Annabelle! Annabelle! What did I do this time? I asked. Ignoring me, Annabelle stormed past me and vanished into the linen closet.
She won’t answer, Thatch told me. She’s very angry with you.
I turned to the dresser, where Thatch lay on his bed, a square carton about 12×12 containing three hundred plastic bags I use for emptying the litter.
Why, Thatch? I asked.
She’s hungry and you won’t feed her.
Well, damnation, Thatch, it’s her own fault. She pulls this every day, every single day! I serve dinner around 3:15, as you know very well, and she refuses to join you and Stella. By the time I’ve dragged her to your dishes, she refuses to accept what I’m serving and ignores it, or Stella has already eaten it. It isn’t my fault Annabelle has to wait for treat time to get dinner. I refuse to cater to our star’s whims.
Don’t shoot me! Thatch protested. I’m only the messenger. He sat up and stretched.
You are awfully wise for a baby cat, Thatch.
I am? Really? That’s nice to hear.
You are wise beyond your years. I scratched his back, and he moaned in pleasure.
How soon till treat time?
About . . . I looked at my watch, about an hour and a half. She’ll eat anything ny then.
At that moment Stella bounded out of the linen closet, followed by Annabelle. She ran past us for the bathroom with Annabelle in pursuit. Thatch jumped down to follow them.
Hey! I called. What’s going on?
Annabelle turned back to me as Thatch ran past her into the bathroom. Some days Stella makes me so mad!
Okay, what did she do this time?
I was sending R.U. Fémos a long email. I want to know when he’s coming back to New York. I’m ready to resume my career.
That’s nice, I said. Did you tell him hello for me?
Of course not, It was my email about my career, not yours.
Of course. I should know better.
That’s right. You should. So . . . I had written this long email earlier, but I hadn’t sent it yet.
Uh-oh, I muttered. Why not?
Well, my days are so interesting and fascinating that I wait to see what other exciting news might come upm and since you won’t feed me . . .
Hey! I fed Stella and Thatch. Your dish was sitting there . . .
Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m a star. I eat when it amuses me.
No, Missy Belle, you eat when I give it to you.
You are so lucky I cannot use a can opener.
Well, Missy, I’m not laughing. Stella’s getting fat eating her dinner and yours.
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . . so, do you or do you not want to hear what that evil Stella did?
I shudder to think, Missy. What did she do?
Well, Stella followed me into my office, and she jumped on the keyboard and erased my email! It was a good email, too. I had just told him how you were starving me.
Oh, Missy Belle! Silly, silly cat! You know, you could have done several things to preserve it, like save it or put your computer to sleep.
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
And, Miss Liar, I am not starving you.
I don’t know why Thatch and I let her into our office.
You know, if we had had a power failure, you would have lost it since you hadn’t saved it.
Yeah, yeah, yeah . . .
At that moment Thatch ran from the bathroom, followed by Stella. He ran up to Annabelle touched her and yelled, Tag! You’re it.
He and Stella ran under the bed as Annabelle pursued them. She has such a sfort attention span, I thought. How does she remember all those song lyrics?
I wandered into the kitchen, pulled a glass off the shelf, opened the refrigerator and pulled out the bottle of Classic Coke. I filled half the glass, put the bottle back into the refrigerator, and reached for the Bacardi.
The next morning, I was awakened at 5:00. Annabelle and Thatch sang “Happy Birthday” at the top of their lungs while Stella beat her tambourine.
Crikey, babies! I whined. Shhh! Shhh! Don’t disturb the neighbors.
It’s your birthday! Annabelle yelled. Happy Birthday, Daddy!
Happy Birthday! Thatch yelled and threw confetti. The bed was a mess.
Stella struck the tambourine, then put her face up to mine.
Ooooh, let me sleep just a little bit longer, please?
It’s your birthday! Annabelle cried. Get out of bed and feed us.
How old are you, Daddy? Thatch asked me.
I feel older than God, Thatch.
How old?
Okay, I’m seventy-five today. I have lived three quarters of a century. I never thought I’d live this long.
Oh, just get up! Annabelle ordered. We have to celebrate.
Yes! Thatch agreed. I love a celebration.
After you feed us, Annabelle added.
Stella struck her tambourine.
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 