18. THE DENTIST

Annabelle jumped onto the computer table and opened the new Backstage. Then she sneezed. Then she sneezed again.

Again.

And again.

These sneezing bouts have started up again. They worry me.

Annabelle, I said, I think you have to see Dr. Mohr. I’m serious. I am very worried about these sneezing and breathing issues.

Thatch put down his catnip fish and jumped onto the table to join her. Two heads looked over the screen at me. Annabelle took a deep breath, which sounded like a long fart, then put down the Backstage.

I’m allergic to Thatch, she giggled. Then she had another round of four or five continuous sneezes.

What’s allergic? Thatch asked.

Play nice, I warned.

I was teasing you, Thatch. She picked up the Backstage, looked through it and put it down in disgust. When’s someone casting CATS? I’m ready to audition.

Well, I said, I think my little girl needs these breathing issues addressed before she sings in public.

People love my voice, she replied indignantly.

She started “Memory,” and Thatch joined in with her. They ran to the window and serenaded the birds, who stopped fighting over the food and applauded.

You see? she said.

I see your breathing problems cause you to breathe in awkward places. I also noticed something else, I said. Did you not see it, Annabelle?

What?

Thatch, I said. He just jumped up to the computer. He’s getting really strong legs.

She and Thatch both yelled, NINJA! Then they rolled around the floor laughing at their silliness.

Silly babies, I muttered. So, let me call Dr. Mohr.

If you insist. I don’t think I need a doctor.

And she sneezed again. And again.

She actually likes taking the bus to the vet. Unlike Thatch who cries in terror when I produce his pet carrier, she sings, talks to strangers, and everyone oohs and aahs and remarks on how pretty she is. If she had a pen, she’d sign autographs.

That reminds me. I promised her new headshots.

Well, the trip to City Vet was an event. For several weeks Annabelle was tested for an Upper Respiratory Infection, X-rayed for polyps, treated for allergies, and still the breathing and sneezing issues continued. After the test for polyps turned up negative, Dr. Mohr suggested that maybe her broken tooth might be abscessed, and that could be the source of the problem.

I will not get in that carrier. I won’t! I won’t! Annabelle jumped off my bed and crawled under it, where she knows I’m too big to follow her.

Annabelle! Please! For Daddy?

No! No! No! Whenever you drag that carrier out, it’s bad for me lately.

Or me! yelled Thatch from the top of the bookcase. He and Annabelle were wearing their lederhosen. They had been climbing the Matterhorn all morning and yodeling. I always expect them to sing “Climb Every Mountain.”

Thatch, I said to him, you’re right. When you came to live here, you were really sick and I had to take you to the vet to help you get healthy and happy.

It hurt my eyes.

I know, and the medicine for your cold tasted lousy, but it made you better. It seemed to take forever for you to get well, but you now have the brightest button eyes. Look how handsome you are now.

He blushed. I am?

You’re the handsomest little boy on the Upper West Side. Tell your sister she has to get in the carrier.

He jumped down onto my bed and landed next to the carrier. He sniffed it.

This isn’t Annabelle’s. It’s mine.

Sorry.

I carried it back to the closet and dragged out the other carrier. As I turned back, I saw Annabelle crawl out from under the bed and run for the bathroom.

Annabelle! Thatch yelled. Daddy says to get in the carrier.

No! I don’t want to go to the dentist.

We didn’t actually go to the dentist. Annabelle had to go for a pre-anesthetic blood test; she will be anesthetized while the dental work is performed, and so she needed to be checked out for any possible health issues. We rode down to 72nd Street on the Broadway bus, and she complained all the way.

Is this going to hurt? I’m getting too large for this carrier. I bet Mary Martin was never treated like this. Will this hurt? Patti Lupone would never put up with this.

Passengers oohed and aahed over her, but she wasn’t in a good enough mood to appreciate their kind comments or good wishes. When we got to the vet, she was the only cat there. We watched several dogs and puppies come and go. She was so anxious she didn’t speak to any of them. A pretty young assistant came from the surgery and took the carrier into the back.

Don’t hurt her, I said as I handed the carrier over, and Annabelle yelled, Will this hurt?

Within ten minutes, the young lady carried Annabelle out from the surgery.

