Because getting out and about to shop can be an ordeal, I’ve been ordering in bulk and having things delivered. Instead of carting home heavy items, I can pick them up in the lobby, and – by hook or crook or begging one of the strong younger men ion the building for help – get packages onto the third floor. For the most part, whenever a 40-lb carton of litter arrives, I seem to be the only one to get the carton to three. I get on my knees, unpack the carton and push it to the elevator. I then break down the carton it was shipped in and take it to the basement. I then return to the first floor, push the carton of litter onto the elevator, and take it up to three. Once we are there, I get back on my hands and knees and push the carton and the walker down the hall to my door, where I let the carton sit for a day or two before I want todeal with getting it into the apartment and into the bathroom.
So, this morning, after cleaning up the cats’ dishes and litter and making the bed, I arrived in the lobby to find a huge carton of Bounty paper towels sitting there. Just my luck, I thought, not a strapping neighbor in site.
Luckily, the carton was cumbersome, but it weighed less than 40 pounds of litter, I wangled it and the walker into the elevator, up to three, and down the hall to the apartment. I opened the door and set the walker in the kitchen. I turned, opened the door, put my hands on the carton, which was about three feet tall, and dragged it into the apartment.
Oooh, Annabelle said with great curiosity, what is that?
Paper towels, Missy, I said as I pushed the carton into the living area and opened the top. Yep, sixteen rolls of paper towels in two tiers of eight rolls. I pushed the carton back to the storage area and began to unpack them. As soon as I had emptied the top tier, Annabelle leaped into that carton and lay there.
Okay, Missy, I said, come on out. I want to put this away.
I declare this carton, this fabulous and spacious carton my new budoir! Now go away!
Oh, come on out of there.
No, sir, sorry. I’m going to lounge here and nap till I feel like moving. Go do something else. Bother Thatch or Stella.
And so I did.
Don’t you just hate it when Annabelle gets bossy? Thatch asked me.
Sometimes, Thatcher Cat, she really pisses me off. Most of the time, I think she’s funny.
Really, Daddy?
She’s just this little girl trying to act like a big star. She watches too many movies about the “the theatuh and the dahnse,” and she tries to behave like those divas.
Well, he said with a yawn, I suppose, but I don’t know anything about that stuff.
Well, you’re just her little brother, but, you know, a lot of things you three do make me feel like I’m in a Marx Brothers film.
What does that mean?
Before I could answer, Annabelle leaped from her new budoir and sauntered off to the bathroom. She passed us in silence.
Well, it means for now, Thatch, I told him, that nature calls us all.
Annabelle’s right, you know: sometimes you make no sense at all.
He jumped off the dresser and ran to Stella, who lay sleeping on my bed. As soon as he approached her, she leaped up, threw her front paws around his neck and, with much screaming and squalling, wrestled him to the mattress. As they wrestled, the two of them fell off the bed and landed with a thud. Stella looked up, startled, and vanished under the bed. Thatch gave a shake and ran back to me.
Well, Thatch, I laughed, you weren’t expecting that, were you?
I never know what Stella’s going to do. I just wanted to play for a while.
Were you hurt? I asked.
No.
At that moment, a sharp pungent odor drifted from the bathroom as Annabelle strolled back to us. For all her virtues, she has no toilet etiquette at all. None, nada, zilch. She leaped onto the computer table and opened her new issue of Backstage.
Hello, Missy, I said, I see you’re back.
I see her front, Thatch added.
I laughed. See, Thatch? I think you’re our very own Groucho.
I’m honored, Thatch told us.
What was so funny? Annabelle asked.
Things, I told her.
Anything good in casting, Annabelle? Thatch asked her.
I haven’t got to casting yet. I’m reading about the Tony nominations.
So, Annabelle, I said tactfully as possible, I just read an article on why cats don’t bury their poop.
You did? she asked in her I-don’t-care-do-you voice. She refused to look up from the Backstage casting notices. Lying next to the computer, she casually turned the page. Why is no one casting CATS? she wondered as she settled back down with the newspaper.
Yes, I said cautiously, but none of the reasons given in the article seem to apply to you.
That’s nice, she murmured.
Thatch and Stella bury theirs, I said nonchalantly as possible.
That’s nice, she murmured, still not looking up.
Thatch jumped onto the table and yelled at her, Why don’t you bury your stinky poop, Annabelle?
She looked up at him. After looking at him for a minute, she said, It’s the maid’s job.
She leaped off the table and, as we watched her, casually strolled to the storage area and vanished into the carton of Bounty paper towels.
See, Thatch? I said to him, you’re Groucho, Stella’s Harpo, and-
And Annabelle? Thatch asked me.
Who else? Margaret Dumont.
©2022, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 