Annabelle and I made our morning patrol. It was no success: she didn’t want to pay calls, she didn’t want to patrol, all she wanted to do was lounge like Cleopatra on the steps, on the floor, on the windowsill. I knew giving her that Claudette Colbert DVD set would come back to haunt me.
So, once I realized she wasn’t interested in exploring this morning or paying calls, I dragged her home after 15 minutes of artistic posing on the stairs. When we got back to the apartment, Thatch was waiting at the door for us.
Daddy, we have a big problem.
What is it, Thatch?
The litter box. Annabelle’s not cleaning up after herself, and I have to live with it.
I wondered how long it would take before he complained. Annabelle, for all her daintiness and grace, is a total slob about the litter box. Several weeks ago, she left a really vile mess, which she refused to bury, and it nearly suffocated Thatch and me. Just as I was passing out on the bathroom floor, brave little Thatch, who is fastidious in his grooming and toilet training, jumped into the box and buried it. So, Thatch got to wear a gold star all day, and it went very nicely with his orange and white coat. Annabelle was jealous because she never gets to wear a gold star.
If you’d behave, you might get a gold star, Missy, I told her, but I seriously doubt that will ever happen.
I’m a rebel, she snapped. And a star. And stars deserve gold stars.
At the rate you’re going, Missy, you will never, ever, ever get a gold star. I think Thatch has a right to be unhappy about the litter. Your aim is pathetic and you never bury anything.
Have I ever missed the box?
No, I admitted.
Then what’s the problem? She climbed onto the table to paw through her new issue of Backstage. Aww, when’s someone going to produce CATS? she moaned.
I opened the refrigerator. I knew from Thatch’s prancing around the refrigerator that he was waiting for his morning treat. He gets a bit of deli turkey every morning when I have my breakfast and a second treat when he takes his heart medicine after dinner.
I think you’re feeling listless, Annabelle, because you need more to do, I suggested.
Thank you, Dr. Freud.
Who? Thatch wanted to know. Who’s Dr. Floyd?
Aw, come on, Annabelle whined. Give me a treat, too! I’m hungry.
I’m sorry, Annabelle, I said. I have to cut down on your treats. You’re turning into a little Pudgy Wudgy.
A few weeks before, I had received a carton of two large bottles of Liquid Tide. As soon as I had emptied the carton, Annabelle dived in, and she got stuck. She looked like five pounds of sausage in a one-pound bag. I had to tear apart the carton to free her. She blamed it on a sloppy dive, but I thought my little girl’s derriere was showing a weight gain.
She looked stunned by my comment. Pudgy Wudgy? How rude! I bet nobody called Ethel Merman “Pudgy Wudgy” and lived!
Pudgy Wudgy! Pudgy Wudgy! Thatch laughed.
Thatch! Do you want me to take away your daily treat?
No, Daddy.
Then be kind to your sister. We need to support her through this diet.
Now wait just one minute, everybody, Annabelle pulled herself up to her full height. I don’t think a certain person who can afford to lose – what? – maybe forty or sixty pounds has any room to criticize my weight.
Well, she had me there, and she knew that I knew it. Thatch looked stunned, as if he didn’t know whether to applaud, laugh, or crawl into a hole until it blew over. Annabelle gave me a dirty look and jumped off the table.
Well, that deserves a gold star! she said. There’s nothing for me in Backstage this week, so I’m going back to bed.
Thatch tapped her with his paw.
Tag! You’re it!
And he ran under the bed. She chased him. Thank God she’s easily distracted.
Several days later, I took Annabelle to the vet. Far too often since her dental work her lower lip had been catching on something, and it made her mouth look as if she had suffered a stroke. I was concerned about a possible health issue, and she was concerned because I had promised her new headshots and she wanted to look her best.
Are you sick, Annabelle? Thatch asked us as soon as we came in the door.
Only sick at heart, Thatch, was her woebegone response. She jumped out of the carrier and melodramatically slouched across the room to the cat tree.
Our Sarah Bernhardt is fine, Thatch, I said. I only took her to see Dr. Mohr because I was afraid she might be sick. She’s healthy as a horse, but . . . well, I was right . . .
Annabelle groaned.
What? Thatch jumped up and down in anticipation. Tell me! Tell me!
Our little girl needs to lose a few ounces.
Pudgy Wudgy!
Be nice, Thatch, I warned him.
