Ready for patrol, Annabelle? I opened the door to the apartment.
I am! She headed for the door, and Stella darted ahead of her into the hall.
Stella! Get back here, Missy!
I ran after her as Annabelle sauntered into the hall, where I stood watching two cats roam about. I cannot open the door these days without Stella making a run for the hall, and I usually catch her on the second floor landing. Once she arrives there, she seems to lose her bearings. Instead of bolting this morning, she and Annabelle vaguely paced in front of the door to the apartment. I thought, Hmmm . . . let’s take her on patrol with Annabelle and see what happens.
Shall we all patrol today? I asked them. I’m going to start calling you two The Snoop Sisters.
Very funny, Annabelle said. We are not snoopy.
And I am Marie of Roumania!
Your name is Daddy, not Marie.
Stella, who refuses to talk, hid behind the bicycle the jerk across the hall continues to leave outside his door – he complains to the landlord if I leave anything outside – and I could not get to her. Then Annabelle couldn’t decide what she wanted to do, so she waffled between my door and the elevator.
Ladies, please! What do you want to do? I asked.
At that moment I heard footsteps coming down the stairs from an upper floor. Annabelle stopped her waffling and tensed. She loves meeting neighbors on her terms, and strange footsteps are regarded as the approach of potential menaces. She turned and ran to the apartment door. Stella followed her. I opened the door and they both ran into the apartment.
That was short, Thatch observed from the cat tree.
Stella ran into the bathroom, and Annabelle sat in the middle of the hall, looking dazed. I’m not myself today, she shouted before she vanished in the linen closet.
Is she sick, Thatch? Has she said anything to you?
She is prone, Thatch observed. You know that. You were talking about her diet yesterday.
And her nose.
And her gas.
Oh, yes! I can’t forget that!
Annabelle’s flatulence: I had forgotten about that. I had thought it was my health issue. I needed surgery on my sinuses, and in the pre-op exam, the ENT surgeon had asked me if there had been a change in my sense of smell, and I had told him I hadn’t noticed anything. Lately, though, I had been awakened in the middle of the night to the pungent odor of fresh shit. Sleeping next to me, Annabelle and Thatch made no notice of the change in the air. I became so paranoid that one of the cats was using the space under my bed instead of the litter box that I thoroughly cleaned out the area and found nothing. Well, I decided, it’s this sinus issue.
Then one morning, just when I finished cleaning the litter, Annabelle jumped into the box to take advantage of all the clean litter. The smell was horrendous. Just before I passed out, I thought, not my sinuses, it’s Annabelle’s farts!
When I regained consciousness on the bathroom floor, Thatch had buried the mess and Stella was biting my ankles. Annabelle had retired to her Backstage and the casting notices.
So what will you do? Thatch asked me.
I’m going to email Dr. Mohr about the symptoms I’ve noticed: lethargy, lack of interest in anything, intestinal rumbling, gas, diet change, loss of appetite. Did I miss anything?
She’s stopped reading Backstage and working on her career.
You didn’t tell me that! Anything else?
Don’t think so, Thatch said.
Stella jumped on his back, they wrestled for a moment, and then chased each other through the apartment. I emailed Dr. Mohr. Annabelle loves her, and I think she’s great. We confirmed an appointment for the following week.
Once the appointment was set, Annabelle immediately perked up. She and Thatch went back to coaching Stella for the Kitty Olympics, she became chatty and active, her appetite picked up, and she decided that she needed to find another composer for her musical since Irving Berlin refused to respond to her many inquiries. She’s still positive that Jerome Robbins will direct it.
On Monday morning, I pulled Annabelle’s carrier from the closet and set it on my bed. Okay, Missy, I said, it’s time for our appointment. We won’t be gone long, Thatch. Behave yourself.
Tell Stella that! Thatch called from the windowsill where he and Stella were watching the pigeons.
Annabelle paced around the carrier. Can’t we stay home? I’m perfectly fine. I want to work on any cabaret act. Remember? Annabelle With An A? Can you call Rob Berman for me? Please? We need to rehearse!
I grabbed her and stuffed her into the carrier. Dr. Mohr is looking forward to seeing you, and I want a thorough checkup. I picked up the carrier and grabbed my cane. Come on, Missy! We’ll have a nice bus ride and visit.
Do I need a pen to sign autographs?
I’ve got it. We’re set
No more farts! Thatch yelled as I opened the door.
