Treat time! I called. Who wants a treat?
As I dragged out the carton of treats, three cats galloped from various corners of the apartment to gather at my feet. Annabelle jumped on the treats she wanted, Thatch ran to a scratching post to sharpen his claws, and Stella paced around my ankles.
Okay, Annabelle. You get some Temptations. You want tuna or chicken?
Both, please.
And your vitamins.
Stella ran to Annabelle and pushed her way to be first to the treat.
Pushy, pushy, Stella, Annabelle said, you’ve got no couth! None.
I picked Stella up and said, Here, Missy! You usually eat with Thatch.
She’s pushy with me, too, Thatch muttered.
Thatch, your shrimpies? I asked.
Yes! Yes! Shrimpies!
I took the tupperware container in which I store the dried shrimp treats and opened the lid. The strong scent of shrimps assailed me, but there was nothing but powder and small broken bits. Every time I order them from Amazon, the bags are packed so poorly that half of the shrimps are crushed.
I looked in the carton of treats. There was usually an unopened package or two, only there wasn’t. Oh, Lord, I thought. Instead, I said, Thatch, I’m so sorry. We’re out of them.
What?
Can I offer you something else?
I knew he would refuse. The only treats I could get him to eat were low-sodium deli turkey, dried wild salmon treats, and the shrimpies. The dried wild salmon was currently unavailable, and I had no deli turkey. I felt terrible.
No, he said. No treat? He burst into tears.
I’m so sorry, baby. I’ll get more tomorrow. Don’t cry, Thatch. I’m really sorry.
I tried to pick him up, but he avoided me and ran under my bed. I felt terrible.
Stella’s biting my ankle reminded me I still needed to give her a treat. I gave her the same treat I gave Annabelle, and she attacked it with the same frenzy she applied to my ankle.
Just before I turned out the lights, I saw Thatch moping his way across the room.
Thatch! Thatcher! I called. Thatch, please come talk to Daddy. I’m really sorry we’re out of shrimpies! Please, Thatch!
Annabelle, who was sitting in my lap, gave a big sigh, I think you are wasting your breath. His feelings are hurt. He didn’t get a treat tonight, and you let him down.
I know I let him down, Missy. I feel terrible about it.
Well, I’ll let you two work it out. When he’s not happy, my Instagram photos are terrible, so I think you need to fix this.
Leave it to Annabelle to make it about herself, I thought. Instead, I said, Okay, Missy Belle, let me go pee before I go to bed.
And brush your teeth.
Yes, Missy. I promise.
I walked into the bathroom, turned on the light, and yelled, Stella! What the hell?
Surrounded by shredded paper, Stella lay on the rug and chewed on a roll of toilet paper. She jumped up and ran from the bathroom. Pee or clean up the mess? Decisions, decisions . . .
Getting on my hands and knees, I picked up the roll, estimated how deeply the tears and claw marks went into the roll, and tore off the damaged paper. I put the salvaged roll back into bag of laundry supplies where I had been hiding it, picked up the shreds from the rug, and dropped them into the waste basket.
The next morning, I walked into the bathroom too find more shredded paper and an almost empty roll of toilet paper.
Damn it, Stella! I exclaimed. This has got to stop. Damn, damn, damn!
I washed my face to visions of tossing Stella out the window, carting her to the Manhattan Animal Care Center, or sending her to a reform school. Well, tossing her out the window might kill her since we live on the third floor, the Manhattan ACC should really be named Manhattan Animal Concentration Camp because of the apathy and needless murders going on, and where was I going to find a good reform school?
By the time I had my three little kittens chowing down on their breakfast of turkey and giblets, all I could think of was that I would never abandon or hurt Stella. I just needed to find a solution.
An hour and a half later, when I walked into the bathroom and found the remaining paper on the roll shredded all over the floor, I kept my cool. I only screamed and threw things for no more than thirty seconds. I only stopped yelling because I had to answer the phone and tell Pixie, the neighbor below me, that I would stop making a racket.
I hung up the phone after apologizing to Pixie for my outburst and looked at the clock. It was about time to leave. I was determined to find shrimpies for Thatch, and the Petco website assured me that they were in stock at three of their Manhattan locations. 92nd and Broadway? Really? I had purchased all they jad in stock on my last visit there, but they must have received a new shipment. I grabbed my cane, cap, gloves, and bag.
