ALSO BY EDWARD MEDINA
It Is Said (MBKS 1)
A Murder of Crows
The Demise of Foxy Jack
Short Stories
Awilda
The Corpse of Madeline Hill
Anthologies
3 Stories Short
Enter at Your Own Risk:
Old Masters, New Voices
Satan’s Toybox:
Terrifying Teddies
REVIEWS
“Awilda is a rich, urban story that doesn’t play to the usual notes.”
— Amazon Reviewer
“Awilda is a clever, erotic, mordern story that sings off the page.”
— Amazon Reviewer
“The Corpse of Madeline Hill is thrilling, terrifying and romantic.”
— Amazon Reviewer
“The Corpse of Madeline Hill is a tale that every ghost lover must read!”
— Amazon Reviewer
“It Is Said is a book for readers who remember what stories can do when in the hands of an author who knows a little magic.”
— J. Fields Jr, Author
“Once upon a time has been reborn and remade. A Murder of Crows is a classic waiting for the rest of the world to discover it.”
— Lucinda Rose, Author
Table of Contents
CASANOVA
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
For
Misu
Mel
Bogie
Deva
Treasure
and, of course
Casanova
I wish I could
write as mysteriously
as a cat
E.A.P.
CASANOVA
Casanova had a dream.
In it the sun was rising high and bright in the sky. It felt warm and comforting against his skin and fur. He could feel his yet to be born body stretching in the new dawn light and drinking in every drop of delicious warmth and comfort.
Then a darkness came.
Quick and unyielding, it swallowed the comforting day and replaced it with the cold of night. A full moon pushed the sun from the sky and replaced it with a different warmth. A different energy touched his skin. A different heat consumed him and it came with a voracious hunger he had yet to know.
In the next moment, Casanova was born.
It was raining in New York City when this all began. There was no loud thunder or bright lightning to warn of coming events. Just seemingly endless amounts of falling rain and a couple making their way through the downpour. Without any knowledge of feline dreams and desires, Gwen and Larry Talbot made their way through the hustle and bustle of the soaked Manhattan streets to purchase a pet in the hopes of saving their marriage.
Gwen and Larry met at a party thrown by mutual friends. Their connection was instant. Gwen was a front desk manager at the Ramada Inn in the Upstate New York town of Kingston. Larry was a groundskeeper at the University of New Paltz. They fell in love and moved in together almost immediately.
They ended their relationship the first time over mundane mutual annoyances. They found they couldn’t function apart so they reconciled a few months later. A year after that they parted once more because of a foolish affair Larry had with a student assistant he couldn’t resist. Gwen forgave him after a while and took him back because she was hiding the guilt of an affair of her own. They decided together to get married in order to save their relationship.
Once coupled they settled into a passive semblance of a marriage. There were no extreme highs or deep lows. They found a way to exist emotionally in the middle ground of life for fear of losing what little happiness they had. Then, on the day of their third, or fourth, anniversary, they took the train into the City. The ride down was quiet and it was only as the Big Apple loomed large in their windows did they finally hold hands.
The walk to the East Side restaurant was less chilly by degrees, but as their second round of mimosas arrived at the table they were feeling more themselves than they had in a very long while. As they finished their eggs benedict, and the third set of mimosas came and went, a woman walked by their sidewalk table with a black cat on a pink leash.
Then Larry said it first.
“We should get a cat.”
Gwen would always remember that fact.
“And you think this is a good idea?”
“I think it’s a great idea.”
She remembered that fact right up to her dying day.
“What about your allergies?”
“I’ll take a pill.”
“You say that nicely now.”
“I’ll get a shot.”
“Later there’ll be grumpiness.”
“I promise. No grumpiness.”
“I’ve heard that before.”
They left the restaurant behind and a weak drizzly rain started to fall as they walked. They both knew what this was all about but neither one of them wanted to say that first. Larry wanted to start a family with Gwen. Gwen wasn’t sure she wanted to have a baby with Larry. Not yet at least. Both their affairs, and the troubles before and after, weighed heavily on her mind.
“You think we’re not ready for a baby,” Larry dared.
“We’re not ready for a lot of things apparently.”
“I say that we’re at least ready for a pet.”
“Babies and pets should not be equated.”
The wind began to pick up.
“It’s about responsibility to something other than ourselves.”
“Something with fur?”
“A dog is too much trouble.”
“And cats are no trouble at all?”
“Cats are independent.”
Darkening skies opened and Gwen and Larry ducked into a doorway as the rain began to pour.
