A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella

by Mazy Morris

  I’ll be the first to admit that I’m not much of a one for travel. I have a tendency to get a bit carsick, so I was relieved when we finally arrived at our destination 20 minutes later.

  Now, I could have revealed my presence as a stowaway right then and there, but I didn’t. I’d taken the risk of a quick peak out the window as Craig was pulling up to the curb. We were parked in front of a house, so I hunkered down and kept quiet. I wanted to get a good look at My Lady’s competition.

  I entertained myself while I waited for Craig to return with this female interloper by curling up in the back window and watching a trio of sparrows fight over something on the sidewalk. Craig returned with the female sooner than I expected, and I was so distracted by the sparrows that I was forced to make a hasty and undignified dive for the floor.

  “I thought we’d go to this good Italian place I know,” I heard Craig say, as he started up the engine.

  “Oh, I’ve gone low-carb,” the female said. “Did I forget to tell you?”

  I took a peek at this interloper. Craig must have seen something in her. I certainly didn’t. She reminded me of those poor undernourished creatures in Ann’s fashion magazines. If she’d have consented to place herself in my capable paws—extremely unlikely, I know—the first thing I’d have done would have been to force-feed her a gallon of pasta.

  “How about Thai?” Craig asked.

  “MSG is a carcinogen.”

  “French?”

  “I’m vegetarian.”

  “Pancake House?”

  “I’m lactose intolerant. Those places put whey in everything.”

  “Where would you like to go?” Craig sounded flustered. I didn’t blame him.

  “There’s this vegan raw place, out by—”

  But I’d heard enough. I’d given this emaciated creature a chance to charm me, and she hadn’t. I’m terribly fond of Craig, and if I’d really believed this woman was right for him I would have considered letting nature take its course, even if that meant Ann lost out.

  However, this woman wasn’t right for Craig. I wasn’t sure she was right for anybody.

  I straightened my spine, filled my lungs with air and let it out in a tremendous meow. It was a masterpiece of vocal expression and the effect was instantaneous.

  “You have a cat in your car!” the interloper screeched. Humans rarely resist the impulse to state the obvious. It must be the result of a glitch in the evolutionary process.

  Craig reached around and patted me on the head.

  “Oh, this is the neighbor’s cat. He must have jumped in when I wasn’t looking. We’ll have to drop him off before—”

  I hopped up on the backseat and tried to look nonchalant.

  “I’m horribly allergic to cats! They make me puff up!”

  Puffing up would be a marked improvement, but it seemed rude to point that out, so I flopped down on the seat and tended to a little deferred maintenance on my back left paw. I had one of those stubborn claws which just refused to shed.

  “Let me out!” The interloper was frantic. She couldn’t seem to figure out how to work the door lock. I could have done it for her, of course—one just jams one’s paw down on the little button embedded in the armrest—I didn’t, though. It’s probably cruel of me, but I wanted to see what she looked like puffy.

  Craig let her out before I had a chance to observe the effect of my dander on her overactive immune system. It’s just as well, probably. I’m not sure it would have been very much of an improvement.

  We drove home in silence. If Craig was disappointed, he did a good job of hiding it. He turned the radio up—not something I normally condone, but I was, after all, a guest in the car. He banged out a rhythm on the steering wheel. At one point he actually whistled. It seemed that the low-carb eating, MSG-averse, lactose-intolerant vegetarian had already ceased to cast her spell.

  When we got back to the apartment complex, I refused to get out of the car. I clung to the seat with my claws. When Craig finally managed to pry me loose, I latched onto him instead.

  It’s a testament to Craig’s good nature that he didn’t make more of a fuss about me sinking my claws into his shirt like that. I kept up a steady stream of pseudo-traumatized vocalizations. I laid it on pretty thick, and it worked. Instead of unceremoniously extricating himself when he’d carried me to the bottom of the stairs leading to Ann’s apartment, he continued on up and knocked on My Lady’s door.