You are so busted, Annabelle muttered. She was not happy.

I booked her dental appointment for April 10th and carried her to the bus stop. The ride home was almost as bad as the ride down. Usually she lets everyone admire her and she talks to them. If she’s really happy, she sings. She wasn’t happy. She refused to talk to me until we got off the bus and walked to the apartment.

That hurt, she said. They stuck a needle in me. I didn’t like it.

They needed to check your blood so they don’t hurt you when you see the dentist. It’s all for your own good.

I don’t want to see the dentist. I’m not going back. They stuck a needle in me. It hurt. I didn’t like it.

They used a needle to microchip Thatch, and he didn’t cry at all, I said. Do you remember when you were microchipped?

Yes. It hurt. A lot.

I know you’re braver than he is. He’s still a baby, and he’s a bit timid.

He’s not timid.

You don’t notice how jumpy he can get? When he eats, he checks to see that no one’s going to take it or jump him.

I hadn’t noticed that.

You’re the only one he’s really comfortable around. I don’t think he had an easy time before he came to live with us.

Really? He never says anything.

Annabelle, you’re his safety zone. He loves you. He loves you so much he would walk through fire for you. When you two were saving everyone from goblins, he was scared to death, but he wouldn’t let you go alone. That’s love.

When the elevator opened on the third floor, we could hear Thatch crying through the door.

Annabelle? Daddy?

Thatch, I said, you knew we were going to the vet. Did you cry the whole time we were gone?

I don’t cry, he sniffed. I’m tough. I’m Ninja Cat.

As soon as I released her from the carrier, Annabelle did her little polka step around Thatch.

Are you okay, Thatch? Thatch? Are you okay?

I missed you, he said.

Did you, Thatch? She rubbed against him and licked his ear. Then she danced away.

Thatch? Thaaaaatch? Are you okay?

She danced back. Thaaaatch! Did you miss me?

He laughed. Annabelle, you’re silly.

I picked him up and kissed him.

Nope. Your sister is one smart cookie.

Because Annabelle was going through enough anxiety over her April 10 appointment I can’t tell her how terrified I’ve been of dentists all my life beginning with a horribly violent session with a drunken Dr. Liggett around 1950. I was scarred for life. I hoped her dental work would go smoothly because things were tough enough with Thatch’s medicine for his heart. Every night, as soon as 6:30 arrives, Annabelle put on her nurse’s cap so that we could give his nightly dose to a protesting Thatch, who climbs the luggage to hide in the closet, crawls under the bed, races around the apartment, and fights the two of us all the way.

I was just like you, Thatch, I tell him once we’ve caught him. I was always afraid the doctor would give me a pill and follow it with a shot.

After the medicine, I give him some deli turkey and it cheers him right up. Annabelle, who loves a good treat, only has a small piece so that Thatch can have most of it. Once this nightly trauma is over, Thatch relaxes and we all play. Annabelle teaches him dance steps or a new song. She’s been watching Broadway choreography on Youtube and driving Thatch and me crazy with the DVD of Cats. Just before it’s bedtime, I read to them. We’re on A Child’s Garden of Verses.

And two weeks later, I needed to get Annabelle to the vet between 8:30 and 9:00.  I figured that if we left the apartment around 8:00, I could feed Thatch just before we left. Since Annabelle could have no food after midnight, I couldn’t feed him with her running about the apartment. That was too cruel.

I told you, I don’t need a dentist, Annabelle complained as I stuffed her into her carrier.

Yes, you do. We’re taking care of your broken tooth, and that just might take care of your sneezing and breathing problems.

I’m getting too big for this carrier. And I haven’t eaten in ten hours! I’m hungry.

Thatch, who was fed as soon as she was in the carrier, piped up, This is good salmon, Annabelle!

Salmon? she shrieked. I’m starving! I’m not going to the dentist. You can’t make me.

But I can, I said as I carried her out the door of the apartment.

All the way down the elevator to the Broadway bus stop she continued to complain. On the bus, she told people she was being kidnapped, that she was being starved, that she would likely never be seen again. As I left the bus, she was screaming, Help me! Help! Call the police! Help!!

It’s just the dentist, I told her as we walked down 72nd Street. You’ll be perfectly fine.