“Can I get away with saying I’ll think about it?”
Larry drew her close and put his arms around her.
“Of course you can,” he whispered in her ear.
As they hugged Gwen saw the inevitable over Larry’s shoulder. A classic brick brownstone set inside the base of a modern glass office tower. The gold stenciled lettering on the large front window read My Pet Shop.
The shop occupied the first floor. The second floor windows were shuttered from within. The third and fourth floor windows were curtained and each windowsill had one or two cats languishing as they watched the rain come down.
“Let’s be responsible for a little furry life,” Gwen finally acquiesced. “We’ll see how it goes from there.”
“At the very least,” Larry joked. “We’ll have the beginnings of a fur coat.”
“You’re sick.”
“You’re twisted.”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
With the ringing of the bell above the door, Gwen and Larry Talbot entered into the world of cats and cat related trappings that was My Pet Shop. In some respects this was a proper pet shop but in many others it was quite the opposite.
The colors in this world were predominantly bright orange and dark wood tones. A brass chandelier hung from the ceiling of a space that was more parlor than business establishment. Beneath the chandelier was a sitting area with a round wooden table and three large black leather chairs.
On the center of the table top was a small sign. It was a picture of a cat that was delivering a message from the owner of the shop:
Meow’ll be right back.
There was artwork on the wall to the left as one en
tered. Each piece hung there was presented with care in ornate gold painted frames. All the paintings were of cats in different settings, seasons, and poses. Gwen noticed an easel and an artist’s case in the far corner of the large square room. They were set against the bannister of the staircase leading upstairs.
Along that same wall were tall orange bookcases filled with all the things a cat owner would ever need to care for their new feline family member. The facing edges of the wooden shelves had small beautifully carved representations of running cats. The remaining wall was lined with more of the same bookcases but these all housed individual brass cages. Some were empty. The rest were occupied by sleeping kittens.
The world of My Pet Shop was a singularly feline world. The shop had nothing but cats and nothing emphasized that more than the three trees that were built into the room. Carved of wood and reaching floor to ceiling, these trees appeared to be quite real. There were no leaves, just branches, and on those branches there was a clowder of cats numbering over a dozen. A few were sleeping. A few others were cleaning themselves. The rest were studying Gwen and Larry.
“Is this a bad time to tell you that I really don’t care for cats?” Gwen admitted.
“Since when?”
“Since always.”
“They make me nervous,” she whispered. “I don’t trust them.”
“They’re just cats, silly girl.”
Gwen started moving towards the door.
“I was two years old and holding my aunt’s cat when it turned on me.”
“Honey, calm down.”
“It tried to scratch my eyes out.”
“I’m sure it’s just an exaggerated memory.”
“I had to go to the hospital. It got close enough to scratch my cornea.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We should go, Larry.”
A woman’s voice came from the top of the stairs.
“Even a cat who is pure of heart and dreams his dreams by night, may become a beast when the crocus blooms and the autumn moon is bright.”
Gwen and Larry were drawn towards the stairs as the woman began to descend them.
“People fear dogs based on their relative size. A Chihuahua can do but so much damage, they think. A Doberman Pincher can kill us, they think.”
Once in view the old woman was quite a sight. Her hair was a wild, and obviously dyed, black crash of curls. She was wearing orange googles, a yellow rubber apron, and green galoshes. Larry hoped she was cleaning litter boxes and didn’t dress this way on a regular basis, but he was more fixated by the wooden box she was carrying.
“Every cat has the primordial history of their big cat ancestors in their veins.”
She placed the box on the table.
“Like the Gypsy blood that flows through mine.”
The woman began scrutinizing her visitors.
“And whatever flows through yours.”
Gwen and Larry both suddenly felt self-conscious of the fact that they were dripping rain water on the woman’s fancy carpeted floor.
“New York makes its own gravy when it rains,” was the only thing Gwen could think to say by way of an apology.
It was an awkward moment, but after what seemed like an eternity the woman smiled at Gwen. With that she grasped the bookshelf closest to her. It opened easily to reveal a hidden storage room.
“Domestic cats are the progeny of steely hunters, cunning stalkers, and cold blooded killers,” she continued as she stepped into the room. “They have the exact same set of tools to kill, and to them, size is no matter.”
Gwen and Larry could hear jangling keys and a door open and close.
“Even a small cat with all its claws can attach itself with great force anywhere upon a body.”
She had discarded the googles and rubber gloves and returned with two towels.
