The glass of water in my hand spilled but thankfully did not break as I somersaulted over the humidifier. The landing on my left hip was extremely painful, and my first reaction – as soon as I took stock and realized there were no broken bones, cuts, or concussion – was to sit up and shout God damn it, Annabelle!
Whenever I went into the kitchen or bathroom, she followed me. In the bathroom, she stretched out in the doorway and lay there, forcing me to step over her. In the kitchen, she sat between my feet, forcing me to step over her. On this day, I stepped over her and she unexpectedly moved. I lost my balance trying not to step on her. I grabbed for the door with my free hand and missed, toppled sideways and fell. As I slowly and painfully rose to my feet, I saw her and Thatch running for cover under my bed. I put the glass back on the kitchen counter and reached for the roll of paper towels to mop up the spill, I thought, Jeez, that could have been so much worse. My next reaction was to find her and make sure she was uninjured.
Annabelle! I called. Annabelle! Are you okay?
Are you angry? a small voice called from under the bed.
No . . . but I’m in a lot of pain at the moment. Are you all right?
Yes.
Are you coming out?
No.
Thatch crawled out from under the bed and approached me.
You scared us when you yelled, he said.
I know. I’m sorry. I was scared, too. Let me clean up this spill and lie down. I’m too old for a fall like this.
As I mopped up the water, Annabelle approached me.
I didn’t mean for that too happen, she said. I’m sorry you were hurt.
You have to be careful when I’m walking around the apartment, baby. I hate it when I step on your tail or run into you.
Sometimes I need to be where you are.
Awww, that’s nice. I’m going to lie down now. Do you want to lie down with me?
Yes! Thatch said.
She and Thatch joined me on the bed and we all napped. I stayed in bed for most of the next two days as well. I was in too much pain to move any more than necessary. I fed the babies and myself, cleaned the litter, checked my emails, raged over the political scene on Facebook, ate Aleve like candy, and went back to bed. Annabelle and Thatch loved it because we lay there, dozed, and watched the court shows, the soaps, and Judge Judy.
Daddy, Thatch asked me, are you really a cat? You act like one some days.
So, Annabelle asked me, this is how many psycho bitches on The Bold and the Beautiful?
Too many, Thatch decided.
And this was the beginning of the strangest week.
I was back on my feet after the fall. My left hip was tender, but after two days of lying about, I needed to get the apartment in order and on with my life. In short order things returned to their usual routine. I worked and Annabelle and Thatch created chaos they expected me to clean up.
Annabelle! You didn’t eat this morning. Aren’t you hungry?
She looked at me sadly, and then walked off to the bathroom.
Are you mad at me? I called.
I watched Thatch eat Annabelle’s untouched breakfast, and then went to clean the litter box. Annabelle watched me as pulled the litter box across the litter mat and sifted the litter.
Baby, what’s wrong? I asked her.
Her response was a loud attempt to clear her nose, followed by another. I picked her up, and I could her her breathing in loud rasping gasps. I examined her face, and I could see that her right nostril was completely clogged with dried snot.
Ooh, that’s bad! When did this nose problem start up? I asked her.
This morning, she said. I can’t breathe, I can’t smell a thing, and my head is killing me.
All right, I’ll call the vet. We’ll see Dr. Mohr today, if we can get an appointment. I think I know the problem, but I’m not qualified to clear your sinuses.
I suspected the linen closet was the source of the problem. She and Thatch played in it regularly, and she had set up her office in its depths. Lately, though, I had seen her climbing up to the very top shelf, where she stayed most of the day. It had been so long that I’d used that shelf, I didn’t even know what was stored on it. She said it was a great place to think and not have to worry about Thatch bothering her when she wanted some time to herself. The only problem was, that shelf hadn’t been cleaned in over ten years. The dust had to be an inch deep.
Dr. Mohr confirmed her sinuses were packed with schmutz she had inhaled up there, flushed her nose and sinuses with water, and, after Annabelle sneezed her head off, declared that she seemed fine. As soon as we were home, I closed the linen closet. It was off limits, I told Annabelle and Thatch, until I could clean it out and thoroughly vacuum.
You can’t do that! Annabelle protested. My office is in there.
I like to play in there, Thatch said angrily. What do I do now?
Play with your toys, I told him. You’ve got a toy box full of things you haven’t touched. I promise I will clean that shelf up very soon, and you two can have it back.
