I’m home! I called as I walked into the apartment. Annabelle and Thatch never come to greet me, but I think it’s better for my peace of mind – and theirs – to give them time to extricate themselves from whatever mischief they’ve been up to. I let the door swing shut behind me, giving them more time, then turned and walked into the living area. Three little faces looked up at me: Annabelle, Thatch, and an unfamiliar tiny black and white face with two enormous blue eyes.
Who’s this? I asked.
Hi, Daddy! That was Annabelle, but she was too jovial. Annabelle is crafty and very select in her vocabulary, but she was on unsure ground here, and I could hear it in her voice.
Hello, Annabelle. Who’s your friend?
Annabelle looked like a deer in the headlights of a car. There was an awkward moment where my unanticipated response had thrown her and ruined her plan of attack.
She followed us home, Thatch said. Can we keep her?
Thank you, a flustered Annabelle murmured to Thatch.
Followed you home? What were you two doing today?
We were helping Val paint an apartment down the block, Thatch said, and we got bored, so we started home.
Yes! Annabelle interjected, and she started following us down 82nd Street. I told her to go home, but she doesn’t have one.
Can we keep her? Thatch asked again.
Does she have a name? I asked.
Stella, Thatch said.
For Star, Annabelle added.
Nice name, don’t you think?
I do, Thatch. She’s a little tuxedo girl! She’s very “in,” I see. Only celebrities wear tennis shoes with their tuxes.
The only celebrity I see in this room is named Annabelle.
Be nice, Thatch suggested.
Hello, Stella, I said. I picked her up; she weighed, what?, three pounds? You’re awfully small. Where’s your mama?
Don’t know, Annabelle said. Be careful; she bites.
How old is she?
Don’t know, Thatch said. She doesn’t talk yet. She cries a lot. Can we keep her?
Do you want her? Do I need another baby?
Yes, Annabelle said. You do. You can’t toss her out on the street.
I could take her to the shelter-
No! Annabelle was suddenly agitated. They’d soon kill her as see her adopted.
Really? Thatch asked.
Trust me, Annabelle said. You don’t want to know.
I put Stella back on the floor. She was biting the hell out of my wrist and her claws were like tiny needles.
Maybe I could see if your adoption agency or Thatch’s would find her a home, Annabelle.
She doesn’t take much space, Annabelle observed.
Well, let me think about it tonight.
You do that, Annabelle said. She turned away, dismissing me.
Dr. Mohr should check her out. What if she’s sick?
She ignored me. Thatch joined her and they crossed the room. Stella jumped after them, lunging at their tails.
So, Thatch, what musical should we play for Stella tonight? Do you think she’d like us to sing?
Decisions, decisions, Annabelle!
Annabelle, Thatch, and Stella vanished into the linen closet. I went to the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and dragged out the cranberry juice and the vodka.
©2019, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 