I need an acting job, Annabelle moaned. There’s nothing in Backstage this week. Eating consoles me
You know, this means no more ice cream before bed.
No! It’s good for my complexion, she said.
And less Purina Party Mix.
No! No! No! You’re killing me.
And I think you need to run a mile every day.
A mile? A mile?
I’ll run with you, Annabelle, Thatch went to her side.
Oh, Thatch, you are my only friend here!
You know, Annabelle, I said, I’m always seeing articles and news clips about stars working out in gyms. They have to be fit so they can make their workout videos.
I went to the computer and looked on Amazon. I wonder if there’s something like a “South Beach Diet” for cats? I said to her.
Annabelle groaned again, a little more dramatically.
I found it! I cried. Annabelle, I knew there had to be something. I’m ordering a book for you. We’ll get it on Monday.
I shudder, Annabelle said. What is it?
Exactly what we need. The Catkins Diet!
Thatch, I need a treat after this trauma. Let’s have some ice cream. Maybe a nap?
The next morning, while I was at the corner market, Annabelle got online and ordered workout clothing for her and Thatch and The Kitty’s Health Big Book of Exercises. When I confronted her, she looked haughtily at me from the keyboard. I could see that she had been Googling Lo-Cal Cat Treats.
Thatch and I need them for my workout program. Can you think of any good DVDs I should order?
Why don’t you simply follow Thatch’s regimen of chasing ping-pong balls and jumping and running everywhere? He must cover a couple of miles a day. In January, you two wanted to be in the Olympics and you were jumping all over the apartment like frogs.
Well, you know, she said, we stars go through moods. And besides, I need good workout clothes so I will look fabulous when I star in my fitness videos.
Fitness videos? Why don’t you get fit first?
I think you need to hire a PR man for me. I want my public to know the ordeal I’m going through for my art.
Your public? Annabelle, I love you dearly, but your public is Thatch, Val, our friends, and half a dozen freeloading pigeons on the fire escape.
Annabelle gave an exasperated sigh and climbed down from the computer. She strolled to the cat tree and stretched out.
Is it ready, Thatch?
I’m coming, Annabelle!
With some effort Thatch entered from the kitchen carrying a tray as big as he is. It held a glass of a green liquid. He toddled over to her and she took the glass.
Thank you, Thatch, she said graciously. The Diva turned to me. Thatch has brought me my morning green tea.
Hmmm. I said. Something tells me the only workout in this apartment will be Thatch’s stepping and fetching for you.
She pointedly ignored me as she sipped her tea. I made the bed, washed their dishes, and cleaned the litter. When we stepped out for our morning patrol, Thatch ran for the cat tree. He needed a rest before she returned. Her requests are endless and exhausting. Lucky for her, his affection is boundless, and he was working so hard to help her with her weight loss.
Every time we go out for our run, he told me, she stops for a snack after one lap. Then she wants to lie down. We’ll never run a mile.
A snack?
A couple of roaches, and then she poses in her workout clothes. The video is going to be really good . . . if she works out.
Well, I told him, maybe I can get her to run up and down five flights of stairs. Will you get as nap when we go out?
After I prepare her tea.
He headed for the kitchen, and Annabelle and I prepared to pay calls.
Okay, Annabelle, are we paying calls today or do you simply want to lie on the linoleum in the hall?
I love linoleum! It’s so cool. I could lie here all day. There’s a nice breeze. It’s so much cooler here than inside the apartment. Can we move into the hall for the summer?
No. We cannot. Now do you want to pay calls or lie here?
I want to pay calls. I want to alert everyone to my workout DVD plans.
Oh, Lord, I thought. She hasn’t done anything to lose weight except to watch Thatch run and fetch for her, and our star is already publicizing a workout video!
I think we need to talk about what Thatch is doing to help out, I said rather cautiously.
Ah, dear, dear Thatch! Such a help.
Still lying on the linoleum, she pushed herself along the floor.
I don’t want you taking advantage of his devotion to you, I said.
She stopped moving and flashed me a nasty look.
You just love him more than you do me. I always suspected it.
No, that’s not what I said, and it’s not true.
I only report on what I observe, and you play favorites. Yes, you do! You do.
I love both of my babies. I will admit that I don’t feel so protective of you because you are strong and assured and confident. You are the most determined little kitty I know.
I am? Really?