Going out? Annabelle asked.
For a bit. I have an errand to run.
Where’s your mask?
Right here in my bag.
Good. Stay safe. Stella! Thatch! Put on your masks.
At the door I turned back to wave at them. Bye, babies! I called.
Three cats wearing face masks called Bye, Daddy! I stepped into the hall and locked the door. In the lobby I put on my gloves and face mask, stepped onto the sidewalk, and limped to the bus stop.
You’re out of stock?
Yessir, the pretty young clerk said to me. You bought all we had last week.
I knew I had, but your website says you’ve got more in stock.
No, I’m sorry, sir. Those online stock indications aren’t always good.
Clearly, I said, but I’ve got to get more shrimpies for my little Thatch. I can’t let him down. Do you know how soon you’ll have more in stock?
No, I’m sorry. Shipments are all screwed up since this quarantine. I can check another store for you,
Thanks, but I’ve got a list of the other srtores. I’ll head to the East Side and try the 86th and Lexington store.
Good luck, sir.
Thanks, dear. I’ll be back soon for something else, I’m sure.
I rode the 104 downtown Broadway bus to 86th street and caught the crosstown bus. Because there was so little traffic, the ride was very short. I stepped off the bus at the corner of Lexington Avenue and 86th and looked about for the Petco. There it was on Lexington, almost to 87th Street. I hobbled across the street and stumbled to the store, where a nice young man asked me to wait before I entered.
He directed me to the display of kitty treats, and there they were, six bags of freeze dried shrimpies. I decided to take five. I really didn’t want another poor little kitty to be shrimpy-less.
As I walked into the apartment, my three masked little kittens ran up to me.
What’s in the bag? Annabelle asked.
Things, I said mysteriously.
Did you bring me anything? Thatch asked.
No, I had to get a few things for myself, and I didn’t have enough money to get you all something.
Annabelle gave me a funny who-are-you-fooling look. I removed my cap, set down my bag and reached for the hand sanitizer. I washed my hands and the head of my cane with it. Thatch and Stella ran back to the window where they played with the pigeons on the fire escape.
Where did you really go? Annabelle asked me.
To a drug store. I needed a few things. Let me sit down. My legs are killing me. I fell into my computer chair. Annabelle jumped onto the table.
You were gone an awfully long time, three programs on the Kitty Channel.
Okay, I was running around town looking for shrimpies for Thatch.
You did that? You can hardly move! Was it painful?
It was hell, Annabelle. My legs are killing me. I think I need some painkillers.
Why did you do it?
I love Thatch. He was so upset last night! I couldn’t give you and Stella a treat tonight and have nothing for him. I love you all too much for that.
Ah, that’s so sweet! Why didn’t you tell him?
I want to surprise him later. He was so hurt last night. I love my little boy. And Stella, and you, too, Missy.
I love you, too. You’re a good Daddy.
I try to be. I slowly stood up. Ooooh, God, that hurts! I exclaimed as I hobbled toward the kitchen.
Where are you going? Annabelle sounded tense.
To the bathroom for some painkillers. Okay?
Promise me you won’t yell . . .
Oh, no.
Oh, yes.
Oh, God. I turned on the bathroom light. Toilet paper littered the entire room. It was on the floor, in the tub, in the sink.
Oh, Stella, I moaned. Why?
I think Stella’s brain damaged. She never listens, but I know she’s gonna win the Kitty Olympics!
If I don’t kill her first.
Do you remember, Annabelle asked, when Thatch went through that paper phase?
Oh, yes, I laughed, he drove me crazy! Paper bits everywhere, but he never went for toilet paper. He liked envelopes, my score paper, that paper tape Amazon uses . . .
Does he still do it?
No. One day he stopped.
Maybe Stella will stop, too?
Oh, Annabelle, I hope you’re right!
I sank to my knees and began to gather up the shredded paper and toss it into the waste basket. I leaned over the edge of the tub to clean up the mess. I heard the thunder of feet as Stella erupted into the room, leaped onto my back, and bit my ear.
©2020, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 