The bath water was very warm as I eased myself into it. Once settled, I closed my eyes, submerged myself up to my chin, and prepared for a long soak. It was the only thing relieving the horrible pains in my right leg, and I was taking two or three baths daily. I couldn’t get a strong pain medication out of my doctor, who seemed to be walking on eggs since the opioid crisis became a hot topic. My pleas for Tylenol with codeine went unanswered, and I was hoping a muscle relaxer like Tizanidine might help. How long would it be before the referral to physical therapy comes through, I wondered.
I lay surrounded by warmth. Could I get the water any hotter? I opened my eyes and looked into Annabelle’s. She was leaning on the edge of the tub and studying me. She looked very sad.
Why, hello, Annabelle, I smiled.
Did I do something wrong? she asked. Are you angry with me? We never patrol anymore.
Oh, baby, I said, it isn’t you; it’s me. My walking is so painful I don’t want to move. I cannot chase you around the halls; it hurts too much. And, you know, whenever Stella gets out, I have to chase her down, too. Daddy’s in pain. I’m sorry.
I miss seeing my public, she said. I’m sure they miss me, too.
I know they do, I assured her. They all ask about you. Now, aren’t you happy to know I’m not mad at you? I do love you, you know. I love all of my three little kittens.
I guess. She still sounded down.
What’s Thatch up to? I asked her.
I don’t know if he’s sorting our selfies for Instagram or taking a break. He’d better not be. This Instagram account is good for my career.
She dropped out of sight, and I could see the tip of her tail as she turned. I rose up in the tub just in time to see her tail exit the bathroom.
I’m sorry, Annabelle! I called after her. As soon as I’m back in shape, we’ll patrol every day.
Stella, who’s already bigger at seven months than Annabelle or Thatch at two years, jumped up onto the edge of the tub. If I had known her fascination with water when I adopted her, I’d have named her Esther Williams.
Hey, little girl! I said to her. She never speaks to me. Thatch tells me she only speaks Cat.
She walked along the edge of the tub, surveying my body and watching the ripples of the water as I restlessly moved my feet. When she got to my shoulder, she seemed to estimate if she could land on my chest and keep her feet dry.
No, you don’t, Missy! I said sharply.
She looked up, then licked the water off my shoulder. I wasn’t sure she would do it, but I did know from a recent event that she did not like getting wet. In one of her last cute-destructive-kitten activities, she had torn open a bag of roach poison, something I discovered when I tracked the white powdery paw prints from the kitchen to the bathroom, where I found her rolling about in the remains of the bag. She was covered in poison, so I picked her up, placed her in the tub, and washed her off. She hated it.
She then turned, jumped off the tub, and left the room.
I quit! I heard Thatch yell from the living room.
Come back, Thatch! That was Annabelle.
Thatch stormed into the bathroom and jumped onto the toilet seat. I sat up. This bath was neither relaxing nor soothing.
What’s up, Thatcher?
She’s so picky over those selfies! I work so hard to keep her happy.
She’s a little diva, you know. You’ve known that for over a year.
He sighed, then jumped from the toilet to the sink, where he sat on the ledge and looked at me.
I know, but somedays I wish . . . I wish Hollywood would call and get her out of my hair.
No, you don’t. You’d miss her.
Maybe.
You know you would. You two have such adventures!
Thatch! That was Annabelle. I need you.
You’re right, he said. I would. Only somedays . . .
Thaaatch!
She needs me! He jumped off the sink and left the bathroom.
Oy! Some people have normal pets, I thought. I’m so lucky I don’t.
I turned the hot water on and leaned back into the tub.
©2019, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 