Oh, whatever, Annabelle muttered.
She opened a padded envelope from Amazon, and removed a glittery trinket.
Oh, look, Thatch! It’s my new ankle bracelet.
Very nice! he said, as she slipped it onto her back leg. Can I have a watch?
Wait a minute, Missy! I said. I didn’t order that.
Oops! Annabelle said to Thatch.
You’ve been on Amazon again behind my back! I’m returning it.
You’ll have to catch me first, she said.
Laughing, Thatch and Annabelle ran under the bed while I ran to the computer to change my Amazon password.
The next day, Annabelle was back in fine fettle. She gobbled her breakfast, pigged out on her Purina Party Mix treats, talked my ear off on our morning patrol, and spent the afternoon working on her audition book. As I scribbled all over a score with my red pencil, I could hear bits of “Frank Mills,” “Memory,” “Tonight,” and “Glitter and Be Gay.” I was happy she was feeling better.
I took a break, stepped away from my work, and stepped into a pile of vomit.
Annabelle! I called.
The singing stopped.
What?
Did you throw up?
Did I vomit, you mean? No. I feel wonderful today.
Thatch! Thatch, where are you?
Thatch! Annabelle called. Thatch, where are you?
I I headed for the kitchen and the paper towels to clean up the mess and stepped into another bit of vomit.
Oh, no! Thatch! Thatch, where are you? Are you sick, baby?
I grabbed a handful of paper towels and ran back to clean up the messes. Annabelle watched me.
He’s in the bathroom, she told me. He looks awful.
I tossed the used towels into the garbage on my way to the bathroom. There was more vomit on the litter mat just inside the bathroom door. Thatch lay in the litter box. He looked terrible. I picked him up and looked at him. I felt his nose, which is usually ice cold. It was warm.
Thatch! Poor baby, are you sick?
Uh-hun, he said. My tummy’s bad.
Are you calling Dr. Mohr? Annabelle asked me.
Maybe. What did you eat, Thatch?
Uh . . . breakfast . . . a roach in the kitchen . . . maybe something else . . .
Did you sniff at anything new today?
Uh . . . I don’t remember . . . did I? Maybe?
I was thinking back to my morning. I made the bed, tidied the apartment, cleaned the litter, sprayed the walls behind the litter box with an enzyme cleaner to get rid of the urine odors. Thatch had become very careless about his accuracy in hitting the litter box.
Did you use the litter box while Annabelle and I made our patrol?
I don’t remember . . . yes! I did!
Did you sniff the walls?
Uh-huh. I did. They smelled different today.
Damn! It was my error. I had poisoned him. I usually keep the cats out of the bathroom until the enzyme cleaner had thoroughly dried. I was careless this morning. As soon as I sprayed the cleaner, I left with Annabelle and did not close off the bathroom. In February 2008, the building was infested with bedbugs, and every tenant not infested was frantically fighting to keep them out. One Sunday morning, running late to get to my office for some editing work, I dusted my piano with Raid instead of Pledge. Two hours later, at the office, I became violently sick and spent several hours throwing up in the men’s room before I felt well enough to return home, where I was sick for the rest of the day.
Annabelle looked at me.
Is he going to die? Thatch, can I have your Amazon carton?
No, I said, he is not going to die. It was the cleaner that made him sick. He’s nauseated. I think he’ll be fine once it passes through his system. If he’s still sick tomorrow, I take him in to see Dr. Mohr or Dr. Romero.
I carried Thatch into the living area and set him on my bed. He curled up in his daytime sleeping spot on my pillow. I lay down next to him.
I think you’re going to be okay, Thatch. There’s nothing left in your stomach to vomit up. Do you want to nap with me?
Uh-huh.
Me, too, Annabelle said, as she lay down with us.
Okay, I said. We’ll nap for a bit, and then I’ve got to pay some bills. I want to post them tomorrow.
I had five bills to pay, and when our nap was over, I wrote checks. Annabelle insisted on helping me.
I really like passwords, Annabelle told me, as she handed me a check to put into the envelope with the statement.
Yes, I said. I know you do! Or do you just like creating passwords so you and Thatch can keep me from entering the apartment?
They’re good for security, aren’t they Thatch?
Watching the street activity from the windowsill, Thatch turned to look at her.
I like it when we play passwords! He said. It’s fun.
And passwords are so good for computers, too! Aren’t they, Thatch?
