42. MUGGED!: RIPPED FROM THE HEADLINES

I walked into the apartment, and no cats greeted me.

Annabelle!  I called.  Missy!  I’m home.  Where’s my little girl?  Thatch?  Thatcher?  Daddy’s home!

I removed my coat and hanged it over the back of my computer chair.  I expected to look down and see two happy kitties dancing around my feet with their usual greeting: did you bring me a treat?  The apartment was silent.  I checked the bathroom; Annabelle was not dozing in her washtub.  I checked the linen closet with a flashlight; no playful kitty sounds and no signs of rambunctious behavior.  I checked Annabelle’s new aerie on top of the bookcases.  Where the hell had they gone?  Where were those scallawags?

I decided to call Val.  If they were up to something, he might have seen them or even be involved.  I reached for the phone and noticed that I had a message on my answering machine.

Mr. Moore?  This Detective Kibble at the 82nd Street police precinct.  I’m here with your building super Val and two cats he says belong to you.  Can you please call me when you get this message?  My number is-

Call?  Hell, the station was a block away.  What were they doing at the precinct?  I grabbed my coat and my cane and headed out the door.  At the precinct, Det. Kibble met me in the lobby.

What’s going on? I asked.  Why is Val here with my cats?  He’s a very responsible man-

He brought them in, sir, after the mugging-

Mugging?  My cats were mugged?

The gray one, sir, uh, named . . .  Tinker Belle?

Annabelle.  Are you telling me Annabelle was mugged?

It appears so.  She was attacked by a pack of pit bulls.  They left this sign on her unconscious body.  He handed me a piece of paper taken from the back of an Alpo label.  It read “No Cats! Pit Bulls Rule.”

Oh, my God! I exclaimed.  Is she okay?  Do we need to get her to the vet?

She’s fine, sir, just shaken up.  Luckily her injuries weren’t serious.  Perhaps you should take her to the vet when you leave.

And Thatch!  They’re always together.  Is he okay?  He’s not hurt?

No, it appears he ran them off and then went for the super.  He brought them here to file a report.

Really? I said, quite amazed.  I thought, Scaredy cat Thatch rescued Annabelle from a pack of pit bulls?  What’s going on? Am I in some alternate universe?

Where are they? I asked him.  Can I see them?

Det. Kibble led me to his office.  Holding Annabelle, Val sat in a chair next to the desk and Thatch sat on the desk.  He and Thatch looked very happy to see me.  Annabelle looked very weak and frail.  Poor baby, I thought.

Val!  Is everybody okay? I asked.

Yes, Val said.  The dogs didn’t injure her badly.

I was outraged.  Nobody hurts Annabelle or Thatch on my watch.  Where are these dogs? I demanded.  Have they been caught?  What are the police doing?

Animal Control’s combing the Upper West Side for them, Det. Kibble told me.  We’ll catch them.

A wild pack of pit bulls should be easy to spot, I’d think.

Officer Kibble had papers for me to sign, and Val had other work around the five buildings he cares for.  He left, I signed the papers, thanked Det. Kibble, and Annabelle, Thatch, and I headed for City Vet.  I carried a moaning Annabelle down 82nd Street to the apartment, and Thatch sat on my shoulder. 

I want to stop at the apartment for Annabelle’s carrier, I said to them.

I don’t think I need to go, Thatch said.

I want you checked out, baby, I told him.  There might be some injury we don’t know about.  Pit bulls can be vicious, I hear, and I want to be certain you are okay, my little hero! 

In the apartment, I dug Annabelle’s carrier out of the closet and set it on the bed.  Annabelle, I asked, what are you doing?

She closed her cell phone and turned to face me.  She looked like a deer in the headlights.  Just calling R.U. Fémos, she answered.  I wanted to tell him about my mugging.

You can tell him later.  Show me where they hurt you, baby.  You don’t look badly injured to me.

Well, I am.  I’m in serious pain.  They hurt me.

Where? Show Daddy where.  Thatch!  Where are you off to?  I saw Thatch sliding under my bed.  Thatch?

Oh, my head! Annabelle moaned.  Am I still bleeding?

I don’t see any blood, Annabelle.  I see a spot on your rump where a little bit of hair’s been pulled out.

Dr, Mohr will tell you how seriously those dogs mauled me!

How many dogs were there, Annabelle?

Ten at least.  Maybe more.

And Thatch rescued you?

My brave little brother!

Thatch, come out here.  Now, Buster.

Thatch peeked out from under the foot of the bed.  Aren’t we going to the vet?

Yes, but first I want you to tell me about rescuing Annabelle.

Thatch looked very uncomfortable.  I . . . the dogs were . . .

Stop mumbling, Thatch!

I, ah . . . well, I . . . Annabelle was calling for help . . . and . . .  I, well, I . . .