How rude, Annabelle yelled back. No one ever told Ethel Merman that and lived!
The bus ride wasn’t our usual hell. Depending on her attitude about going to City Vet, she either sings and chats to all the passengers or she indulges in cheap drama and yells that she’s being kidnapped, summon the police, or that the wicked troll holding her is going to dissect her. Either way, it can be an embarrassment, especially if no one asks for her autograph or a signed headshot.
Instead, she played the pensive Great Lady. When passengers asked to look in the carrier, she approached them and let them see her before said thanks. She had her pen ready, but no one asked for an autograph.
Why not? she asked me. I’m a household name.
I guess they can’t see you’re the kitty with all the Daily News front page notoriety inside that cage.
Ah! That must be it.
As I carried her down 72nd Street, I obsessed over why the fat hell was I taking her to the vet? She’s back to her usual self. Well, I’ll be happy to know she’s not in bad health.
When we got to City Vet, she was happy to find that she was the only cat in the waiting room. There were a couple of bull dogs, a German shepherd, a little terrier, and a couple of others in carriers I could not see well enough to recognize the breed.
Look at all these dogs! she told me. I think I may know one or two from my Doggie Daycare service. Shall I do my “Frosty the Snowman” dance?
No, I think you should behave yourself.
Luckily, we were summoned to one of the examining rooms, where Annabelle happily explored the space. I am so happy to be out of that carrier. I think I’m getting too big for it.
No, you’re not. The problem is, you try to sing, dance, and act instead of sitting quietly, like a normal cat, Miss Showoff.
What’s this? She jumped onto the counter from the examining table.
It’s a sink, Missy.
Oh, look at this!
Get off that computer! Here, let me hold you.
No! She jumped off the counter and ran to the door. I hear people in the hall!
Yes, of course you do. People are bringing their pets in and out.
A dog barked. Annabelle jumped back. Then she leaped onto the examining table and began to cakewalk as she sang “Frosty the Snowman was a jolly happy soul . . .”
Dr Mohr gave her a clean bill of health.
When we returned from City Vet, Thatch wanted to know all the details. He’s been afraid of seeing a doctor since he first came here with conjunctivitis, a ringworm scare that thankfully came to nothing, and then his heart murmur. He feels the only good thing to happen there was his microchip, which proves, he claims, that he’s my flesh and blood. Still, he likes the doctors, and – since he’s a cat – he’s very curious. Stella, besides jumping on my calf, biting my shoelaces and ankles, and smelling Annabelle’s carrier, went back to the mess she was creating from her Kitty Olympics training.
Did you get a shot, Annabelle?
No, Thatch. I’m fine!
That’s true, I added. I was worried for nothing.
Dr. Mohr is such a good role model! If I weren’t going to be a Broadway star, I might think about going into medicine.
And so things at 202 West 82 resumed their usual pattern: the cats got into trouble and I bailed them out, the Olympics training continued as Stella demolished rolls of toilet paper in record time and Annabelle timed her racing with Thatch through the apartment, and Annabelle worked on her cabaret act.
One night soon after the City Vet visit, I woke to the smell of rotten eggs. I opened my eyes to see Thatch’s rump. Annabelle was nowhere in sight.
Thatch! I whispered, did you just fart?
Yes, he giggled. He rolled over so I could rub his belly.
I heard that! Annabelle jumped onto the bed, You let him think it was me!
It was you! You fart all the time, Miss Stinky!
I’ll pay you back, Buster. Just you wait.
And that’s where we are now. Annabelle has asked me to arrange for her cabaret act a medley of fart songs she will dedicate to Thatch.
Are you sure about this? I asked Annabelle. I think it might be a little mean.
Payback is payback! Just do it. Please.
Let me think about it.
No! I’m going to get him really good.
I really don’t want this fight to continue, Annabelle. You’re going to humiliate him publicly. He loves you.
I love him, too. Here’s my list of songs. You don’t have to use all of them.
I looked over her list: “Only Love can Break A Fart,” “Dear Farts and Gentle People,” “Foolish Fart,” “Haunted Fart,” “One Hand, One Fart,” “Fart and Soul,” etc.
I sighed, put the list down, and picked her up. I’m not writing this, Annabelle.
And why not?
It’s rude.
It’s funny.
To you, maybe, but I don’t think Thatch will find it funny, and I certainly do not.
Why?
“My Fart Belongs To Daddy?”
It’s funny!
©2019, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 