by Mazy Morris
“There really wasn’t anything going on between Gwendolyn and me,” Craig said. “Not since about 2003, anyway.”
“I know,” said Ann.
“Then why did you get so mad at me?”
“Because you didn’t tell me about her.”
“She just isn’t important to me anymore. That’s why I never mentioned her, and if she’s not important to me, then why should she be important to you?”
“I know, but I tell you everything.”
“True.”
I applied another paw of warning. Again, my warning went unacknowledged.
“It’s just that the whole thing made me scared that maybe I care about you a lot more than you care about me,” Ann said.
I dug my claws in a little. If Craig replied, “True” to this statement, I was going to make his good arm match the bandaged one.
“But I do care about you,” said Craig. “I think I love you.”
I jumped off Craig’s lap. My work was done. I could have stuck around and witnessed the passionate scene which followed, but, as I’ve probably already mentioned, I’m not much of a voyeur. Besides, I could hear that the cricket which had escaped during Ann and Flavia’s scuffle had come back to roost among the remains of Mrs. Jackson’s potted geraniums. I scratched to get out before My Lady became so enraptured by Craig that getting her attention became impossible. I trotted out into the dusk, tail upraised in triumph.
What followed was a replication of My Lady and Craig’s previous love-life-cycle. For about three weeks, Ann and Craig ignored all of their friends, including their four-legged ones. It became a challenge just to get a can of cat food opened at regular intervals. Bella and I took to fending for ourselves. It came in handy that a bloom in the rat population coincided with the reunification of My Lady and Craig. I caught more than I cared to eat—the raw foodist craze has never really made sense to me—and I passed off some of my catch to Bella.
Then, as the fuzzy pink glow of renewed infatuation began to wear off, and Craig and Ann gradually regained an interest in their nearest and dearest.
“What are we going to do about Flavia?” Ann asked one evening as the four of us—Craig, Bella, My Lady and me—sat on the top step of the staircase and watched the dusk descend on Mrs. Jackson’s newly repotted geraniums. There had been some ugliness between Mrs. Jackson and the occupants of 12B in which Fred—by virtue of his highly visible digging campaign during the police raid—had been unjustly charged with breaking the flower pots. I maintain that Flavia should have fessed up to falling on them, but My Lady smoothed over the situation by buying a stack of ceramic ware and leaving it anonymously on Mrs. Jackson’s doormat. It was in this way that Fred got both the blame and the credit; Flavia never came into it.
Which brings me back to the subject of Flavia and My Lady’s concern for her welfare.
“What do you mean, ‘What are we going to do about Flavia?’” Craig asked.
“I mean she’s lonely. What are we going to do about it?”
“Why should we have to do anything about it?”
“It’s not a matter of have to. It’s a matter of want to.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. Besides, I feel like I owe her a lot for getting us back together.”
Actually, it was yours truly who deserved as much credit as anyone, but as I’ve said before, no good can come from letting them divine the extent of one’s intelligence, so I feigned an intense interest in a ladybug which had escaped from the sanctuary of the geraniums.
“What about Saul?” Craig suggested. “You remember Saul. I introduced you to him in the grocery store the other day. We used to play racquetball together. ”
“He’s kind of quiet,” Ann protested.
“Well, Flavia can talk enough for both of them.”
But it turned out that Flavia didn’t need any assistance with her love life after all. When My Lady called her up to invite her for dinner—with the ulterior motive of introducing her to Saul, of course—Flavia surprised everyone by asking if it would be all right if she brought somebody. My Lady immediately quizzed her on the identity of this mystery man, but Flavia was cagey. Ann had met him once before, was all Flavia would say.
On the evening of the dinner party, Bella and I took up front row seats on the top of the bookcase. We wanted to a good look at the poor soul Flavia was about to drag in. We didn’t have to wait long; Flavia was one of the first to arrive.
She entered the apartment in a cloud of rose-scented perfume and with a bad case of the giddy giggles.
“I’d like you to meet someone,” she announced, clinging to the arm of her date. “You may or may not remember him, but you’ve like totally met before.”
Craig and Ann just stood there, with blank looks on their faces, but I remembered him. It was Officer Al, my closet companion from the afternoon Cat Hater met his fate at the hands of justice.
“Come on!” said Flavia. “Don’t you like remember him at all?”
Poor Officer Al looked embarrassed. I’m not sure he remembered Craig and Ann, either. I decided to diffuse the awkward situation by jumping down and greeting our guest. I hurried over and rubbed around Al’s ankles, purring loudly.
“The policeman!” said Craig, getting it at last.
“Yes,” said Flavia. “We ran into each other again a few days after—you know, and we realized we were like totally into each other and—”
It did appear that Flavia was telling the truth. They were totally into each other. Pheromones don’t lie.
I couldn’t have been happier for them both. Flavia is a good egg, really—if you can get past the baby talk—and you can’t go wrong with a man who takes time out of his busy workday to fraternize with cats.
Later on, after the guests had departed and Craig was clearing the table while Ann loaded the dishwasher, it became apparent that they shared my sentiment.
“Al’s great!” Ann said as she ejected me from the countertop. I was just trying to be helpful and prevent waste by licking up a bit of sour cream sauce which had been left on one of the plates, but she didn’t see it that way, apparently.
“I like him, too,” said Craig.
“You know, we’re both really very lucky.”
“We?”
“Flavia and me.”
“Oh?”
“Yes.”
“What makes you two so lucky?”
“We both, purely by chance, found men who were perfect for us.”
“So I’m perfect, am I?”
It’s the lawyer in him. He can’t help it, I guess. Fortunately, My Lady didn’t hold his gloating against him.
“You are perfect for me,” she said. “You’re smart and sexy and kind. Even Cupid likes you, and he’s never liked any of my other boyfriends.”
All this sweet-talk soon escalated to kissing, and kissing led to a retreat to the bedroom. I let them go.
I went over to the couch where Bella lay dozing and nudged her awake with my nose. She drowsily began to wash my ears. I closed my eyes, and let out a contented sigh.
Things couldn’t have worked out more perfectly if I’d planned them.
The End
More by Mazy
Short Stories
Cupid Hates Me US UK
Tinsel Terrors US UK
Novelettes
Fetch US UK
Novellas
A Cat Called Cupid US UK
