92. A HOUSEHOLD NAME

I am so mad at you, Annabelle raged as soon as I walked in the door.  She was at the computer and there was fire in her eyes.

What? I asked.  What did I do?

Oh, you know.  It’s that White House recommendation you didn’t do. I wanted that job as White House cat, and now . . . oh . . . I could kill you!

Annabelle!  Missy!

She burst into tears, jumped off the computer table, and ran into the bathroom.  Stella followed her.  I set the walker in its place, grabbed my cane, and walked into the living area. Thatch sat in the cat tree.

Jeezus, Thatch, what did I do this time?

It’s what you didn’t do, Daddy.

Thatch, they weren’t holding auditions for a White House cat.  I just learned they already have a White House cat.  She gets these ideas . . .

Well, I didn’t want to move to DC. I like it here.

So what set her off?  What the hellat happened while I was out?  

The White House dogs.  You know, Major and Champ?

Yes . . . yes, go on.

She read that Jill Biden and they are promoting the Puppy Bowl, and she’s jealous.

Ooooh, I groaned, poor Annabelle!

She says if she was the White House cat, being on the Puppy Bowl would be good publicity for her.

Oy!  Well, thank you for telling me.  I will talk to her.

Let her down easy, Daddy.

You’re a good brother. I love you, Thatcher.

I grabbed my cane and walked into the bathroom.  Annabelle and Stella sat in the bathtub, glaring at me.  I hanged the cane over the towel rack and sat on the edge of the tub.

So, Stella, I asked, are you here consoling Annabelle?

Stella, jumped up beside me, bit my hand, and ran out of the bathroom. As I turned back to Annabelle, I heard Thatch yell, Stella! Go away!

Well, Annabelle, I said, at least Stella’s defending you.

She sat in silence, staring at me. 

So . . . I guess you don’t want to talk to me?

She turned her back and lay down in the tub. I reached down to pet her, and she moved away from me.

Aw, Missy, I’m sorry. I really am. You know, one of my Facebook friends told me they already had a White House cat. I didn’t know that. You were out of the running before they ever thought of holding auditions.

Dead silence.

I bet you feel just like Ethel Merman when she learned Rosalind Russell was making the movie of Gypsy.  Or Carol Channing, when she lost the movie of Hello, Dolly!

Annabelle turned to me. Channing was lucky.  That movie’s a dud.

Maybe you would have hated being the White House cat?  What if you got bad press for being on the Puppy Bowl? People might ask, What’s a cat doing at the Puppy Bowl?  What if it was bad publicity for your career?

Bad publicity is no publicity.

Well, perhaps, but, you know – I’m just saying – people watch the Puppy Bowl for the puppies.  You may be the prettiest little cat on the Upper West Side –

Yes, it’s true; I am.  Maybe in the whole city.

Oh, brother, I thought.  Instead, I said, Yes, but since people are watching the Puppy Bowl for the puppies, you might get ignored. What if you got very little screen time?

No! she shrieked.

Yes, dear. It’s the network that controls what the viewers see. They could easily cut you out completely.

They wouldn’t dare!

Then you would have to wait for the Kitty Bowl to be seen. Right now you’re a New York City star.

I’m Annabelle, a household name.

 And you know what they say: when one door closes, another one opens.

She gave me a very strange look.  Sometimes you make no sense at all.

I smiled. Why don’t you come out of that tub? It’s almost time for our soaps, and maybe you could call RU Fémos, and see how he is?

She hopped up on the edge of the tub ands crawled onto my lap. What a good idea! After that, Thatch can help me with my Instagram account.

Come on.

I stood up and we walked into the living area.  Thatch and Stella sat in the window, watching the Big Parade on West 82^nd Street scurry by.

Anything exciting going on, Thatch? I asked.

Not much.

Still snowing?

No, just a few people sliding on the icy sidewalks, and there are still a couple of cars buried in the snow in front of the church.

Can we go out and play? Annabelle asked.

Not today.  Maybe tomorrow when the sidewalks are shoveled and salted.  I don’t want to fall.  And besides, it’s almost time for our soaps.  Did you want to call RU Fémos?

I do.  I’ll do it now.

RU Fémos’s All About Me press agency is the biggest in town, and he’s been Annabelle’s press agent and occasional manager/agent for some time now.  He’s quite fond of her, and she adores him. When the pandemic shut down nearly all of New York show business, he decided to move to his country home for the duration.

Annabelle spoke to RU Fémos for maybe fifteen minutes while Thatch, Stella, and I played with a laser toy.  I don’t like to eavesdrop on her calls with him. She amuses him, and I could hear her laughing at something he said.  She later told me that he agreed with me about the Puppy Bowl possibly being a bad move for her career, and I was grateful to be back in her favor.

After the call, we watched our soaps. They don’t hold Stella’s attention and she prefers to nap in the bathroom sink.  It was Friday, so we knew the soaps would have slam-bang cliffhangers for Monday. After a commercial featuring a pretty young lady in a top with a plunging neckline, Annabelle turned to me.

That Nurtec commercial is really strange, she said.  What are they selling?

Migraine relief, I think, I said.

Are you sure? Thatch asked.  I thought they were selling cleavage!

Bingo! Annabelle shouted. Lotta bazookas in that commercial.

Well, there you have it, I told them. 

We returned to The Young and the Restless.

©2021, Larry Moore