by Nick Pirog
“Lots of kinds.”
I sense movement and a cat springs onto the bed. He’s big and fat. He’s gray with white feet. His back is arched and all the hair sticks up on his neck. He hisses at me and Leroy, then jumps off the bed.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“That’s Socks.”
“He doesn’t seem very nice.”
“He’s not.”
“Do you like cats?”
“Nice cats, like Charlotte.”
“Who’s Charlotte?”
“She’s an outside cat. You’ll meet her later.”
“An Outside cat?”
“Yeah, she stays outside mostly. Does whatever she wants. Comes in to eat every so often.”
“What about Socks?”
“He’s an indoor cat.”
“So he never leaves?”
“No. He just sits around all day doing nothing. But that makes him happy.”
“I’d rather be an Outside cat.”
“Okay,” Leroy says.
“I used to be a dog,” I tell him. “But I wasn’t an Outside dog. I could go Outside, but not whenever I wanted. Only when Jerry said it was okay.”
I wait for him to ask about me being a dog, but he doesn’t seem to care.
“Who’s Jerry?” he asks.
“My human. He’s the best.”
I tell him all about how great Jerry is. Then I tell him about Cassie. And how amazing she is. “You remind me of her,” I tell him.
This makes him happy and he gives me a few more slobbery licks.
“I want to meet Charlotte,” I say.
“You will,” Leroy says. “And the others.”
~
I don’t get to meet the others for three days. Hank and Bess (she-Hank) move me to a little room with a tiny bed on the floor and a litter box. I can barely walk and I stay in bed all day. I get to eat a bunch of food. (Bess keeps trying to “Fattin’ me up.”)
Leroy comes by a few times a day to keep me company. Socks struts by every once in a while and hisses. I don’t think he likes that I’m using his litter box. Finally, on the fourth day, I can put my paw down and it doesn’t scream.
“I’m ready to go Outside,” I tell Leroy on one of his visits.
“Let’s go,” he says.
I hobble behind Leroy through the house. (His long ears nearly touch the ground when he walks!) At one point, we pass Bess and she says, “Look who’s walking.” She picks me up and gives me a kiss on the nose, then inspects my leg with a few light pinches—“that boot seems to be working pretty good”—then sets me back down.
I follow Leroy through a rubber door that flaps and into the hot sun. The first thing that hits me is the smells. Big, round, powerful, amazing smells. There’s a lot of dirt, then tall green grass in every direction. Beyond the grass, I can see the jagged peaks of the far-off Mountains.
So far away.
An animal the size of a medium dog comes hopping toward us and Leroy says, “That’s George.” George is white and has two horns growing out of his head.
“He’s a goat,” Leroy explains.
“Hi, George,” I say to the bouncy animal.
“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii!” he says, jumping up and down. He comes very close to jumping on me.
“Be careful, George,” Leroy says. “He’s just a little kitten.”
“Careful, careful, careful,” George repeats, then gives Leroy a little headbutt, then bounces away.
I’m not so sure about George.
Off in the far grass, there’s a big white animal with black spots.
“Who is that?” I ask.
“That’s Winnie.”
“Is she a goat too?”
“No,” Leroy says. “She’s a cow.”
“Oh.”
I follow Leroy around the farm and he points things out: That’s where they keep the chickens. Those are the pigs. That’s my doghouse. That’s where they grow all the food. That’s Hank way out there on that big yellow thing.
My ankle is starting to hurt from all the walking and I ask, “Where is Charlotte?”
“She usually hangs out in the barn when it’s this hot out,” Leroy says, nodding toward another house. The house is oddly shaped. I’ve never seen a house quite like it. He plods toward the barn, his big ears flapping as he rumbles forward.
I hobble behind him.
There’s a large door open a few feet and I follow Leroy inside. It’s much cooler out of the sun. There’s dry, yellow grass all over the ground that crunches under Leroy’s feet. (I don’t think I’m heavy enough to crunch anything.)