I know this will hurt. Will they stick me with needles?

This is for your own good. You know I love you. Now behave yourself. You’ll look good in your new headshots.

You promised me those ages ago.

Well, I haven’t forgotten.

While I filled out the forms, I got very alarmed: If something goes wrong, can they resuscitate? If saving her life costs millions, will I pay it? Realizing I had maybe enough money in my account for a cup of coffee, I lied and agreed to everything. I thought, maybe Thatch can find a job that pays a fortune.

I also thought, I really dread leaving my babies here. When I left Thatch, we learned that he had a heart problem, and when I left Annabelle three weeks ago, she made my life hell for weeks after.

When the technician carried Annabelle back to the clinic, she asked, Are you going to feed me? I’m starving.

I headed home to wait for the call to pick her up.

Where’s Annabelle? Thatch asked when I came in the door.

She’ll be there until I pick her up after 4:00. They’ll call me.

We spent the day playing with his ball game, napping, and watching the soaps. Around 2:30, the dentist called to tell me that Annabelle had great teeth, and they were ready to do the surgery. I could pick her up after 5:30.

I hope she’s behaving, I thought. She hasn’t eaten in sixteen hours. Sixteen hours?

I arrived at the vet at 5:45. The receptionist said to me, I met Annabelle for the first time today. She’s one of the sweetest cats. All the technicians loved her.

While I was waiting for the charges to be tallied and the dentist to speak to me about the follow-up care, a dog owner sitting next to me asked me what pet I had.

The most adorable cat in the world, I said, and then I started to cry. I had been so worried for her all day: what if she had a bad reaction to the anesthesia? What if they found serious problems? What if something went wrong? What if? What if . . .

The receptionist told me she had my bill ready, and I paid it.

The reason it’s taking so long to bring Annabelle out, she said, is because all the technicians are saying goodbye to her.

The dentist came out and gave me her follow-up instructions. All I could think of was, poor Thatch! He’s going to suffer through the next two weeks with Annabelle. She can only have soft food, and that means no dry or hard treats for them for two weeks. He loves his dry Meow Mix. The good news was that she was on a strong pain medication that should last the next two days. I didn’t want her to be in pain.

Annabelle was brought out, drugged and glassy-eyed, but pissing and moaning all the way home. She wouldn’t shut up. I got a taxi and we headed for home.

I haven’t eaten in twenty hours! I’m starving.

They told me you behaved beautifully and that you were adorable. They all loved you. Are you in pain?

No. I’m hungry. And they stuck me with needles.

I’ll feed you as soon as we’re home. Thatch has missed you. I missed you.

That’s nice. Are you crying?

No, it’s allergies.

Annabelle’s next two days were quiet and things around the apartment went nicely. There was no vomiting or bleeding when she got home, and by the time the pain medication wore off two days later, she seemed back to her old self.

Annabelle, you got some flowers! I shouted after I signed for them and closed the door.

For me? I never get flowers. Who sent them?

Val –

How sweet of him. He loves me!

And Heidi, his wife, I added.

She’s nice, too.

She withdrew to the covered bed, where she was playing the invalid role with Thatch as her lovelorn swain.

Why are you chewing on that plastic bag? I asked her.

My stitches itch.

How do you feel?

I really hate this soft food. And I miss my Party Mix treats.

I’m sorry. I’ll try another brand of soft food, but I can’t give you anything but the paté for another week.

Thatched tugged on my pants, I want my Meow Mix.

I’m sorry, Thatch, no dry food until Annabelle’s mouth has healed.

A week later, Annabelle and I returned to City Vet, and Dr. Mohr said everything had healed nicely.

I am so glad that’s over, Annabelle told me as we waited for the bus. No more of that soft paté!

The bus was crowded, and because she was happy, she was noisy so that everyone would notice her and compliment her. She sang, she chatted away, and I was so happy for her that I could only smile and nod at the passengers’ compliments. Her invalid act was over, and she and Thatch spent the next days in parties with the pigeons, playing on the computer, visits with Val, new plans, and various toys and games.

