I was working on my 2023 income taxes. I kept lifting Thatch, who wanted to play and be brushed, off my pile of receipts as I tallied up numbers of the money I’d spent on various items. It’s too bad I can’t write off the cats, I thought.
A taxi receipt drifted off my worktable and into the wastebasket sitting next to my leg. I reached down into the wastebasket to pick it up and felt something furry. I lifted a heavy wastebasket and looked into the fae of Annabelle.
Missy! I exclaimed, what are you doing in there?
What does it look like? I was sleeping.
I was completely speechless. For her daily naps Annabelle had been sleeping in many various locales:
1. her princess pillow on my bed;
2. under the bed;
3. inside a bag of clean sheets sitting in the storage area;
4, her “summer home.” a large carton that once held sixteen rolls of paper towels and now held three or four;
5. a shelf above my hanging shirts and trousers in my clothes closet;
6. her office in the linen closet.
Why are you sleeping in my wastebasket? I asked her. Please, please, Annabelle, get out. I need to find that taxi receipt.
No, I’m sleeping.
An edge crept into my voice. You know, Missy Belle, I get very anxious when I’m working on my taxes, so please get out.
No, I’m sleeping. Bother Thatch. Or Stella . . . if she’s not too busy eating.
Out, Missy! Out!
I turned the wastebasket over, dumping Annabelle and a lot of paper onto the floor. As soon as she landed, she picked herself up, gave me a dirty look, and ran off toward the kitchen area. I lowered myself to the floor and began to put the paper trash back into the wastebasket while I searched for that damned receipt. I finally found it, put it back onto the worktable, put the wastebasket back in place, raised myself up to a standing position, and returned to my receipt tallies.
I took a break around 2:30 to feed Thatch and Stella. Annabelle prefers to sleep until 4:00 so she can help me with the dinner cleanup and gorge herself at 5:00 on their nightly treat.
As I piled my dinner dishes onto my cart with the cats’ dishes, I called, Annabelle! Annabelle! You wanna help Daddy clean up?
There was no response, so I called again, Annabelle! Missy? Where are you?
I waited a minute, and she didn’t appear. Usually, as soon as I called her, she erupted into my space to be petted and then follow me on my late afternoon errands.
I guess she’s still angry with me, I thought, as I slowly pushed the cart into the kitchen, where I washed up my dishes. I hen cleaned out Thatch’s and Sella’s bowls, put them into the sink to soak with a little detergent, and wandered into the bathroom to clean their water bowl and give them fresh water for the night.
As I sat on the edge of the bathtub and washed the water bowl, Annabelle slowly entered the bathroom.
Daddy? she asked, are you mad at me?
No, Annabelle, not in the least, Missy!
Do you still love me?
Oh, Annabelle! Why do you need to ask? I’ll never stop loving you or Thatch or Stella.
How much do you love me?
I love you more than there are stars in the sky; I love you more than there are digits in the equation for Pi . . .
Like cherry, apple, or pecan? she interrupted me.
I laughed, Wrong pie, Missy!
What kind of pie then?
Well, Pi is not something you eat. It’s a mathematical number, something to do with circles, as I recall, but I can’t remember anything more about it. It’s usually referred to as 3.14, but the actual number is endless, like 3.1415978 – something like that – and it goes on and on . . .
I could see her eyes glaze over in boredom, so I shut up and returned to washing the cats’ water bowl. She watched me for a minute or so.
What are you thinking, Missy? I asked her.
Sometimes, Daddy, you make no sense at all!
Really, I asked.
None!
©2024, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 