Kitty cleanup finished, I loaded up my shopping bag with the recyclable paper trash, an empty carton of kitty litter, and a bag of dirty kitty litter, looped its handles over the handlebars of my walker, put on my mask, and headed off to the basement. It had been a good morning so far. All three cats ate their breakfast, and I hadn’t heard a sniffle or a sneeze from Annabelle in several days. I couldn’t wait to dump everything, pick up the mail, and return to my second cup of coffee. I’ll listen to some Irish pub music for next week’s St. Patrick’s Day, I thought, while I check out my computer sites. Yep, it’s gonna be a good day.
As I approached the apartment on my way from the elevator, I could hear Annabelle vocalizing. Ever since she read Barbara Cook’s autobiography, she’s been warming up with opera arias she likes from Maria Callas’ recordings. Well, I thought, she’s not ready to sing “The Bell Song” in public yet, is she? Still, I was happy to hear her singing because when she has a cold and feels a bit puny, she shows no energy. Just before I reached the apartment, her singing suddenly stopped.
I opened the door and worked the walker and shopping bag into the foyer. It’s always a bit of a struggle, and I usually have to tangled with Stella who has two thoughts: anything in that bag for me and let me out in the hall. There was no sign of Annabelle or Stella.
I put the walker into its space, grabbed my cane, and limped into the living area. Thatch sat in his favorite morning place on top of the chest of drawers.
Hello, Thatch! I said jovially as I approached him. Where are your sisters?
Shh, he whispered to me me. Keep a low profile and move very quietly.
Why? What’s going on?
Annabelle’s over her cold . . .
Yes, I know. I’m very happy about that.
And she and Stella are feeling very happy this morning . . .
Oh, no! Excessive romping?
Very.
Just then, Annabelle erupted from the bathroom and bolted across the space to the window. She was pursued by Stella, who leaped up to the windowsill beside her and threw her front legs over Annabelle’s neck and wrestled with her. When they fell from the window onto the radiator cover, Annabelle broke free and ran under the bed with Stella in hot pursuit.
Oh, no! I moaned, I do not need another attack of ERKS!
Maybe you could get a vaccine?
Oh, Thatch, I wish there were a vaccine for ERKS. I need some coffee.
I headed back into the kitchen where a poured a bit – just a bit – of Irish cream into my cup before I added the coffee. Then I added just a bit more Irish Cream. I needed medication for my ERKS. I moved to the computer table, sat down and opened my emails. A second later, Annabelle jumped onto the table and tried to hide between the printer and computer. In the process she managed to knock the coffee cup to the floor and the receiver off of the telephone. Stella’s pursuit stopped abruptly at my feet as she was doused with the spilled coffee.
Oh, come on! I yelled. What the hell?
At that, Annabelle leaped from the computer table onto the filing cabinet to get as far away as possible from the Wrath of Daddy.
Paper towels, I thought, just before I blacked out. I need a lot of paper towels . . .
When I came to, I was lying in a puddle of coffee next to my thankfully unbroken coffee mug. U=The coffee was still warm, so I hadn’t been out long. I could hear the telephone squawking because the receiver was off its cradle. Thatch was pacing in circles, Stella sat beside me, grooming herself, and Annabelle was nowhere in sight.
Daddy? Thatch asked, are you okay?
Oh, Thatch, it’s ERKS. Excessive Romping Kitty Syndrome is the bane of my existence. It’s gonna kill me.
Oh, no!
Oh, yes! I sat up and watched Stella lick coffee from her coat. Oh, God, I thought, she’ll spend the rest of the day either drunk or hung over.
I dragged myself to my feet, hobbled into the kitchen, and took the entire roll of paper towels from the rack. When I returned to my computer table, Stella was gone. I lowered myself to the floor, got onto my hands and knees, and began to mop up the mess. Thatch paced in circles next to me.
It’s sticky, he observed.
It’s the sugar in the Bristol Cream. I need to mop the floor, and then I’m gonna need a bath.
I heard the rumble of dashing feet just before Annabelle leaped onto my back, bounced off my shoulder to the floor, and headed to the windowsill. I felt the pursuing Stella jump onto my back just before everything went black.
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 