Stella! Annabelle shouted. Stella, get back in here!
I looked up from the computer. The apartment door was open and Annabelle stood halfway in the apartment and halfway in the hall.
Annabelle! I called. What’s wrong? She’s just in the hall playing. She’ll come back in when she’s tired.
Stella! I’m telling you, it’s not safe outside the apartment. Annabelle yrelled again.
What the hell, Annabelle, I thought. Instead, I called, Annabelle! Missy! Come back inside. When Stella gets tired, she’ll come back in. Or I will have to get the walker and track her down, I said to Thatch, who was sitting on the computer table.
Annabelle’s right, he told me. You’ve got to make her come in. It’s dangerous outside.
Thatcher baby, I told him, all three of you play in the halls, the fire escape, all over Manhattan some days.
We used to, Daddy, he told me, but not any more.
Oh, Jesus, I thought. Instead I asked, What do you mean “not any more”?
Stella! Annabelle called, come back in here or I will cuff you so hard you will need drugs for the pain.
Annabelle! I called, stop being a nuisance. Close the door and leave Stella alone.
Nobody ever called Patti LuPone a nuisance and lived! Annabelle shouted at me. I’m trying to save Stella’s life.
Okay, okay! I stood up. Enbough of this nonsense. What the fat hell is going on?
Annabelle has ordered us to never ever leave the apartment again, Thatch told me.
Why?
Because immigrants are eating cats and dogs. She’s decided-
Who’s eating cats and dogs?
Immigrants.
Who told you this?
Annabelle.
Okay, I reached for my cane.Let’s straighten this nonsense out now.
I limped to the foyer where Annabelle’s body held the apartment door open.
Annabelle! Close the door.
But, but Stella-
She’ll be fine. Close the door. I need to talk to you and Thatch.
I’m tryng to save-
Close the door, Annabelle. Let’s have a talk.
I walked back to the computer, sat down, and hung the cane on the teacart. Annabelle jumped up onto the computer table.
You’re in trouble, Annabelle, Thatch told her. He giggled.
I am not in trouble, but you are one dead cat.
Okay, babies, I said, hoping to sound stern. Tell me what’s going on. Who’s eating cats and dogs?
Immigrants, Annabelle told me. I can’t let Stella get eaten . . . well, some days I wouldn’t mind when she beats that tambourine like a wild thing. Don’t you agree, Thatch?
Nope, stop it, I ordered. Who told you about this news item?
What news item? Annabelle asked.
Immigrants eating cats and dogs, I replioed.
Oyster and Pebble.
Oyster and Pebble are a gay couple of pigeons and Annabelle’s best friends. She usually visits with them early in the day before they fly off to Central Park to spend the day foraging and visiting other birds. They see everything and tell all.
Oyster and Pebble? How did they know this?
It was on the debate last Tuesday, Annabelle explained.
Aha! I thought. That explains tne arcane Facebook posts I did not understand. I had missed the debate because I had been talking on the phone to Det. Kibble, with whom I have a mild flirtation.
Who mentioned this in the debate?
Trump, Thatch stated.
Trump said immigrants are eating cats and dogs?
That’s what Pebble and Oyster told us yesterday, Annabelle replied. So . . . we’re never leaving the apartment again. It’s safe here, but immigrants could be lurking the halls, just waiting to gobble up cute little kittens. Oh, my gosh, Thatch! Immigrants are like goblins.
No, they are not, Annabelle, I stated, and this is more Trump bullshit. You know the man’s a blatant liar; every time he opens his mouth – except maybe when he belches – is a lie. You already know that.
Well, Oyster and-
Nope, I stated, I will not let you, Thatch, or Donald J. Trump spread dumbass lies about people coming to the States for a better life.
Well, Thatch, let’s put on our “Cats Against Trump” T-shirts and atone, Annabelle told him.
There was a knock and meow at the door.
That’s Stella, Thatch observed.
Let her in, please, I requested. I don’t want to get up.
Thatch ran to the door and opened it. An exuberant Stella erupted into the foyer, grabbed her tambourine, and slammed it against the wall next to the door.
Well, if we’re lucky, someone else will eat her, Annabelle told me.
©2024, Larry Moore
Annabelle & Thatch 