After wrestling Annabelle to the floor in a desperate attempt to clean her gunk-filled nose with a damp cotton ball, I added insult to injury by another round of wrestling when I tried to force some nose drops for babies into her sinuses. I wrapped her in a towel and she fought her way out of it; I held her down and each time the drops got close to her nose, she yanked her head away. No matter what I told her about its being for her own good, she refused to listen. She climbed onto my shoulders and onto my head where I couldn’t reach her before she tried to escape through a closed door. The battle was fierce, and my arms and chest were covered in scratches from her flailing legs. She had four, but I swear during the wrestling that she had eight to twelve legs, all holding lethal claws, razor-like weapons of destruction.
Leaving me lying in a battered and too-bloody heap between the toilet, the water dish, and the litter box, she leaped out of my grasp, turned to me and yelled, I HATE YOU! Before she left the bathroom, she turned back to me and hissed, you bastard! She ran into the living area and vanished under the bed.
That went very badly, Thatch observed.
I sat up on the bathroom floor. You have a flair for understatement, Thatcher, I told him.
She’s mad, really mad, Thatch said. I’ve never seen her this mad. Oh, yes, I have.
She has quite a temper. I rubbed Neosporin all over the scratches on my arms and chest. Let me tell you, Thatch: I will never again, ever, try to dose a cat in my underwear.
Why was she in your underwear? Thatch asked.
Spare me your humor, Mister Sassy!
You were rough. She doesn’t feel well.
I wouldn’t be rough if she would simply let me apply the nose drops. They’re for her own good.
I don’t like medicine, Thatch said.
I know. You fight me over your heart medicine, too. Daddy loves you, you know.
I stood up and began straightening the debris of the battle. I didn’t know if she were really sick or her allergies were the problem. We had been through every possible test for these congestion issues, I had a humidifier, a vaporizer, and an air purifier running full time, and nothing seemed to relieve her respiratory issues. Each visit to Dr. Mohr to have her sinuses flushed cost me around $100. I couldn’t afford that every week.
Okay, I said, let me check on her.
I think she’s hiding from you, Thatch observed.
Thatch, I am so happy you’re healthy.
Then why do I have to take that heart medicine every night?
Thatch, I can’t address that. I will say that I’m happy it appears to be helping you. Let’s find Annabelle.
Well, we didn’t.
Whenever I think I know every one of her hideouts, she adds another. If Thatch knew where she was, he diplomatically stayed out of the way and kept quiet. I dressed and went about my day. I went down to bother my friend Josh at City Center, I went to market for some turkey for the cats, and when I got home, I lay down upon the bed for a little nap. Thatch joined me, curled up beside me, and we watched a bit of Dr. Phil.
Why do you watch this? he asked me.
It beats changing the channel, and Judge Judy’s next. I usually nap through most of it. Has Annabelle come out of hiding?
She was out for a bit. She sounds terrible, she can’t eat because her nose is clogged, and she can’t smell a thing. She did like the latest Amazon carton, so I let her sleep in it. As soon as she heard your key in the door, she hid. She’s really, really, really mad at you. She said you were too rough and no one would dare to treat Mary Martin like that.
Mary Martin can do her own nose drops, I thought, but I said, she told me this morning that she hated me. I don’t want her to hate me.
I hate you, too, sometimes, even if I do love you. Give her time, Thatch advised. Don’t you say love and hate go together?
Yes, I do, but it never applies to you and Annabelle. I happily let you two get away with murder because I love you.
Murder?
It’s an expression of speech.
English has too many subtleties for me.
I laughed and drifted off to sleep. After a bit, Thatch nudged me and asked, what’s a uterus? That guest just told Dr. Phil she has seven!
When I finally discovered Annabelle’s new hideout, I knew at once what the problem was. She had found a cubbyhole at the top of the bookcases that most likely hadn’t been dusted in ten years, if not longer. She was literally lying in the dust of old magazines and books that hadn’t been touched in years. Her nasal passages were most likely clogged all the way to the back of her skull. I had warned her about her proclivity for privacy when this mess happened with the top shelf of the linen closet and a trip to Dr. Mohr flushed out her sinuses months ago.
I warned her, Thatch, I told him. I warned her! She won’t listen to me. She choses these dustbowls to hide out, runs headlong into them, and sniffs her way to an episode of ER.
What’s ER? Thatch asked. Is it like ET?
It’s before your time, I told him. I shouldn’t have brought it up. I’m sorry.
Can we watch ET again?
Of course. Just say when, but we need to help Annabelle first. She hates me, and I can’t stop crying over it. I miss my little girl.
I love you, Daddy.
I love you, too, but I love both of you.
Annabelle loves you, too.
I know, but our little diva is really angry with me. She and I need a serious talk about dust. The only problem is, she won’t listen to me unless I tell her dust is the name of a musical.
Whether it was dust, sinusitis, pneumonia, or another issue, I decided it was time for Annabelle to see Dr. Mohr. I was resolved that I would not fight her to give her nose drops, because I was terrified I would seriously injure her in another wrestling match. Since she was angry and refused to discuss the issue, I had to trap her to get her into her carrier. I made my plans, had the carrier ready, and waited for my quarry. When she nonchalantly strolled past me on her way to the bathroom, I ignored her. As soon as she left the bathroom, I was waiting. I snatched her up and carried her to her carrier.
Thatch! Thatch! Help! Help me! Her voice was so faint I could barely hear her.
Watching from the cat tree, Thatch said nothing. I didn’t know if he couldn’t hear her or if he was ignoring her. He really dislikes going to the vet.
She fought me as I put her into the carrier and zipped the entrance shut.
Let me out! she whispered. I hate you.
Listen to you! I said. You can hardly speak. You’re clearly not well.
