Stop hitting me with that stick! Annabelle snarled at me as I hobbled from the kitchen to the computer table.
That “stick,” Missy, is a cane, I replied, and I just prodded you to make you move. This coffee is hot, and I cannot walk through you. Just move, please, I don’t want to fall or spill this coffee on you.
While I was making my second cup of coffee, she had been lying in the short hall between the kitchen and living area and singing “Indian Summer” with Thatch. Victor Herbert’s melody is tricky, and neither cat sang it well. When I left the kitchen holding a cane and a wrapped egg sandwich from the corner bodega in one hand and a hot cup in the other, I had no intention of dawdling over them. Thatch moved immediately, but Annabelle just lay there, singing at the top of her lungs, so I poked her rump to move her along. She ignored me, so I poked her again
Once my serenading kitties had moved to the window sill in search of Pebble, Oyster, and the other pigeons – there are too many to remember all of their names – I sat down at the computer, unwrapped my sandwich of scrambled eggs and ham, sipped my coffee, and logged onto the computer. Stella, who had been sleeping on the computer table, rose and looked at me over the top of the screen.
There’s no food here for you, Missy! I told her. Ignoring me, she moved from behind the computer to my sandwich, which I snatched up before she got to it. None of the cats will eat eggs, but both Stella and Thatch love deli ham. Well, I said as she tried to climb my arm for a bite of ham, maybe Daddy will give you a bite of ham. Just a little piece, okay?
I opened the roll and tore off a small piece of ham and offered it to her. She gobbled it up enthusiastically while a set of sharp claws dug into my knee. I looked down.
I like ham, too! Thatch sat up, looking like Oliver waiting for more gruel.
Ow, Thatch! You need a manicure. That hurt.
I want some, ham, Daddy!
Okay, baby. I gave him a piece about the size of Stella’s. I know the ham is bad for them, so they only get it when I occasionally shell out money for a breakfast delivery. Otherwise, I eat Cheerios with a sliced banana.
Stella jumped down to the floor in an effort to steal the ham from him, but he ran to the dresser with it and escaped her by jumping onto the top of the dresser where he took his time enjoying the small bit of ham. I turned back to the computer and opened my email. The doorbell rang.
Come in! I yelled.
The door opened. It was Auntie Judy from next door. Hello, everyone, she said. UPS left this downstairs for you. She carried a carton, about twenty-four inches long. Annabelle ran to her and examined the package.
Thanks, Judy! I was just about to go down for the mail. I hope that wasn’t too heavy.
No, it wasn’t. Where shall I put it?
Just set it down by the bathroom door. That’s my new grab bar for the bathtub. I hope it works.
Grab bar?
Yeah, I hope it will help me getting in and out of the tub. I worry about getting stick there and yelling for help until someone in the hall hears me and comes to my rescue.
We had support bars installed a couple of years ago.
Well, I finally decided it was time to join the handicapped. Thanks again for bringing it up.
You’re welcome. See you later.
Thanks again. The door closed, and I turned back to my emails.
Daddy? That was Annabelle. I looked down.
What, Annabelle? I asked.
I’m stuck. What’s the line after “A heart that is broken”?
Just a minute. Let me think about it. I ran the song through my head, then I sang to her “You are here to watch over a heart that is broken By a word that somebody left unspoken.”
“You’re the guest of a romance in June going astray . . .” Annabelle and Thatch sang enthusiastically.
Ghost, babies, not “guest,” I told them.
Really? Annabelle. Hmmm, ghost . . . Are you sure?
It makes more sense, Annabelle, Thatch told her.
Trust me, Annabelle, I added, the word is “ghost.” I’m positive.
“You’re the ghost of a romance in June,” Annabelle began, and Thatch joined in, “going astray, Fading too soon, that’s why I say, Farewell, to you, Indian Summer!”
Stella banged the tambourine.
©2021, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 