Stella, I muttered, you’ve been warned! You are skating on thin ice, Missy.
What did Stella do this time, Daddy? Thatch asked.
Well, she just bit me. And earlier, you know, she escaped into the hall, and I had to chase her down.
Two strikes! Annabelle laughed. Stella, one more and you’re out. She sat in her latest Amazon carton singing bits of Carmen to herself.
Oh, no! Not really, Daddy? Thatch asked. Stella’s fun!
I watched her eat her breakfast and then push you out of the way to eat yours, Thatch! She’s a rude little piglet. And she bullies you.
She loves you, you know. She tells me that all the time.
She does?
She likes to cuddle up and sleep next to you, and you do pet her when she does!
And then she bites me.
She’s playing; she’s rough.
She’s uncouth, Annabelle yelled.
I still like her, Thatch insisted. We have fun together.
You’re a softie, Thatch! Annabelle stated. We stars have to be tough.
Do you think she’s fun, Annabelle? I asked.
In small doses, Annabelle sniffed. She resumed her Bizet tra-la-la’s from Carmen’s Act One interrogation.
Oh, Annabelle, I turned on her, you talk badly about her, yet you continue to play with her. I watched you groom her last night.
Annabelle loves Stella! Thatch interrupted. Don’t you?
Annabelle’s singing stopped. I like Stella! she protested, I do! I really do! She can be very sweet at times. Except when she tries to wrestle me while I’m working on my scales or sorting my Instagram photos. Or listening to a CD. Nobody interrupts me when Ethel or Mary’s singing, nobody!
Well, I said slowly, I love her but she can drive me up a wall faster than you . . .
Moi? Annabelle asked.
Yes, Missy, you, and you know it.
Annabelle laughed. Oh, Thatch, isn’t he silly? I’m just a little girl. Everybody loves me.
You know, Annabelle, I want that Amazon carton. I need to store some of Thatch’s shrimpy treats in it.
Well, take it then. She stood up, then slowly abandoned her carton and wandered off to the linen closet, still singing her tra-la-la’s. Thatch ran after her, and they disappeared into the linen closet.
The problem with Stella, I thought, is that I have no idea what I would do in the third strike. Much as I might like to, I wasn’t going to murder her, and I certainly wasn’t giving her up. If I punished her, would she even know why?
I went into the kitchen for more coffee and then returned to my breakfast sandwich from the deli. It no longer sat on the table. From the corner of my eye I noticed a movement. I turned just as Stella dragged the wrapping paper and sandwich under my bed.
That cat is a dead cat! I yelled. Then I sat down, took a sip of coffee, thought about the situation, and burst into laughter.
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 