How brave of you!  How did Annabelle get out onto 82nd Street without you?

We went to find Val, she said, and Thatch was playing in the hall, and I went out to the street, and these dogs jumped me.  I fought them, and I must have fainted. Thatch came to my rescue!  My brave little brother Thatch!

I watched the two of them squirming through their accounts of the event.  I said nothing for several minutes.  They watched me intently.

Liar, I said. If a pack of pit bulls attacked you, I’d be picking up pieces of you all over the Upper West Side.

Annabelle bristled.  Are you calling me a liar?

Yes, I am.  Do we need to go to the vet or did you pull those patches of hair out yourself?

I helped her, Thatch said.  Annabelle turned and glared at him.

Thatch!  You promised.

I’m sorry, Annabelle!  I . . . I didn’t . . . I’m sorry!  He burst into tears and vanished under the bed.

Okay, Missy, I said sternly.  You gotta lotta ‘splaining to do! 

I could see her climbing onto her high horse as I spoke.  What really happened?  Did anyone attack you? Tell me the truth.

Yes, she said sheepishly.  Dogs attacked me.

How many?

One.  

Only one dog? A pit bull?

I hired a chihuaha to rough me up.

No pit bulls?

Uh . . . no.  No pit bulls, she whispered.

I can’t hear you, I said sternly.

No pit bulls, she shouted at me!

I waved the Alpo label “No Cats! Pit Bulls Rule” at her.  So, Missy, you’re stirring up more prejudice against an already maligned breed of dogs?  Do you know how wrong this is?

Judge Judy says –

I don’t care what Judge Judy says about pit bulls!  There’s too much breeding selections legislation going on as it is, and too many pit bulls die in shelters because of this prejudice.  Do you want these dogs to suffer because you lied?

Annabelle started crying, but I wondered if she were pulling one over on me.  I’m sorry! she wailed.  Please forgive me.  I just needed some publicity.  I’m still not famous!

Shall I fire Mr. Fémos?

No!  Not that!  I just needed a good story for him.

Well, I forbid him to do anything with this fake mugging.  You need to be punished. 

I went to the phone.  Annabelle sat up in fear. 

Who are you calling? she asked.

I’m calling R.U. Fémos to tell him all publicity for you goes through me from now on.  Then I have to call Det. Kibble and tell him the truth.  Thatch!  Thatch!  Come out from under that bed.  You and Annabelle have a lot of apologizing to do. 

People in show business lie all the time, Thatch said.

Yes, and people lie every day to each other, mostly over small things-

Not Trump! Thatch said.  He lies about everything!

Or Sarah Huckabee Sanders!  Annabelle added.

Well, politics is the really truly dirty side of show biz, I told them.

I called R.U. Fémos and told him everything.  He laughed, She’s a naughty kitty!  My worst client – you know, the Tony winner? – she pulls crap worse than this all the time.  I’ve hired a fact checker to keep her in line.  Does no good at all, none.  She makes Donald Trump look like Mother Teresa.

Then I called Det. Kibble.  Fortunately, he had a sense of humor.  I should be really pissed off, he said, but it’s been slow on the Upper West Side these days.  I’ll call Animal Control and tell them to look for a small chihuahua instead of a pack of pitties.

I’m really sorry about this.  Will I have to pay a fine or anything?

I’ll check on that, sir.  Maybe the cats should do community service?  Twenty hours, maybe?

You do not know what you’re asking.  You’re heading for disaster.

Actually, I have just the place to send them to.

He told me his idea, and I agreed to it.  When I got off the phone, I said to the two anxious kitties watching these conversations, Okay, babies, community service begins tomorrow.

Community service? Thatch asked.

Yes, Thatcher, my boy.  Tomorrow you and Annabelle will begin to pay for your crimes-

It was just a publicity stunt! Annabelle said.

And it got out of hand because you lied and wasted people’s time.  Det. Kibble thinks you need to perform twenty hours of community service.  He spoke to some people, and you’ll do two hours a day for ten days over the next month.

What does that mean? Thatch asked.

It means that within the next month, you and Annabelle will work two hours a day for ten days to pay off your debt.

Where? Annabelle asked suspiciously.  You know I’m very busy with my career.

Just around the corner.  You and Thatch will be helping the staff at Doggie Daycare.  Maybe you should get to know a few pit bulls instead of spreading lies about them.

Annabelle stared at me a few minutes.  Then she said, Come with me, Thatch, and he followed her to the linen closet.

Are you planning to hide? I asked.

No way! she said.  I feel like Mary Martin on a World War Two USO tour.  I’m getting my act ready.  Those dogs will love our “Frosty the Snowman!”  But we need to rehearse.  Come on, Thatch.

She and Thatch headed off to her rehearsal space in the linen closet. I tossed the Alpo label into the trash and opened the gin.

©2019, Larry Moore