On Saturday night Annabelle insisted we watch Oliver! She thinks Nancy would be a good role for her when she’s older. So, I made us some treats – soft deli turkey and vanilla ice cream for them and cheese and crackers for me – and she, Thatch, and I curled up on my bed and settled in for a good time. Whether she knew the song or not, Annabelle sang along. She and I were having a wonderful time.

You know, Thatch, she said, after Oliver, Nancy, Bet, Fagin, and the boys sang “I’d Do Anything,” I thought, we could sing that at parties. We’d be really good.

Whenever she brings up party performances, I worry that she’ll drag up her Catt Family Singers idea and suggest I adopt five more kitties. Maria Trapp she ain’t.

Thatch did not seem interested, and he loves to sing with Annabelle. Usually, when we watch a musical, he sings along with her, but he was quiet and restless. As soon as Bill Sykes beat Nancy to death, Thatch became extremely agitated, as he jumped on and off my bed several times before running into the bathroom, crying TURN IT OFF!

What’s going on? I asked.

Annabelle ran after him, and I could hear her soothing him as he cried. She’s very good at taking care of us when she’s not being a little brat or a spoiled princess. It wasn’t his usual baby crying when she picks on him; these were deep wracking sobs from his gut.

The next morning, Thatch wouldn’t say much. We all have our moods, and I thought it was best if I let him talk to me when he wanted. At one point, when he turned down a treat, I asked him what was wrong.

Nothing, he said.

He usually floats through the day, carefree and happy to tag along after Annabelle, plotting with her, helping her with her musical, chasing Ping-Pong balls, or tossing that catnip fish, so, on our apartment patrol, while Annabelle and I sat on the stairs to the fifth floor before walking back down, I asked her what happened in the bathroom.

How much do you know about him? she asked me.

Well, when I adopted him, he was just a baby, only a couple of months old. It took him a while to settle in.

Do you know where he lived? Or how he lived?

The agency said he was rescued from the roof of a garage in the Bronx-

Where people were mean, threw rocks at his family, and tortured them? They had to beg for food. Only Thatch and his sister were rescued.

Did he tell you all that?

Yes, and a lot more. That movie really upset him. I’m so sorry I suggested it.

I had long suspected that Thatch had a tough background. He had occasional nightmares. Some nights, when he crawled into bed with me, he would lie next to me and whimper. My concern was always gaining his trust and letting him know he was safe with Annabelle and me from whatever haunted him.

You know, I said to her, I met his sister when I adopted him. She’s very pretty. She looks just like him. She played with my shoelaces. I’m surprised the agency didn’t want me to adopt both of them. I would have, too.

Annabelle laughed. Two Thatches would drive me crazy!

What about your Catt Family Singers plan? Three babies would be bad enough but seven singing kitties would drive me crazy, Missy!

You would be manager of seven artistes, not seven babies.

Oh no, Missy, you two are plenty. I have my hands full keeping up.

Will Thatch be okay?

I hope so. I guess when you’re a starring as Nancy in Oliver!, Thatch won’t come to your opening night with me.

He’ll come; I know it. He’ll cheer and throw flowers. He loves me and I love him.

You were right. “I’d Do Anything” is perfect for you two.

You could sing it with us.

No. My performing days are long over. Now I’m Daddy to the Star.

Not our manager?

Nope. Never, never, never, never! as Thatch says.

He does like to reinforce his statements.

So, Missy, shall we go home and try to cheer up the baby?

Then we can check out Backstage and listen to CATS.

I stood up and put Annabelle on my shoulder. We started down the stairs to the apartment. Thatch was at the door, waiting for us.

You okay, Thatch? I asked him.

Did you miss us, Thatch? Annabelle asked us.

No, he said. Ninja Cat is tough.

We love you, Ninja Cat, I said.

After some cajoling on Annabelle’s part, she and Thatch drove me crazy singing “Memory” again and again and again, and when the pigeons on the fire escape started singing along, I was ready to kill. He seemed much happier after that. Then Annabelle asked him for help with a problem in her musical, and all the turmoil over Oliver! became a thing of the past.

Yes, that’s right. Annabelle and Thatch are writing a musical.

They retreated to her office on top of the bookcases to mull over whatever the musical’s problem might be, and I had some orange juice.

And vodka.

A lot.

 

©2018, Larry Moore