by Mazy Morris
I hunkered down on the porcelain puppy, prepared to cling to it, if necessary. But Ann didn’t start looking around for something to throw. Instead, she started to laugh.
“You’re right!” she said. “She does do all those things, and they can be irritating, but she’s really very sweet, and there are plenty of men out there who could overlook her eccentricities.”
Craig just stood there and waited until My Lady was finished laughing like a maniac. Then he conceded that Bradley had a few faults of his own, and perhaps he was himself being a little too critical of Flavia. The upshot of the fight was that they ended up getting frisky on the remnants of dinner.
It had been Craig and Ann’s first fight, and they’d successfully survived it.
About a week after the ill-advised dinner party, Craig’s mother arrived for a visit, all the way from Omaha. Craig knew she was coming. My Lady Ann had not been similarly informed.
“How could you not tell me your mother was coming?” Ann hissed at Craig, as we paused for a hurried mid-flight conference on the stairs. Ann was in the throes of spring cleaning, and she had suspended her scrubbing to make her habitual evening trip down to the mailboxes. It was then that she’d caught a glimpse of suitcases outside Craig’s apartment door. We’d met Craig bringing in the last of the luggage, and, after interrogation, Craig had admitted having planned the maternal visit a month ago.
“I didn’t want you to be nervous about meeting her.” I’m sure his motives were pure, but his lack of communication did not go down well with My Lady.
“And you thought it would be better for me to meet her for the first time looking like this?”
“How was I supposed to know you’d choose this evening to clean your oven?” Craig asked. Ann was looking a bit streaked and spotted. Craig kissed a black smudge on her nose and that calmed her down a bit. “She’s going to love you!” he stage whispered at her back as she fled upstairs to make herself presentable.
Unfortunately, although all men seem to be completely confident that their lady-loves are going to make a big hit with their mothers, the lady-loves in question very rarely do. Such was the case with Ann and Mother Jones, although Craig, like so many males of his species, remained in denial.
“I don’t think your mother likes me very much,” Ann fretted, in between stolen kisses on the stairs the following evening. The night before, the three of them—Ann, Craig and his mother—had gone out to dinner.
“Of course she likes you,” Craig insisted.
“Then why did she go on about how she can’t understand why so many women these days insist on keeping their hair long well into their thirties?” Ann unconsciously tugged at her pony-tail.
“I’m sure she didn’t mean you,” Craig insisted.
“Alright, then explain that crack she made about dental hygienists.”
“All my mother asked was why you didn’t just decide to go on to dental school.”
“You really don’t get it, do you?”
I think things would have deteriorated from there, but they were still at that stage where a good kiss goes a long way to healing all hurts.
I left My Lady and her lover on the staircase engaged in some pretty heavy PDA and went in search of the Big Orange Tom. I hadn’t seen him since the evening of the dinner party, but I wasn’t allowing myself to relax my vigilance. That’s the thing about feral—with no domestic headquarters to fall back on—they can disappear for weeks and then resurface without warning.
I didn’t see him that evening, or the next. The third evening, just after Craig’s mother had departed back to Omaha, I spotted him sprawled out next to the dumpster. He was not alone.
A few feet away sat Bella, watching him with admiring eyes. To be honest, at that distance I couldn’t be sure she was sending him melting glances, she might have been glaring at him for all I knew, but in the heat of the moment I didn’t take time to confirm my suspicions. In retrospect, it might have been wiser to wait before going on the offensive, but blind jealousy makes all men—and cats—fools.
I had only one advantage, that of surprise. The Big Orange Tom was taller than me, heavier than me and tougher than me. He was a practiced street fighter, as evidenced by his crooked tail, missing ear and long diagonal scar across his ugly face. This did not deter me, although it should have.
I yowled my most fearsome yowl. I postured and hissed and growled. I fluffed up my tail. He was unfazed. He got up, stretched, and looked at me. Livid at his lack of fear, I swiped at him. He sidestepped my claws.
If I’d been less enraged with jealousy, I would have satisfied myself with this show of aggression and made a dignified dash for the safety of My Lady’s lair, but I didn’t. Instead, I persisted and pounced.
It was about the time that the Big Orange Tom fastened his teeth around my throat that I realized I was about to meet my maker. I won’t claim to have ascended to heaven and stood at the pearly gates, or to have seen my life flash before my eyes, but if I’d had a mother around to yowl for, I would have been soliciting her assistance.
Now you may, quite logically, wonder where Bella was during this attempt on my life, and you may think less of her if you assume that she was standing calmly by like a bloodthirsty spectator at a Roman Coliseum during the days of the gladiators.
You would not be completely wrong in assuming that she declined to join in the fracas personally, but you would not be correct in believing that she stood idly by. The Big Orange Tom had me pinned, but when I dared to open my right eye for a second, I caught a glimpse of Bella high-tailing it for her apartment.
My only hope was that Bella would somehow alert Craig to my plight, and that’s exactly what happened; however, by the time Craig arrived, I no longer needed to be rescued. My savior had already arrived in a most unlikely form.
