104. PERFUMES BY ANNABELLE

Annabelle leaped onto end of the computer table and strode toward me. I looked up from Facebook.

Daddy! Daddy, she said excitedly, I just had a brilliant idea.

Annabelle! Why is your tail wet? I asked her. You’re leaving a trail of water. Are you dragging it through your water dish?

No, of course not! 

Did you and Stella wrestle over the water bowl?

Is it really wet?

Yes, it is, Missy. 

Well, I don’t know. That’s not important. I have this brilliant idea. It just came to me.

Well, can you tell me later? I stood up. Your wet tail reminded me that I never rinsed out the tub after my bath.

Since my balance had become poor and I began using the walker, I began to take my baths in late afternoon, instead of later in the evening. I was so afraid of falling or being unable to get out of the tub that I figured my chances were better calling for help in the afternoon if I fell or couldn’t get myself out of the tub.

I limped into the bathroom, took my towel from the edge of the tub, and hanged it to dry over the shower curtain rod.  Then I sat on the edge of the tub to rinse it out. I noticed that the bar of soap had fallen into the bottom of the tub, where it stuck to the porcelain. I picked it up and put it back into its holder, leaving a scum of wet soap in the basin. 

Yuck, I thought. All the cats don’t need, since Stella and Annabelle spend much of their time lounging or wrestling in the tub, is to end up licking soap off their paws. Gross!

I turned on the hot water tap to run some water to rinse off the scum and let the tub fill with a couple of inches of water. As the water drained, I thought, this is too hot. So I turned off the hot water tap and turned on the cold. When the temperature was lukewarm, I turned off the water and watched it drain from the tub. Annabelle and Thatch. followed by Stella, strolled in to observe.

I want to tell you, she said, about my idea. You’ll love it, I know. She jumped onto the toilet seat so we were at eye level. My idea is spectacular, isn’t it, Thatch?

Annabelle, I said, look! You’re letting your tail drag in the toilet water. 

Oh, dear! I am?

That’s why it’s wet, Missy.

She leaped from the toilet seat to the edge of the tub next to me, and before I could stop her, she jumped into the tub.

No, Annabelle! I said as she leaped.

All four paws ended up in about a half inch of water. With a loud scream she leaped out and ran from the bathroom, pursued by Stella as Thatch roared with laughter. He laughed so much he fell backward into the litter box. 

Well, Thatch, I laughed, I tried to stop her. I hope she’s not getting water all over the apartment. I stood up and walked to the door. I turned back to Thatch. Are you okay, baby?

He stood up and shook the litter from his coat. That was so funny!

Well, our little diva won’t think so.

I walked past the kitchen where Stella searched for possible scraps of food in their three dinner bowls. Annabelle sat by my bed, licking her paws. I lowered myself to the floor.

You could have warned me, she said sullenly.

Annabelle, Missy, you didn’t give me a chance to.

I demand you post a “wet tub” sign from now on.

I won’t. You should remember that when I take a bath, the tub is off limits to you and Stella for several hours. 

There’s too much else to remember. 

Such as? I asked.

Is it I or E before C?

Now, you’re being a smart aleck, Missy.

There’s so much for a little girl to remember, Daddy: lines, blocking, not to turn your back on Stella when you’re eating . . .

Well, Missy Belle, remember this: always look before you leap.

What does that mean? Sometimes you make no sense at all.

Hearing her name, Stella ran up to her and wrestled her to the ground. Breaking free, Annabelle jumped onto the computer table and then to the top of the filing cabinet.

Stella! she called, I do not want to play with you. I’m telling Daddy my plan  Remember my plan?

Stella jumped onto my bed and began to groom herself. As soon as she was occupied with that, Annabelle leaped down from the filing cabinet and walked to the edge of the computer table where she could face me in the chair.

Thatch wandered in to join us. He jumped onto the table and sat next to her. Annabelle, that was so funny! he told her.

I don’t think so, she replied in best haughty grande dame tones.

Thatcher, I think you said the wrong thing.  Our little star doesn’t like getting wet.

I don’t either, Thatch said, but I avoid the bathtub. I haven’t forgotten the night you dunked me. I didn’t like it.

I’m really sorry about that. I had to get that poison off you. I only did it because I loved you so much, my little boy.

In the first weeks he moved in, three-month old Thatch was so afraid of me and Annabelle that he hid under one of the bookcases where the floor was covered in roach poison and boric acid, remnants of the dread 2008 bedbug infestation that had the whole building living in fear. Since the space between bookcase and floor was no more than an inch and a half, he could only lie still or crawl around. When I lured him out with some food, the poor little kitten was covered in the poison. I was so convinced it would kill him if he started grooming himself that I carried him into the bathroom, filled the tub with warm water, held him by the scruff of his neck and dunked him several times. He was not amused, but I wrapped him in a warm, fluffy towel, and dried him off, terrified that I would find him dead the next day. That was three and a half years ago, and my little baby had thrived since then.

So, everybody, listen up! Annabelle announced. I have a brilliant idea. Daddy, I’m starting a business and I need funding. I want $10,000.

Annabelle, I don’t have that much money.

Well, get it. And be quick! I’m starting a business, “Perfumes by Annabelle!” Isn’t that brilliant? All big stars have their own perfume labels, and I’ll make us rich.

It’s a terrific idea! Thatch enthused.

Just shoot me, I thought. Instead, I asked, So . . . who’s buying these scents? Will they be for men or women?

Cats first. No boys, only for girls. People later. I want to call the first in my line “Eau de Herring.”

Oh, de pain, I thought. Instead, I said, Herring? That’s so continental. I can’t imagine your ordinary American housecat customer would even know what a herring is. Are all your scents going to be fishy?

At the beginning, but “Eau de Trout” has no allure, no mystery, no joie de vivre.

What about “Eau de Mackerel,” Thatch suggested.

That’s not bad, Annabelle told us, and I know just how to make it better.

What? Thatch asked her.

“Eau de Mackerelle!” It’s so feminine! Why, it’s so me, dontcha think?

©2021, Larry Moore