  Here’s where advance planning might have helped. Earlier in the evening, when I’d left for my tryst with Bella, My Lady had been laying out her supplies to give herself a dye job. I think Ann would make a beautiful brunette, but for some odd reason she insists on going red. This requires considerable upkeep, and it was in the midst of this upkeep that Craig attempted to deliver me back to headquarters.

  Craig waited in front of the door for a while after he rang the bell, but nothing happened. I’m sure that it wasn’t that Ann didn’t hear the bell; it’s more likely that she was too embarrassed to come to the door wearing an old sweatshirt, with a plastic bag over her head and hair dye running down her face. I don’t doubt that she peaked through the peep-hole, went quietly apoplectic, and prayed that Craig would go away and take me with him, which is exactly what he did.

  He took me back downstairs. I quickly recovered in the company of Bella and half a can of Klassy Kat Rations. I wasn’t sure what to do next. If I scratched to get out and went back up the stairs, my evening’s efforts would be wasted. True, I’d put the kibosh on Craig’s date, but after getting a good look at the interloper and becoming acquainted with her misguided views on diet—not to mention her distasteful attitude toward cats—I didn’t really think that would have ever gone far, even without my intervention.

  So I waited, and my patience was rewarded: first, by a little mutual light grooming with Bella on the back of the couch, and later, by a knock at the front door.

  Craig went to open it. It was Ann, looking a bit freshly-dyed, but otherwise presentable.

  “Are you looking for Cupid?” Craig asked.

  It was a pretty silly question. Ann was looking for Craig, and Craig of all people should have been able to figure that out, but he’s remarkably lacking in perception.

  “Is Cupid here?”

  This was an even sillier question, because My Lady was looking right at me when she asked it.

  “Do you want to come in?” Craig asked.

  “Well—”

  “I ordered a pizza. Have you eaten yet?”

  “I hate to be a bother. I just came for Cupid.”

  “It’s no bother. It’ll be here any minute.”

  After that, there was a little awkward back and forth in the doorway, as Ann attempted to get inside, and Craig tried to shut the door behind them while she was only halfway in, and she stepped on his foot in an attempt to get out of the way.

  Safely inside, Ann came and perched on the edge of the sofa. She reached up and absently rubbed the underside of my chin.

  “I didn’t hear you earlier, when you rang. I was in the bathroom,” Ann said.

  My Lady is not normally so cotton-headed. I blamed it on the cocktail of pheromones emanating off of her. A similar cloud surrounded Craig.

  “Oh.” I could see the wheels turning in Craig’s head. If she hadn’t heard him ring, how had she known he’d been there? He must have decided against pursuing this line of inquiry, which was fortunate, because just about then Ann turned the color of a freshly eviscerated field mouse. She’d just realized that she’d given herself away.

  The pizza came, and they sat down on opposite ends of the couch to eat it. There was such a large gap between them that Fred—the larcenous Mastiff from 12B—could have fit comfortably in the middle.

  Something had to be done, so I leaped down onto the coffee table, scattering papers, pizza box and the remote for the TV. I was chastised for my misbehavior, of course, and threatened with banishment to the great outdoors. Ann would have made good on her
threat, too, if I hadn’t had the foresight to make an immediate dash for Craig’s bedroom and the safety of the underside of his bed.

  When it appeared that the immediate irritation at my untoward behavior had dissipated—based on the fact that I no longer heard my name being used in vain—I ventured to sneak out from under the bed and peak into the living room. I’m not sure what Craig had to complain about. It wasn’t as if I had disrupted his organizational paradigm. He didn’t have one to disrupt.

  Craig and Ann were retrieving the scattered items from the living room floor and returning them to the coffee table. Craig picked up the remote and held it in his hand, staring at it.

  “Do you watch The McNamaras?” Craig asked.

  “Every once in a while,” Ann said.