I grabbed my coat and my cane, yelled goodbye to Thatch, and carried Annabelle out of the apartment. She complained all the way to the bus stop, but her voice was so faint I could barely hear her.
Annabelle, please, please be quiet, I pleaded. I can barely hear you. You do not want to injure your voice, Missy.
That clearly alarmed her, and she remained quiet for the remainder of our walk to the bus stop. I do not understand why, but it seems that whenever I need the MTA, chances are there will be a glitch. When I do not need a bus, I can watch them traveling in pairs up and down Broadway, but when I do need one, chances are it’s a minimum fifteen to twenty minute wait. Since I did not want her out in the cold, we ended up in a taxi. The ten block ride down Broadway was the usual nightmare of Annabelle trying to convince the driver that I was kidnapping her, that she needed police rescue at once, and that I should be under arrest.
Ignore her, I told the driver. She’s been watching Sorry, Wrong Number as part of her Barbara Stanwyck research. He did, and I gave him a nice tip when he dropped us off at City Vet.
Dr. Mohr thought a sore throat was the reason her voice was faint, and Annabelle went through a number of procedures that left her looking stoic and stunned: rectal thermometer, antibiotic injection, nasal flush, and a subcutaneous fluid injection. She remained quiet through it all, but her eyes, huge as saucers, showed her discomfort. I knew I would hear plenty if she ever decided to speak to me again.
As soon as we walked into the apartment and I released her from the carrier, Annabelle jumped into the cat tree and throttled Thatch, who ran to me and burst into tears.
What did I do? he wailed.
You did nothing, Annabelle yelled at him in a stronger voice. Not a thing! When I needed your help and yelled for you, you lay in that cat tree and ignored me in my time of need. Traitor!
I couldn’t hear you! he shouted back at her, and the doctor helped you, Loud Mouth! Now the whole world can hear you!
Annabelle stopped yelling. She thought a minute. Is that true? she asked.
Yes! Thatch told her. You needed that trip to 72nd Street. He jumped off my lap and ran to the cat tree. How do you feel now? he shouted up at her from the floor. Better?
She thought for a bit. Well, I am in pain from the mauling, but you can really hear what I’m saying?
Yes! The whole world can hear you.
She sang a few notes, then the first part of “Memory.” Oh, that is better, she said.
Yes! Thatch yelled up at her. He ran to the windowsill, and called to the pigeons, Miss Nasty Cat is back!
How rude! Annabelle said, as she rose from the cat tree and stretched. She sang a bit more of “Memory.”
I could hear the flutterings and sounds of approval from the pigeons. Annabelle did as well. She leaped from the cat tree to my bed, ran across the cedar trunk, jumped onto the windowsill, pushed Thatch out of the way, and proceeded to inform the pigeons of her health scare. I put the carrier away, tidied the bed, straightened the cat tree, and carried the cats’ empty breakfast dishes into the kitchen. I heard Annabelle tell them, I was sure I’d lost my voice forever. Dr. Mohr saved it. She works miracles, not like some maladroit and rough people whose names I could mention. I turned on the sink faucets to drown her out, washed the dishes, and carried the trash to the basement.
I know she was angry with me, and I knew she was making deliberate comments to both hurt me and to keep her anger going. My Missy Annabelle was not yet ready to forgive, and chances were that forgiveness would happen on her terms. I sat in the privacy of the laundry area and wept. Annabelle and Thatch were my world, and when I was with them, I felt I was as close to heaven as I would ever get in this life or the next. Parents and children have their fights, and God knows it was years before my father and I reached an understanding and deep affection for each other. Annabelle and I had bonded over a year before when I first brought her into the apartment, and I hated this current unpleasantness. I missed her snuggling next to me and Thatch on cold winter nights, I missed our daily patrols, and I missed her climbing onto my work table to lounge, rearrange things, help me, or be in the way.
Why is she so mean? Thatch was sitting in the kitchen sink when I entered the apartment. I could see Annabelle was still holding court in the window.
I don’t think she’s mean, little Thatcher; I prefer to think she’s very focused on her goals.
And we’re secondary?
At times.
She just ran up and pushed me out of the way!
Yes, I saw it . . . but remember: she loves you. I still remember her happy dancing when you first came into the apartment over a year ago. She loved you to death, and I remember how much you loved her.
I still do –
Except for those moments where she decides she’s more important?
Yes. But when the pigeons fly off to the Park, she’ll want me to play with her.
And you will because you love her?
I will because I know she loves me and she knows I love her.
Well, I said, I know she loves me, too, but I’m curious to see how she handles things now that she’s feeling better.
Thatch played with a spoon sitting in the sink. Yes, that will be interesting, he said.
So, do you want to watch some telly?
Yes, he said, and maybe have a little nap?
I picked him up and carried him to the television. Oh, good. It’s about time for our soaps. I changed channels, adjusted the pillows on my bed, and lay down. Thatch jumped onto my bed and curled up next to me. Our favorite soap began. The latest story line about a baby who died in delivery was more outrageous than most of their plots but it allowed several actors great opportunities for scenery chewing and bids for best actor Emmys.
Do we trust that doctor? Do you think that dead baby is really alive and the one he’s holding? Thatch asked.
Annabelle turned from the window. You think so? she asked. I never thought of that. This should be good today!
Annabelle jumped onto my bed and sat on the edge, cautiously looking at me.
What’s up, Missy? I asked her. Are you going to join us? Come on, you don’t want to miss this.
She edged toward me and paused, undecided. I scooped her up in my hands and set her on my lap. She stood there a minute, circled once, paused, circled again, and then settled. I scratched her head between her ears, and I could feel her relax. I stroked her back.
Ah, it’s good to be home, she said, and there she stayed for the rest of the afternoon.
©2019, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 