I’ve never thought of Mastiffs as being good candidates for inclusion in the canine choral society. I doubt I will wake up one morning to discover that a dog of that particular breed has an album out which has suddenly gone platinum, but I will venture to say that until the day I draw my last breath I will count the baying of a Mastiff as one of the most beautiful sounds known to cat.
As the baying got closer, the Big Orange Tom released his grip on my throat. By the time Fred bounded into the parking lot, the Big Orange Tom was leaping the fence separating our complex from the street.
Fred, unaware of his new status of Savior of Felinekind, meandered over to investigate. Normally, I’m not big on having a slobbery snout applied to my abdomen, but in Fred’s case I didn’t mind. Fred nudged me with his nose, and, when I didn’t respond, he sat back on his haunches and waited for signs of life.
That was how Craig and Bella found us. Me, bloody and broken on the pavement. Fred, sitting over me. At first, Craig jumped to the wrong conclusion. He chased Fred off, scooped me up and carried me to the safety of his apartment. Ann was called, and I was hastily bundled into the car and off to the vet.
“You say he was attacked by a dog?” I heard the vet say, as he prepared to put me under. I required stitches, apparently. It was that bad.
“There was a dog standing over him when I found him,” Craig said.
“How big was the dog?”
“Big. A Mastiff.”
“These wounds are much more consistent with a cat fight.”
I didn’t hear the upshot, because about then I faded away from the anesthetic. I remember hazily recalling the old saying, “No good deed goes unpunished,” as the proverbial lights went out.
I guess the vet convinced my human protectors that Fred had not only been innocent in the whole affair, but had, mostly likely, chased away my attacker. I base this on the fact that a few days later, My Lady sent a basket of chew toys and dog biscuits to 12B.
I was relieved. A great injustice had been averted.
I mended up nicely. My stitches came out and the only lasting evidence of my tangle with the ugly orange brute is a large notch in my left ear and a scar over my ri
ght eye. I wear these as badges of honor. I notice that passing Toms eye me with a great deal more respect than previously and defer to me when we cross paths.
Craig and Ann settled into a pleasant routine, going out on weekends, giving Bella and I much needed quiet-time. They stayed in on weeknights, generally at Ann’s. I think our pleasant little existence could have gone on like this indefinitely if Craig’s fiancée hadn’t had the temerity to show up.
Chapter Eight
To be fair to Craig, it was his ex-fiancée who My Lady found standing on her doormat one Sunday morning on returning from an early morning run to the grocery store. I’d followed My Lady up from the parking lot, hoping for an immediate crack at the bag of cat chews I could smell through the shopping bag.
When we got to the top of the stairs, there was a strange woman standing outside of Ann’s door.
“Can I help you?” Ann asked.
“I’m looking for Craig? One of your neighbors said he might be up here.”
It was a flashback to Vanessa, with one major difference: this woman looked imminently more respectable than Vanessa. There was not the slightest whiff of the feral about her. If she were going to be a cat in her next life, she’d be a Selkirk Rex—not that I believe in that sort of thing, but if it is true, I’m convinced that humans will get upgraded to cats, if they keep their Karma clean. Really despicable characters will come back as lobbyists and teacup poodles.
This human version of a Selkirk Rex stood there on the mat, waiting for My Lady to make an intelligent reply.
“Craig’s not here,” Ann said.
It was a start, but it didn’t go very far in establishing who this sleek and elegant creature was, and why she was looking for Craig. I rubbed up against the elegant creature’s leg, just to gauge her reaction. You can tell a lot about a person by rubbing up against their leg. If they shrink back in horror, or make comments about shedding, then you know you’re dealing with a tough customer.
I wound my way in between her black wool-covered pant legs, leaving a liberal layer of cat hair behind. Instead of trying to nudge me away with her foot, she reached down and tickled me under the chin. Normally, I’m all in favor of chin tickling, but I didn’t welcome this turn of events. Elegance and a heart of gold. Not easy to compete with.
“I’m Gwendolyn,” said the elegant creature, and extended a hand in Ann’s direction.
Ann was tangled up in the handles of her grocery bags and had so much trouble extricating the required appendage that Gwendolyn took her hand back and inserted it into the pocket of her coat.
“I’m Ann.”
“I know,” said Gwendolyn. “It’s lovely to meet you. I’ve heard so much about you—”
“Really?” Ann sounded a little frosty. “I haven’t heard a thing about you.”
Gwendolyn looked genuinely surprised and a little embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“No, I’m very glad you did,” said Ann, sounding frostier than ever. “What exactly is it that I’m supposed to have heard about you?”
Just then I heard the sound of running feet on the stairs and a few seconds later Craig appeared. He didn’t say anything for a while—he was so out of breath—and no one else did, either.
“I see you two have met,” Craig said, when he was finally in a condition to speak.
“Yes, we have.” Ann gave him a look that would have made an icicle shiver.
“Hello, Craig.” Gwendolyn gave Craig a hug. Craig hugged her back, but I noticed he kept a maximum amount of distance between them. “I’m sorry I didn’t call first,” Gwendolyn added.
Craig looked sorry she hadn’t called, too, and for a few seconds everyone just stood around looking awkward.
“I just happened to be in town on business, and I thought I’d stop by and see you,” Gwendolyn said.