The first thing I notice is a tall, brown animal. (It’s even bigger than Moses, the huge Great Dane I used to play with.) It has black hair on its neck and a thick black tail that swishes back and forth.
“Hey, Dale,” Leroy says.
“Who’s this?” the giant asks.
“I’m Hugo,” I tell him.
His lips fold back, showing huge teeth, and he says, “Just what this place needs,” he says. “Another cat.”
“Don’t mind him,” a voice says from high above. “He’s just a cranky old horse.”
I look up.
Lying on one of the wood beams that crisscross ten feet above is a cat. She slinks down the wood, jumps onto Dale’s back, then hops silently to the hay-covered floor.
“You must be Hugo,” she says. She is entirely black with yellow eyes.
Charlotte.
~
“So you’re an Outdoor cat?” I ask Charlotte.
Leroy is snuggled up in the hay taking a nap and Dale is in the back of the barn ignoring us.
“Sure am,” Charlotte replies, giving one of her paws a lick.
“What do you do all day?”
“Whatever I want.”
“I want to be an Outdoor cat,” I tell her. “I don’t want to be like Socks and lie around all day.”
“Well, then you came to the right place.”
I think about it.
Was this the right place?
Hank and Bess seem pretty okay as far as humans go. I would always have food. And Leroy is great. And Charlotte seems great too. I’m not so sure about George and Dale (and Winnie), but they didn’t seem all bad.
Could I stay here?
But what about Jerry and Cassie?
I miss them so much. But could I really make it back to them? I walked for hours and hours and the Mountains didn’t get any closer. And if Hank hadn’t found me, I probably would have died. Why would next time be any different?
Charlotte slinks over to Leroy and curls up into his side. “So what do you think?” she asks. “Are you going to stay?”
I hobble over and climb onto Leroy’s back. I find a comfortable place between his big folds and lay down my head.
Yeah.
I am.
Chapter 17
“THE DINNER”
Jerry
I’ve been dreading this day for more than five months.
The big 3-6.
As I tread dangerously close to middle age, I could dwell on the fact I’m living in my parents’ house, or that after brainstorming book ideas for going on six weeks, I don’t have squat, or that my hair is thinning to the point of tumbleweed status, or that my last royalty check couldn’t cover a tank of gas. But I don’t. I’m actually—dare I say the word—happy.
Megan and I have been seeing each other for close to a month. After the debacle at the beach with Avery’s wedding, part of me thought Megan would never want to see me again. Thankfully, she was a good sport and she gave me another chance the following week. She even admitted it was kind of funny. We went for Mexican, drank a few margaritas, and that same chemistry we found on the beach (before Cassie went Code Red Berserko) was undeniable.
Over the past weeks, we’ve been on several dates, but there were yet to be any sleepovers. I have high hopes for tonight, seeing
as: A) It’s my birthday. B) Wally is currently at my house having a playdate with Cassie. And C) Megan was yet to give me a present.
Knock on wood.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask Megan as we pull up to the valet at Riva Grill.
Riva Grill is a restaurant in the Ski Run Marina. The marina is full of boats and WaveRunners that, hours earlier, were zooming around the lake. The two-story restaurant faces the water, where the last vestige of dusk disappears behind the far mountains.
Megan is dressed in blue jeans, a cream colored blouse, and her blonde hair cascades onto her shoulders. She gives my hand a squeeze, then says, “Don’t worry. Parents love me.”
The last girl I introduced my parents to was Avery. That was more than five years earlier. So when my parents set up a birthday dinner for me and I told them I wanted to bring Megan, they couldn’t have been happier. My father’s words, verbatim, were, “I was starting to worry, son.” (About my sexuality or that I’d simply given up, he didn’t specify.)
I was a tad nervous when I broached the idea to Megan—I mean, we had only been dating for twenty-nine days—but while watching the opening previews for Wonder Woman, I leaned over and asked if she wanted to come to my birthday dinner and meet my folks. Megan’s mouth opened wide and she slapped my leg. “I get to meet the Rymans!” she shouted loud enough that a few people hushed us.
