unfortunately, being in possession of this incriminating information did me no good unless I could figure out a way to use it against him.
I could hear things winding down in the bedroom, so I hastily signed off and knocked the phone into a little crevice between the seat cushion and the arm of the couch. I then curled up over the crevice and pretended to be asleep. I wanted to see how Cat Hater would react to finding that his phone had gone missing.
He didn’t react well.
“I’m sure it will turn up,” Ann said, but Cat Hater went on a rampage. He looked under the magazines on the coffee
table. He checked to see if it had slid under the couch. He even took off most of the cushions and checked beneath them. I hissed at him when he tried to dislodge me, so he skipped the one I was lying on. In the end, he had to go home bereft of his phone. You’d think he had lost an arm, the way he carried on about it.
After Cat Hater went off in a huff, Ann went to bed. I waited an hour and then extricated Cat Hater’s phone from its hiding place. I signed in.
Now came the challenge. As you might imagine, it’s very difficult to text without fingers, but eventually I managed to tap out a message with my nose which did the trick. There were a lot of missing and extra letters, and it’s a testament to Cat Hater’s lack of literacy that Vanessa didn’t catch on that she wasn’t communicating with the real thing.
Shortly before one in the morning, My Lady’s doorbell rang. Ann emerged from her bedroom, tousled and sleepy-eyed. She didn’t bother to turn the light on.
The doorbell rang again. Ann peaked through the keyhole, but she didn’t answer. The ringing turned to knocking, and then a woman’s voice said, “I know you’re in there, Jimmy!”
The name of Jimmy worked better than Open Sesame. Ann had the door open in a flash.
“Who are you?” Ann demanded.
“I’m looking for Jimmy.”
“You said that already. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” the doorbell ringer echoed back.
“I live here,” said Ann.
“Isn’t this Jimmy’s place?”
“No. I mean he’s here a lot, but—”
“I really need to know. Who are you?” The doorbell ringer was persistent.
“I’m his girlfriend,” Ann answered. Then, as an afterthought, she once again inquired into the doorbell ringer’s identity. It did her no good.
There was a gap of silence. I left my post on the couch and slunk my way across the living room floor until I was peeking out from between Ann’s ankles.