There was another period of uncomfortable silence and then, because it was abundantly clear that Ann wasn’t going to invite either of them in, Craig said, “My place is downstairs”. He started down, and the creature Gwendolyn followed.
After we got inside, and My Lady had untangled herself from her groceries, she picked up a throw pillow off the couch and gave it a few good punches in the gut. I understood her frustration, but that did nothing to quell my disappointment that she had forgotten all about the bag of cat chews.
Later on that afternoon, Craig came up. Ann let him in, and shut the door behind him, but she stayed standing and so did he.
“Who is she?”
“Who is who?”
That was the wrong approach to take. Playing dumb never works, not even for me and I’m a domestic house pet—a demeaning classification, but nevertheless technically accurate.
“Who is that Gwendolyn woman?” Ann demanded. “And why have I never heard of her?”
“She’s just someone I used to know,” Craig said. “I saw her last month at my cousin’s wedding and—”
“And what? You slept with her?”
“Of course not!” Craig was getting mad. “I mean, not recently.”
“How recently is not recently?”
“Calm down,” said Craig. “It was years ago.”
Never tell a female human to calm down. It’s about as sensible as ordering a slavering pit bull not to bite. It just enrages them.
“Get out!” Ann shouted.
“Why? I don’t understand why you’re mad at me. I didn’t do anything.”
“Yes, you did. You just admitted that you slept with her!”
“I did. But it was years ago, back when Gwendolyn and I were engaged. She’s married to someone else now, if you must know.”
He should have known that this was not the moment to bring up heretofore undisclosed engagements, but Craig evidently lacks experience. Either that, or he has learned nothing from his previous mistakes.
“So you’re having an affair with a married woman?” I don’t think Ann really believed that for a second, but it was a logical escalation of her previous accusations. Arguing is an art form, and My Lady was getting to be something of an expert.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Craig protested.
“Don’t be ridiculous” is even more incendiary than “calm down.” I toyed with the possibility that sometime during his early years Craig had been dropped on his head.
“I don’t want to hear any more right now,” said Ann. She had deflated from enraged to sad in a matter of seconds. She had lost the will to fight, so she finally came out with what was really bothering her. “How come you never told me you’d been engaged?”
“It didn’t come up.”
I could see Ann’s side of things. About a week after she and Craig had become amorous, My Lady had given Craig a complete recitation of her romantic entanglements. She’d gone so far back—fifth grade, to be exact—and into such great detail that Craig had actually fallen asleep in the middle of it and had to be revived by a smart swipe of my paw to the side of his head before My Lady noticed and accused him of disinterest.
“Fine. I’ll leave. We can talk about this later,” Craig said, and left.
At first I thought it was just a spat. I assumed—as with Craig and Ann’s previous conflicts—it would quickly blow over. After all, Craig had done nothing wrong. His only crime was forgetting to tell his current girlfriend about some woman he’d been engaged to at some time in the distant past.
Cat Hater and his various predicates had all committed far greater offenses and gotten away with most of them. I was completely confused, and so was Craig.
I tried to provide Craig with comfort. I purred long and loud when he rubbed my belly. I saved the choicest bits from the proceeds of my hunting excursions and left them as presents on his door mat—a generous gesture which did not make me popular with Craig’s next door neighbor. She didn’t know a tasty mouse liver when she saw one, apparently. I tried not to be too hard on her; we can’t all be born natural gourmets.
M
y efforts to comfort Craig appeared to be in vain. When he wasn’t at work he moped around his apartment. He stopped getting out of his pajamas—or what passed for pajamas, in his case—on the weekends. The only time he seemed to perk up a little was when he got out his guitar and sang songs about lost love in a voice which seemed to suggest that the lyrics were telling his own personal story of heartbreak and despair.
Things were much the same upstairs. Ann stopped washing dishes and confined her cooking to opening boxes of instant macaroni and cheese. In terms of time spent on the couch in front of the television, she was coming close to breaking Cat Hater’s record for back-to-back hours spent staring at the dreadful box. I’m afraid, if she’d been of the male persuasion, she would have kept a bottle at her feet, just to avoid having to get up to answer the call of nature.
Something had to be done, but I couldn’t come up with a solution. Bella and I did our best to jolly our respective humans out of their funks, but no amount of chasing phantom mice up the wall or cute and cuddly posturing made an iota of difference.
Chapter Nine
Within a week or two of Craig and Ann’s bust-up over Gwendolyn, there was another unsettling development.
My Lady started getting calls from creditors trying to track down Cat Hater. The phone would ring, and Ann would listen, tight-lipped, to the person on the other end. The caller would insist it was a life-or-death matter that they speak to James Pigget. When Ann would claim she no longer had any contact with any James Pigget, the person on the other end would become hostile and accuse her of concealing Mr. Pigget’s location. Then, if Ann didn’t hang up quickly enough, the caller would imply that he—Jimmy, that is—was in very serious trouble with them. Random sums of never less than several thousand dollars would be mentioned. The voice on the other end would then go on to imply that if Ann refused to disclose James Pigget’s current contact information she might be personally required to brass up the amount required to retire Jimmy’s debt.