  That was a lie. My Lady Ann loves The McNamaras. I’d go so far as to say she’s obsessed with them. I suspected that she was—at that very moment—torn between the desire to rush upstairs and turn on her television, and staying where she was and hoping for a romantic breakthrough with Craig.

  For those of you unfamiliar with this questionable piece of televisual entertainment, The McNamaras is one of those highly-scripted pseudo-reality shows which humans watch just so they can feel better about their own sorry lot. It involves a great deal of crying and screaming and other dysfunctional goings-on. I don’t know why, but Ann eats it up.

  “I never miss an episode,” said Craig.

  “Really?” Ann asked, trying not to look too pleased at this revelation.

  “I know it’s totally kitschy, and I probably shouldn’t even admit to liking it—”

  “No, I totally get it,” Ann said.

  I’d known it all along. A match made in heaven. Cat Hater had grudgingly watched The McNamaras with My Lady, but I think that was mostly because several young and attractive female cast members regularly appeared to have misplaced key items of their wardrobes.

  “You want to watch it?” Craig asked. “I think it’s on in a few minutes.”

  “Is it on tonight?”

  My Lady plays fast and loose with the truth, on occasion. I try not to hold it against her.

  Craig flipped on the TV, and by the time I ventured out of the bedroom and resettled myself on the back of the couch, they had completely forgotten about my earlier misbehavior. They were sitting closer now. Not touching, but the Mastiff-sized gap had shrunk to a Pekingese-proportioned one.

  I leaned against Bella’s soft belly and dozed off to the delicious sensation of having the top of my head washed.

  Chapter Six

  Things quickly started looking up. I don’t know when it was arranged, I missed the actual event—maybe he called Ann at work—but Craig asked My Lady on a date. A real date this time, not some off-hand invitation to take nourishment together. He’d bought tickets to some swanky do—a gala fundraiser, I think—and invited Ann to accompany him.

  I won’t do Ann the injustice of implying that she is a poor dresser, but I will reveal that her wardrobe—if you don’t count the scrubs she wears to work—consists entirely of blue jeans, tops made from stretchy material and sneakers. She owns nothing suitable for attending functions which include the word “gala”.

  Three days before her date with Craig, Ann went shopping and returned with bags full of dresses. I was assuming she intended to pick one and return the rest. Perhaps she suffered from the dressing-room phobia which I’m given to understand is highly prevalent among human females. I’d gotten the impression that dressing-phobia mostly manifests itself during bathing-suit-buying season, though, so maybe purchasing seven dresses when she needed only one was simply a case of extreme indecision on My Lady’s part.

  Whatever the reason, Ann spent several hours putting on and taking off dresses. It seemed to me that there was a clear front-runner. It had a short fluffy skirt and the sort of neckline favored by the female contingent of The McNamaras. I may have been unduly influenced by the fact it was the same color as Bella’s green eyes.

  I’d made up my mind. I didn’t need to see all the options over again for a fifth time. Besides, I was overdue for my supper, so I decided to let my views be known. I hopped up on the pile of dresses which lay on the bed, blocking access to all alternatives to the one she was wearing.

  “Cupid, get off!”

  I wasn’t getting through to her. I would have to take more drastic action. Since Ann was still wearing the green dress, it occurred to me that if could inflict some minor damage to it My Lady would have difficulty retuning it.

  From my elevated height on the bed, I might just be able to reach the tags dangling from the waistline of the dress. I removed myself from the pile of dresses before I inadvertently mutilated the wrong one.

  “Cupid, get off my pillow!”

  I retreated to the foot of the bed. My Lady undid the back zipper and started to slip the green dress off. My time was short. I made a leap, swiped at the tag and missed. This was unfortunate because, while I missed the tag, I did not miss the skirt. There was a sharp rending sound, and the next thing I knew My Lady was taking a swipe at me.

  As I’ve said before, My Lady is not normally violent. However, as the earlier incident with the porcelain puppy in repose indicates, she does have her breaking point.

  “Two-hundred and forty-five dollars down the drain. They’ll never take this back!”