I could tell she was flattered,
Oh, yes, you are. I have to keep an eye on him because of his health-
You worry too much.
I know. You think I’m over-protective. He has a bad heart-
But it’s such a good heart.
Yes, it is. Still, he’s your little brother, not your maid.
What were you saying about me again? Assured? Determined? What else did you say? I have to remember this for my memoirs.
Let’s pay calls.
And how soon can you hire my press agent?
Soon. Let’s go.
Let me just lie here for a minute. Is it always this warm in June?
Let’s go home.
The next morning, when I finished washing their dishes and cleaning the litter, I realized that Thatch hadn’t been chattering at me while I worked. He talks about his toys, Annabelle’s musical, his plans for the day. When Annabelle comes in to check on me, she tells me what I’m doing wrong.
So, where was he, I wondered.
Annabelle, where’s Thatch? I asked her.
She was in the cat tree watching the pigeons on the fire escape. She regarded me with a don’t-bother-me-now look.
He’s hiding. He’s been playing Floyd Collins all morning. It was boring.
Are you going to tell me where he is?
No. He’s hiding in a cave. And it’s time for my snack.
Fine.
So, I went about my day. If Thatch were playing and having a good time, I didn’t want to disturb him. He spends too much time stepping and fetching for Annabelle, so I want him to have some personal time. I had completed a couple of my usual daily tasks – making the bed, washing out their bowls, cleaning out the litter box – but I still needed to straighten the throw rugs, fill the humidifier, and pick up the toys before I could get to my own work. I knew that sooner or later Thatch would get hungry and ask me for a snack.
He’s playing Floyd Collins? I thought. What passes for a cave in this apartment? I hope he hasn’t gone down that hole in the closet. I checked; his miner’s hat was not on the rack. He wouldn’t go exploring without Annabelle. Maybe he was under the bed.
Annabelle’s right. I am over-protective.
By the time I had tidied up the apartment, Annabelle was sleeping in the cat tree, and I thought, maybe I’ll lie down for a bit. A little nap, and then I’ll get to work. I stretched out on my bed and closed my eyes.
Ow! Thatch yelled.
Thatch? Where are you?
You squashed me.
Then I noticed the lump under my quilt at the foot of the bed. I sat up and raised the edge of the quilt. There was my little Floyd Collins wearing his miner hat. The light shined in my eyes.
Thatch? There you are!
I’ve been exploring a cave.
I’ve never thought of Grandma’s quilt as a cavern. Did you find anything?
It was fun.
You know, you’re past your snack time. Did you fall asleep?
Yes. I was tired.
Would you like your snack now?
Annabelle jumped from the cat tree to the bed. I’d like a snack, please. I think it’s time for my green tea, Thatch.
Thatch removed his miner hat and set it on my bed. He sighed.
I have to get to work.
He headed for the kitchen. I followed him.
Well, have your snack first, Cinderella.
What does that mean, Annabelle asked.
Nothing, Drusilla, I answered her.
A few days later, we had begun our morning patrol, and the first thing she saw was the neighbor’s bicycle parked in the hall. He has no problems leaving things outside his apartment, from stacks of lumber – don’t ask why! – to old furniture, crates of books, magazines, and his art supplies, but he sure raises a stink if anyone else on the floor does it. He was a major pain about things I left in the hall when the elevator was out for six weeks and I couldn’t take garbage to the basement.
Now what is this? Annabelle asked me before running across the hall to inspect it.
That’s a bicycle, Annabelle. Haven’t you ever seen one before?
If I had, do you think I would ask what it was? She raised herself up on her back legs to check out the front wheel.
Now wait a minute! You saw them in Central Park-
No, I dodged them in Central Park. Who had time to look?
Didn’t you see the photo of Val with his bike?
I’d like to. Do you have one of these bicycles?
I did years ago. When I was in college, I rode one everywhere. It was stolen. Several years later I was given a really fine one for Christmas. I gave it up when I moved here from Ohio.
She had circled it twice, sniffing every inch of it.
These wheels have been a lot of places.
Not as many as those Amazon cartons, I reminded her. We walked down the hall to the stairs.
Can Thatch and I have one?
What? A bicycle?
Yes! Can we?
It would be good for you, but they don’t come in kitty sizes.
Well, they should. I’ll bring it up in the DVD commentary.
Next you’ll want roller skates, Missy.
And the moon, she added.
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 