I hand the keys to the valet and Megan and I make our way toward the restaurant entrance. Once inside, the young female hostess asks if we have a reservation.
“Ryman, party of four,” I tell her.
She glances at the computer screen, wrinkles her forehead, then says, “I have a Ryman party of six.”
Before I can answer, before I can tell her it must be a typo, she says, “Actually, the rest of your party is already here.”
“Six?” Megan whispers as we fall in behind the hostess.
I’ve just begun to brainstorm who the other two people could be—the Winstons back from Europe? My brother and his wife in town from Michigan?—when I see our table.
Sitting next to my mother is a man in a gray linen suit with a slicked-back mane of white hair. Next to my father is a woman with a large purple ribbon in her hair and a chunky gold necklace.
That’s when it hits me.
My parents had both brought dates.
~
“You must be Megan!” my mom shouts, jumping up from her seat. She’s wearing a gray bowler hat, which stops just above the pink lenses of her glasses, a tan jacket, and red leather pants. She hugs Megan tight, pushes her away to give her a deep appraisal, then hugs her again. “Oh, it’s so marvelous to meet you.”
My father, unlike my mother, is dressed casually in a black T-shirt, khaki shorts, and yes, compression socks and Tevas (I’m starting to think he might sleep in them). He gives Megan a less invasive hug, then beckons me toward a woman who I can only describe as full hippie.
My father adjusts his glasses on his nose—a nervous tic of his—and says, “Son, this is Sequoia.”
“Like the tree,” she says.
“Oh, so not like the full-size SUV,” I reply harsher than I intend.
I’m not sure if Sequoia or my father react to the barb as I’m spun around by my shoulder. “Honey, honey,” my mom sputters. “This is Teddy.”
“Heyya, Teddy,” I say, giving his hand a real good shake. “Glad you could come to my birthday dinner.”
“Glad for the invite,” he says. If he can feel my angst, he doesn’t show it.
As Megan and I take our seats, I notice Megan biting her lip to keep from smiling. I’m not sure if this is a Freudian Nightmare, a Greek Tragedy, or a Shakespearian Comedy, but whatever it is, Megan is enjoying it immensely.
“Shall we order some wine?” Teddy offers.
My mother puts her hand over Teddy’s and says, “Teddy has an incredible palate. What was that delightful bottle you had us drink the other night?”
I lock eyes with Megan. She gives my thigh a light squeeze under the table, one I decode as, Come on, you can survive this, Champ.
I give her a light head shake in reply: I’m not so sure.
“I think it was a Zin,” my dad says.
“Right you are, Martin,” Teddy (my mother’s date) says to Martin (my mother’s husband).
This is when I realize with absolute certainty that I’m in the midst of a traumatic event. That this next two hours will forever be referred to as “The Dinner.”
I want to inquire when the three of them shared this bottle of wine and if Sequoia “like the tree” was there, or if anyone was going to bring up the gigantic elephant in the room, but I simply say, “Go ahead, Theodore. Order us some wine.”
I will not survive this sober.
Cassie
Wally’s little butt is high in the air. He wiggles it, his tail whipping back and forth. His front paws are stretched out and he makes this rumbling little bark.
I know you want to play, Wally.
We’ve been playing since Megan dropped him off an hour ago. We played Chase. We played Tumble. We played Tug. We played Hide. But now it’s time to play Nap.
Wally’s rumbling bark gets louder and his furry head darts from side to side.
There used to be a time when I could play nonstop like Wally. Hugo and I used to play all day and all night. We’d play until Jerry would beg us to stop. But not anymore.
The day after I first met Wally on the beach—the day after I saw Avery and went what Jerry calls “Code Red Berserko” (I plead insanity, by the way)—I could barely walk. My hips throbbed. Every step sent a sharp pain down my leg. I tried to act normal when I was around Jerry, but I couldn’t fake it anymore.