  Ann had her back turned, and I took this opportunity to cram myself into the tiny cavity underneath the bottom shelf of My Lady’s nightstand as a precaution.

  The next day, Ann left for work with all the dresses except the green one. It remained hanging on the back of her closet door. I felt bad about the dress, I really did.

  I needn’t have. The following afternoon, Ann’s mother came over with her sewing machine and stitched up the tear. When she was done, one couldn’t even tell it had come in contact with my claws.

  “So who’s this boy you’re going out with?” Ann’s mother asked.

  “He’s not a boy. He’s thirty-five.”

  “When you get to be my age, thirty-five counts as a boy.”

  Ann just rolled her eyes. My mother would have given me the paw-pummeling of the century if I’d ever dared to roll my eyes at her, but Ann’s mother has a more forgiving nature. She just sighed.

  “Well, whoever he is, he can’t be worse than that last boy you dated.”

  Not only is Ann’s mother forgiving, she’s also a good judge of character.

  “Jimmy wasn’t so bad.”

  This time it was Ann’s mother’s turn to roll her eyes. I could see where Ann got it from.

  “If Jimmy’s so great, then why aren’t you still together?”

  It was an excellent question, one worth serious consideration, but Ann didn’t seem interested in considering it.

  “So, are you and Aunt Glenda back on speaking terms with each other yet?”

  That shut Ann’s mother right up. She left, taking her sewing machine with her.

  The evening of the gala, Ann got home from work earlier than usual and set right to work. I’d never seen so many cosmetics and personal grooming products used on the same human body simultaneously.

  When Craig came up the stairs to collect her, it appeared he had done the same. They left in a cloud of noxious chemical scents which lingered for hours. I fell asleep watching a dust-bunny under the couch vibrate in the draft coming up from the air vent. One moment, I was agog at the marvelous complexity of this marriage of fur and dust particles, and the next I was shaking myself awake because I’d heard a key in the lock.

  It was Ann, accompanied by Craig, returning from their gala evening. The cocktail of chemicals had dissipated considerably, unless you count the swirling vortex of pheromones which surrounded them, so I roused myself, stretched and sauntered over to offer a courteous greeting to our guest.

  “Decaf OK?” Ann asked Craig. “Or I have some herbal tea—”

  I’d gotten the impression somewhere that inviting a human of the opposite gender
up to your apartment late at night for a cup of coffee is usually code for something of a more libidinous nature. I think Craig was under that impression too, because when Ann asked the question he forgot he was scratching me behind the ears and stared at her.

  “Maybe I should just go,” he said.

  “How about chamomile? That’s the perfect drink before you go to bed.”

  “Uh—”

  “Chamomile always relaxes me.”

  Ann was leaning up against the counter in what can only be described as a deliberately provocative manner. I wondered how many glasses of champagne My Lady had downed at this Gala Do, but I didn’t like to ask. No good ever comes of pointing it out when others overindulge.

  “OK, I’ll have the chamomile,” said Craig. He looked a bit scared.

  Craig drank his chamomile, but he’d barely drained the last drop when My Lady grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and practically dragged him to the couch.

  I stood and watched for a bit, but a little of that sort of thing goes a long way with me—I’m not what you’d call a voyeur—so I retreated to the kitchen to see if anyone had dropped anything on the floor worth cleaning up.

  A few minutes later, I heard Craig say, “Look. I really like you—” I think My Lady pulled him back down on the couch then, because the next bit was unintelligible. “I Just don’t think—” he resurfaced just long enough to say and went down again, like a drowning man. “I don’t want to rush—” Gone again. “—anything and I think—” More muffled and unintelligible attempts to communicate. “You’ve been drinking—”

  Craig finally broke free and made a run for the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.” Then he was gone.

  My Lady, considerably disheveled and flushed, heaved herself up off the couch and headed to bed. She didn’t even bother to take the green dress off.

  Ann woke up the next morning rumpled and full of regret.