Are they?
I’ve got three different ones I use, and Daddy has a lot. Let’s see if we can guess all of Daddy’s passwords.
Passwords are very necessary, Thatch, I said. They protect me from Annabelle’s Amazon purchases.
What? she said, surprised. What do you mean?
It means, I said, that I see through your little phishing game here, Annabelle. You’re trying to pry that new Amazon password out of me.
I – I – well, I don’t know what you mean, she said indignantly. She handed me another check.
I saw you trying to log onto Amazon this afternoon.
I was going to Google.
Enjoy that ankle bracelet, darling’, I told her. You’re not getting back on Amazon behind my back ever again!
Busted! Thatch yelled from the windowsill.
I hate you both! Annabelle yelled as she jumped off my worktable.
By chance, before I stuffed the check into the envelope, I looked at it. It was a check for $1,000, payable to “Miss Annabelle!” I looked at the envelope. It was addressed to Annabelle at our West 82nd Street address. I counted six envelopes. Six! I watched Annabelle slink under the bed.
My, my, my! I mused, Five bills to be paid and six, yes! six! envelopes with checks. Aren’t we sneaky, Annabelle? Come back here, Missy!
Thatch laughed. Is Annabelle in trouble again?
I tell you, Thatch, it’s only when I cannot turn my back on her that I know she’s feeling fine. Our little girl will end up on stage or in jail.
Just then the phone rang, and I answered it.
Mr. Moore? R.U. Fémos here. I think I may have some work for Annabelle.
Oh, Mr. Fémos! How are you?
As soon as she heard his name, the offended Annabelle peeked from under the bed, slowly inched out from under it, and sauntered over to me.
What? She asked. What’s he want? What?
His curiosity aroused, Thatch jumped from the windowsill and joined Annabelle. Looking up at me, they sat at my feet.
I’m quite well, Mr. Moore. Are you aware of the Irish Rep?
Yes! I love their work. My friend Josh works quite a lot for them.
Well, I saw their producer, Charlotte Moore, earlier this week. Are you two related, by any chance? I know it’s none of my business, but I thought i would ask.
No, no relation, though I am quite fond of Charlotte. She’s so lovely!
Yes, she is. Well, I gather from my conversation with Charlotte that they will be doing a new musical by some Irish writers-
Is my friend, John Bell, musical directing?
Uh, I think so. He was with Charlotte at the party.
Excellent! He works with them a lot.
But that’s not why I’m calling. Charlotte said she needed a cat for the production. I think Annabelle would be perfect.
Fantastic! I said. She needs something to keep her out of trouble. I glared at her. She gave me one of her innocent what-did-I-do? glances
Well, as soon as I know more, I will call you about taking her down to the theatre.
That’s great! Thank you so much, Mr. Fémos. I will let Annabelle know about this.
Annabelle jumped onto the computer table to be closer to the phone. We said our goodbyes, and I hung up the phone. Completely over her pique, Annabelle anxiously danced around the computer table.
What’s he want? What’s he want?
He says there will be a role for a cat at the Irish Rep. Are you interested?
Well, duh! Look at me! I’m perfect! Annabelle said.
Does the Pope wear a tall hat? Thatch asked. What’s the show?
Well, it’s the Irish Rep, so it’s got to be an Irish musical. Maybe it’s an Irish play with songs, like The Hostage?
What if I need to speak with an Irish dialect? She demanded. I must be prepared!
For the next couple of days, we watched Darby O’Gill and the Little People and The Quiet Man, and listened to the recordings of The Hostage and Juno and the Paycock. Annabelle spent hours on the computer to learn more about the Irish. I noticed that she tried to log onto Amazon but the password didn’t work. She tried several times before she returned to Google. I said nothing.
After looking at Google images of Irish men and women, she said to me, There seems to be a lot of redheads in Ireland! Look! Maureen O’Hara has such such pretty red hair.
Redheads are also referred to as ginger-haired persons, I said.
Really? Let me look that up!
Didn’t I read about an annual Irish Redhead Convention?
You know, that color of hair looks a lot like Thatch’s coloring, she said.
Let me see! Thatch jumped onto the computer table. They looked over the photos of Irish redheads.
Well, I said, I suppose you could say that Thatch’s coat is white and ginger colored. It’s a very pretty color, and I think it suits you, Thatch.
Does that mean I’m Irish? Faith and begorrah!
©2018, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 