All right, Annabelle said to me, I am ready to pay calls.
I was sitting at the computer table, clutching my coffee mug and thinking about my day. It’s hard to get moving on a Saturday morning when you’d like to sleep in but three cats want breakfast at 6:30. It was nearly 8:00 and all I had managed to do, besides looking over my email and finishing several cups of coffee, was to wash their dishes and clean the litter. I was thinking, I should get up and finish those taxes. The appointment’s on Monday.
What did you say? I asked her. I’m sorry, Annabelle. Daddy is not awake yet.
Get up. We’re going to pay calls. I want to visit my friend Nora. You told me she was sick.
Oh, Annabelle, it’s worse. Poor little Nora has died. She had cancer –
You told us that, Thatch said. Remember, Annabelle?
He did? Annabelle looked surprised.
You need to put your Backstage down and listen, Annabelle, Thatch scolded.
She’s dead? My friend Nora has died? Annabelle sat back, stunned. This is terrible news! She began to weep. Thatch ran to hug her.
Nora lived on the fifth floor with Ann and Jen. I never knew what breed she was, but she was a small, loving little dog we met one morning after her walk with Jen. They walked into the lobby where Annabelle was playing on her morning outing. Jen and I watched with apprehension as Nora and Annabelle cautiously approached each other. Their noses touched, and they looked curiously at the other. Annabelle followed them into the elevator. I joined them and the two of them checked out the other while Jen and I chatted. That was the beginning of their friendship.
I don’t want her to die! Annabelle wailed. I’ll miss her.
We’re all going to, Annabelle, I softly said.
You? she asked. You’re going to die?
At some point. It’s the end of the life cycle. I’m no longer young, you know. I only worry that I will leave you, Thatch, and Stella before you’ve grown.
You can’t die, too! I forbid it. You can’t leave me.
Or me, Thatch added.
Stella, who had heard her name, ran into the room. She had been sleeping in the bathroom sink. She likes it there. Her disappointment when she discovers I’ve mentioned her name without having a surprise for her manifests itself in various moments of anger: shredded toilet paper rolls, overturned water dishes, or mangled window blinds. She really needs an anger management course.
Stella! I said, do you want a piece of cheese?
I handed her a small bit of Swiss cheese. She smelled it, licked it, and left it, soggy and limp in the palm of my left hand. She walked away, jumped onto my bed, and settled for a nap. Crisis averted.
I do not like this talk about death, Annabelle told Thatch. Then she turned to me. I’m not going to let you die. You have to be at my opening nights! With flowers.
I hope I will be, but you never know. I’m old and not in the best shape, you know. I might be living on borrowed time.
She gave me a puzzled look. Borrowed time?
Yes, I might be living on borrowed time.
Sometimes I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about.
She turned to Thatch. I think we need some more selfies for my Instagram account.
We haven’t done selfies in weeks, he told her.
I must keep my fans happy. We’ll just do a few.
Okay, I said, you go do that, and I’ll do some work on my taxes. I’ve almost finished everything for my accountant.
And we’ll help! Thatch said.
When they helped me the day before, Thatch climbed into the bag of receipts and rolled about while Stella waited for the small taxi and subway receipts to fall from my worktable to the floor and chase them. Annabelle preferred to sit next to the calculator and attempt to catch the moving paper tape as I added receipts. It was hell.
I’ve finished all the hard work, so I don’t think I need you while I write down my tallies. Thank you though.
If you’re sure? Annabelle asked.
Absolutely! Go do your selfied.
C’mon, Annabelle! Thatch said. They ran off to the windowsill to pose.
Stella! Annabelle called. Stella sat up. Do you want to be in a selfie with us?
Stella jumped off my bed, pounced on my foot, and bit my ankle before she ran to the window. I turned to my taxes. My three little kittens struck a pose.
©2020, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 