The day before the scheduled surgery I began the prep according to instructions. At 8:00am I had drunk sixteen ounces of a laxative and two glasses of water to suffer through ninety minutes in the bathroom. I had just poured the second sixteen-ounce dose when the phone rang. I looked at the clock; it was just about 10. The caller was the surgeon removing the tumor on my kidney. He and the surgeon removing my appendix had decided to postpone for four to six weeks.
I hung up the phone with a sigh of relief and a touch of anger that the surgery had been canceled. I understood with all the current chaos and quarantining the need to postpone, but after weeks of panic attacks and worries about my health I was resigned to get the procedure over and learn if things were benign or malignant.
Who was that? Annabelle asked. Her voice was muffled. I looked down. Three cats wearing surgical masks sat at my feet.
Oh, come on, I said, you don’t need those masks. We’re going to be fine.
Are you sure? Annabelle asked.
So, who was that? Thatch asked. On the phone?
That was one of my surgeons, Thatch. I will not have my surgery tomorrow.
What? You’re not going to the hospital?
Annabelle, take off the mask. I barely understand a thing you’re saying.
She removed her mask. Thatch did as well. Stella preferred to wear hers.
No surgery?
No, Annabelle, it’s been postponed.
Well, after all our prep work this week, I must say, Dr. Thatch, that this is a major disappointment.
Every day since I had told the babies about my surgery I had been awakened by Nurse Nellie Forbush and Dr. Thatch dancing on my bed and singing “Are we feeling any better, are we sitting up today? Are we feeling gay, merrier than May?” while Stella bit my ankles. It was hell, sheer hell.
I must admit, Annabelle told me, I was looking forward to your hospital stay.
Really? You weren’t sad that I was going to be away for a couple of days?
No. I was looking forward to a few days of peace and quiet. I was going to listen to some new shows on CD, Thatch and I were going to update my Instagram account, I was going to ask R.U. Fémos why I was getting no auditions . . .
You weren’t going to miss me?
Perhaps, but while you were away, it was going to be All about Annabelle days.
Thatch’ll love that! I thought, Instead, I said, Well, Missy, I’m sorry this virus quarantine is spoiling your holiday.
That’s okay. I do need to speak to R.U. Fémos. I’m not getting any auditions.
Annabelle, Thatch spoke up, do you ever read any more of your Backstage than the casting notices?
What else is there?
Are you aware that everything is closed down? Everyone’s in quarantine.
So?
The theatres are closed and no one’s auditioning.
Annabelle’s gasp of shock was so loud that the pigeons on the fire escape flew away in fear.
No! That can’t one true, she stated. I won’t permit it.
Thatch is right, Annabelle, I said. No one’s calling me for work either.
Annabelle started pacing around the cat tree. This was the time for man or beast to quake with fear.
Rats! she raged. Times are terrible! First it’s the time change. I hate that! Now it’s a quarantine. This is Trump’s work, isn’t it? I know the Republicans are behind this.
Well, Annabelle, I said in my most soothing tones, the time change isn’t.
I don’t believe you. I hate him! He’s ruining my career. I will never vote for Trump!
I thought, cats can’t vote, Annabelle. Instead, I said, I think you need something to take your mind off all this madness, I said. Do you want to listen to any CD?
No, thank you. she said. Thatch and I are reading a play.
Really? More Congreve?
Tennessee Williams, Thatch told me.
He’s awfully adult for you babies.
And The Country Wife isn’t? Annabelle asked.
Well, you got me there, I said, but that’s Wycherly, not Congreve. So which play are you reading?
A Streetcar Named Desire. I might be a good Blanche one day.
I’d pay to see that! I said.
They all will, Annabelle replied.
She and Thatch strolled off to their office in the linen closet. Stella jumped on my foot and bit my ankle.
The next morning Thatch and I were singing “The Lonely Goatherd” while he and Stella, dressed in lederhosen and dirndl, scaled the Matterhorn, which is the bookcase behind my bed running nearly to the ceiling, which is about twelve feet from the floor. It fulfills the cats’ fantasies of one of their favorite movies, The Third Man on the Mountain. Thatch and Annabelle regularly dressed in their Happy Peasant gear and climbed to the top where they planted a flag and had their lunch. Stella now climbs with them.
Thank God they aren’t yodeling, I thought. It’s a god-awful racket, and Annabelle swears she’s good at it. They had almost reached the ceiling when Annabelle jumped onto the computer table and thrust a piece of paper at me.
Here, she said. Sign this.
What is this? I asked.
You are legally changing Stella’s name.
What? Why?
Last night, while I was reading A Streetcar Named Desire, I learned that Stella means Star. She’s not a star. I am the only star around here. Annabelle, The Star. That’s me, not Stella. So we’re changing her name.
Oh, God, Annabelle, I thought, why? Instead, I asked, Well, she told you when she followed you and Thatch home that her name was Stella. It didn’t bother you then.
I didn’t know it meant star then. I’m the star. Annabelle the Star. Sign it.
Do you have a name in mind for her?
Butch. Short and sweet.
Butch?
She’s a jock. It’s perfect.
She’s a pretty little girl, Annabelle! You make her sound like a Sumo wrestler.
She’s tough, she can outwrestle Thatch or me, she can shred a roll of toilet paper in seconds . . . Butch is perfect.
I’m not going to sign this, Annabelle.
What about Bootsie or Nike? Those four white paws are like tennis shoes!
Annabelle . . . look, Missy . . . how do I explain this to you? There’s a difference between a name and being something. Do you understand that?
No.
Hey! Thatch called. We’re still playing Matterhorn aren’t we?
He and Stella were at the top of the book case, about three inches from the ceiling, and our ceiling is around twelve feet from the floor.
Sorry, Thatch! Annabelle and I are having a serious discussion. Give me a minute, okay?
We’ll climb again.
He jumped from the top of the books and landed on my bed. Stella followed him and did a somersault before she landed. They high-fived each other and then lay on the bed waiting for me to rejoin the game.
Annabelle, I whispered, Stella’s name is Stella, not Star. You are Annabelle and you are a Star. Does that make sense? You do not have to be named Stella to be a star, and a lot of stars are not named Stella.
Oh, you’re right! I understand that. She turned, leaped off the table and headed toward the bathroom.
Now what? I called after her?
Forget about that paper, she said. Tear it up, please. She vanished into the bathroom.
I tore up the paper and turned to the waiting Thatch and Stella. Okay, babies, I said, where did we leave off?
“Folks in a town that was quite remote heard,” Thatch answered. Are you back with us.
I sure am!
I started the verse when Annabelle leaped into the room. She wore her lederhosen. She ran to my bed, leaped onto it, and yodeled. Thatch and Stella, who were halfway up the bookcase yodeled back.
I opened the vodka and poured it into my orange juice.
©2020, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 