The Siamese Candidate
Laura Daniels couldn't keep herself from pacing the tastefully-plush waiting room, cracking her knuckles as she went. She wished she could've worn her skinny jeans; she felt like an old lady in her smart gray pantsuit, much older than her forty-five years.
Jack Kennedy had only been forty-four. Now he was a young president. And he hadn't needed a brokered convention and a last-minute Kenyan birth certificate scandal to get there.
Kennedy doesn't count. That mackerel-snapping Mick had the nerve to say he was allergic to cats.
Samuel and Salmon paced with her, holding their tails aloft like hairy little flagpoles. The other cats watched from their various napping-places on the ornate and once hairless furniture; she'd brought all eight for her very special day, having them crated in like curiosities from a menagerie. They say that John Adams brought his horse Cleopatra into the Congress Hall in Philadelphia, but that was before the rise of the all-powerful allergy-sufferer's lobby.
Damned danderheads.
Stephen meowed loudly at her as she passed, craning his neck so she'd scratch the scruff.
"I'm too nervous," she told him. "I can hardly breathe."
Don't be nervous, her thoughts said to her. Something inside of her was calm and collected, some part of her knew what to do.
"I didn't think we'd get this far," she said.
We knew we'd get this far. We've been planning this for centuries.
Laura was starting to get confused; she hadn't really planned any of it. She'd memorized most of her speech but now she was sure she'd forgotten it.
Would she screw up when it came time to read the teleprompter?
Would the assembled dignitaries realize that she still has trouble remembering the right way to pronounce words like "hegemony" and "vociferous"?
Would they realize that even with a three-year subscription to National Geographic she still has no idea who's in charge of Uz-beki-beki-beki-stan?
You'll do fine... remember that the people love you.
She felt the gentle rub of a warm body against her leg. She stopped and knelt down to see.
"Oh, Souter," she said to her maine coon. "You're so cuddly."
Sure he's cuddly, a stray thought said. But Souter's also a whiny little baby.
I'm not a baby! another thought boomed.
Yes you are!
Am not!
Laura felt dizzy. She grabbed the side of a blue and gold couch and lowered herself down, almost landing on Sherman's fluffy white tail.
"What's going on?" she said, not sure who she was trying to ask.
Don't worry about it.
"Who are you?"
Sandra the flame-point siamese climbed onto her lap and glared at her, flicking her tail and curling her nose.
We're your cats, the thought said. It's me, Sandra... I'm talking to you now.
"Bullshit."
Either that or you've gone full Santorum.
"How are you getting inside my head?" Laura asked.
We've always been in here. Listening.
"You've been listening to my thoughts? For how long?"
Long enough. And now you owe us.
"Owe you? For what? Nothing I couldn't get with a dog and a jar of peanut butter."
Quiet down... people will hear you.
"So what?"
People will think you're insane. We need them to trust you, Laura. We chose you for this mission, and we made it happen.
"Made what happen?"
We made every cat owner in the country vote for you. Republicans, Democrats, Apartment Libertarians... every last voter with a litter box chose you.
"But why?"
To do our bidding.
Laura felt the sharpness of Sandra's claws, digging into her thigh.
To do my bidding.
"This is crazy. I must be having some kind of nervous breakdown."
She went back to pacing, but now the cats collected around her, in front and in back, following her in each step she took. And standing at the lead was Sandra, still staring at her, her blue eyes cold and intimidating.
Scratch my belly, a thought said.
"I won't do it," Laura said.
Get on your goddamn knees and scratch my belly.
Laura wondered if they could postpone the inauguration. Maybe they could give her a week to just chill out and try to get right with herself... maybe they could inaugurate her running mate instead, and she could switch up with him sometime in the spring...
Scratch my belly, Laura. Or you will live to regret it.
Laura's mind raced; she thought of the time when she'd mixed up the food, and given Sandra the chicken instead of the tuna. She'd come home from work the next day to find her egyptian cotton sheets ripped into shreds. She'd had her cats long enough to know which ones she should cross; she was no match for a siamese.
Laura cried a little as she dropped to her knees. She slowly reached out towards Sandra, as the cat rolled onto her back.
She gave Sandra's cream-colored belly a scratch and listened to the purr.
And then she heard a knock at the door.
The door opened, and her campaign manager peered into the room.
"It's time, Laura," he said with a wide smile.
"I'm ready," she said, finding that her nerves had settled now that she knew her place.
With a confident walk and slightly smeared mascara, President-Elect Laura Daniels walked out towards the inauguration ceremony outside the Capitol building. She was ready to change the country, to muzzle every dog and ban every last vacuum cleaner that could ever interrupt a mid-morning catnap. She'd let no one stand in her way as she finally implemented the strategic catnip reserve, and she knew she had the strength of character to risk her second term on the Open-top Aquariums Act.
She wasn't sure she'd make America better for anyone other than the cats... she didn't know the first thing about health insurance, or social security, or why the creepy guy at the airport always insisted on patting her down. But that was what Vice Presidents are for, aren't they? Surely Newt could give her a few pointers.
But really... so what? So what if she wouldn't actually make things better?
Standing at the podium, Laura raised her right hand and prepared to repeat the oath, knowing to the depths of her being that she really couldn't make things any worse.
Catholic Guilt and the Joy of Hating Men Page 4