“Those sixteen little daggers will cut through cloth and flesh. The pain that comes with that kind of attack will bring a person to their knees. As the prey of big cats we instinctually feel that and so we fear.”
“We could always get it declawed,” Larry offered and wished he could take back just as quickly when the old woman responded with a cold as death stare.
“I am Mariya Ouspenskaya and this is my pet shop.”
She tossed Larry a towel.
“It is also my home.”
Her glare remained fixed on him.
“Do not speak of such things in my home.”
“I apologize.”
“You may call me Madame Ouspenskaya.”
Before Larry could speak his name the old woman dismissed him with a wave of her hand.
“They tried to take it from me. My home. I fought them. Tooth and nail. For many, many years. I won. They had to build their damn colossus around me.”
She approached Gwen and let the folded towel fall loose in her hands.
“You may call me Mariya.”
The old woman smiled warmly for the first time as she draped the towel over Gwen’s shoulders.
She took Gwen’s hand in both of hers.
“My dear, you ignore the dramatics of an old woman, my home is full of cats. There is no need to fear them.”
Mariya turned Gwen’s hand over and passed her fingers over her palm. Gwen could feel her examining every line.
“There is no need to fear as long as you love them and never betray them.”
Gwen had never known love without betrayal.
“Sit,” she instructed. “I have someone I wish to introduce to you.”
Completely mesmerized by what was happening, Gwen and Larry took their seats as they were told.
“I only accept newborns and I keep them for six months. I am the first mother to all my children.”
Mariya slid the lid off of the box.
“I must warn you,” she said as she leaned back in her chair, “this one is a charmer.”
The kitten slowly, and cautiously, raised its head outside the box. His big, soulful, blue grey eyes were devastating.
“I named him Casanova.”
As if on cue, the kitten placed his two front paws on the edge of the box and raised himself up with a long stretch.
“His birth mother died bringing him into the world and he is the only surviving member of his litter.”
Casanova had a solid black coat, with white fur on his paws, belly, chest, and throat. Gwen thought his facial coloration made it look as if he was wearing a black mask over his eyes and head. Larry had the same thought, but also noted that the coloration of his lower jaw and chin gave the cat a jaunty goatee beneath his disguise.
“He was born all skin and spine, but he’s coming into himself very nicely,” Mariya remarked as she lifted Casanova from the box and placed him on her lap.
The little Tuxedo cat had oddly matched features. Long pointy ears framed a small elegant face. He had a long, thin tail and long, gangly legs attached to a stout body. At first glance he seemed incomplete, but upon further thought it became obvious that he would grow to be quite an attractive fellow.
It was also obvious from the volume of his purring that Casanova dearly loved the only mother he ever knew.
“He’s perfectly healthy and six months old today.”
The old woman scooped him up from her lap, walked over, and placed him in Gwen’s. Then Mariya whispered in her ear.
“Look into his eyes and you will see that my Casanova is a lover, not a fighter.”
He was purring in Gwen’s arms, but as his mother returned to her seat without him the low rumble became less, and less, and less.
“We’ll take him,” Larry blurted as the purring stopped completely.
Gwen and Larry Talbot purchased Casanova and bo
arded a train for the return trip to Woodstock. Larry would remember how all the cats in the shop watched in silence as they took Casanova from them. Trees of cats with staring eyes. He would also recollect the deep kiss he shared with his wife on that train. It would be the last sincere kiss of both their short lives.
Casanova arrived at his new cabin home in the woods and for the first three days he did nothing but sleep. He would stir and mew whenever Gwen or Larry moved him. It was really the only way the couple knew their child was still alive. Behaving like parents of a new age, they sought advice on social media. Their friends assured them that the kitty was just adjusting to his new surroundings and that he would be himself in no time.
Casanova was dreaming.
In the beginning he was resting comfortably in a beautiful wooden box with a plush purple interior. A few of his favorite treats were in there with him. There was also a pinch or two of catnip. Life was good in the purple lined box. His tummy was full. His mind was at ease. In the purple box there was not a care in the world.
In the next moment Casanova was a cat in the dark in a cardboard box resting on a stranger’s lap. This box was cold, empty, and unlined. Casanova couldn’t think of food. His mind was ill at ease. His little heart was racing. He was being taken far from his mother. He could feel it. Her sweet smells, so familiar to him, were getting further and further away. He could hear her heartbeat fading from him.
“Casanova,” a woman called to him from outside the box. “Casanova, come here and look.”
There were three small holes cut out of each side of the box. The voice was calling to him from somewhere out there but the kitten was too afraid to look.
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