A few days later, Jerry took me to see Dr. Josh. Now, I love Dr. Josh, but he pushed and pulled on parts of my body I didn’t even know existed. “I know it hurts, sweetie, I know,” he would say after each push and pull.
If you know, then stop doing it!
Then he called me something he’d never called me before: a senior dog.
How dare you, Dr. Josh! (Storm is a senior dog. Not me. I’m pre-senior. Maybe even pre-pre-senior.)
After my exam, Dr. Josh said a bunch of strange words I’ve never heard before, words Jerry has been repeating a lot lately: Rimadyl, Glucosamine, Omega-three.
One of these words is a pill. Jerry tries to hide it in a little treat, but I know it’s in there. (Come on, Jerry, give me some credit.) The other words come in bottles and Jerry adds them to my kibble each morning. One of them tastes funny. The other one tastes like fish. I eat them to make Jerry happy. But a few weeks later, I actually feel better. (My hips don’t creak when I walk and I’m not as sore.)
I roll over on my side. Wally gives one more throaty bark, then gives up in defeat. He rushes forward and puts his front paws on my belly, then gives the side of my face a few licks with his little pink tongue. Then he zooms down the hall and disappears.
I watch Wally zoom back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, then stop, pant for a quick second, then zoom some more. (I remember when Hugo used to do this. Jerry called them “Zoomies.”)
Finally, after five minutes of zooming, Wally collapses to the carpet, panting heavily. I snuggle up around him and a few minutes later, he’s snoring.
I soon join him.
Jerry
“I already saw it,” I say, passing the phone back to my mother. “You texted it to me three times.”
It’s a video of a black bear that climbed over the Winston’s fence and was sniffing around my mother’s compost pile.
Bears are a part of life in Tahoe. At least once a week, you’ll see one rifling through someone’s trash or walking down the street. The first few times you see one is exciting, but by the twentieth bear, it’s lost its thrill.
“Well, you never texted me back,” my mother snaps. “No thumbs up. No happy face. Not a single emoji. Nothing.” She glances at Teddy and he
shakes his head in obvious disapproval.
Appetizers and salads have come and gone. Teddy—who I learned was a pilot for Delta for thirty years before retiring to the small town of Minden, Nevada—has ordered a third bottle of wine (“a real gem of a pinot”), which is open and breathing.
I toss back the last half inch of wine in my glass and feel it slink into my belly and crawl into my legs. “It’s just that you send a lot of videos, Mom,” I say with the same practiced smile I’ve pinned to my face for the last half hour. What I don’t say is, “What I didn’t get is the text informing me that you’re bringing the ghost of Howard Hughes to my birthday dinner.”
An awkward few seconds pass, then my father says, “So, Jerry, why don’t you tell everyone about Cassie and the dress?”
I’m buzzed enough that I’m considering dropping a grenade on this celebration, something along the lines of, “So when exactly does Maury Povich come out?” but somehow, I restrain myself and begin to chronicle how Cassie destroyed my ex-fiancé’s wedding.
I recount how Cassie ripped the dress off Avery, then dragged it fifty yards out into the lake. How Avery was completely naked other than some small pasties on her boobs and a red lace garter on her thigh. How after locking eyes with Avery’s Nana, I pushed myself up, only to have Avery’s father rush me and tackle me to the ground. How I wiggled out of his grip, then ran down the beach with Cassie, Megan, and Wally, and how we didn’t stop until we reached the CVS four blocks away. How luckily, I had a twenty-dollar bill secreted away in the swim pocket of my swimsuit and I bought a Hawaiian shirt and a big hat and snuck back to the beach and got all our stuff.
“Did they go through with the wedding?” Sequoia asks. So far, she’d been quiet and reserved. Contemplative even. Which isn’t surprising as she is a self-proclaimed, “Healer…well, and an accountant.”
“Her Instagram is public and she had a bunch of wedding photos on there,” I say. “The dress looked pretty much the same. Knowing Avery, she probably had a back-up.”
Teddy asks, “Did you hear from her afterward?”
