and stories to this.
The devil’s spawn is sprawled out like Caligula in front of the fireplace in my father’s office licking his privates. What’s particularly creepy is that he makes eye contact with me when he does it.
Almost a week has passed since my meeting with Hal Rodgers and I still don’t have a topic for my lifestyle piece and it’s giving me anxiety. Meanwhile, I have my other job to contend with. We’re booked for a wedding in two weeks. I give that some consideration as a topic for the article. It might work. People love romance. But it doesn’t excite me.
My attention pivots back to the delivery schedule. I double check when the flowers are arriving, the extra linens and chairs. Any out-of-the-norm instructions from the wedding planner. And trust me when I tell you checking is important.
Once, Dad got a delivery of fifty mini butt plugs as weddings favors. Yeah, true story. We were all relieved to learn it was a mistake. It should’ve been mini bottle openers. Good thing we checked with the wedding planner who blamed a recently fired assistant.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Elvis is at it again. The fire is running on fumes so I decide to spare myself more kitty fellatio and go fetch more wood from the shed out back. Thanks to Turner, we have enough to last into my next life.
Except I’m not paying attention. I’m mulling over my article, the one that’s going to blown Hal away. It’s imperative I make a good impression because I may lose my mind if I’m forced to work here exclusively.
I’m stepping out of the back kitchen door when Elvis, that sneaky SOB, sensing my guard is down, makes a break for it. Horrified, I watch him trot down the back steps of the patio and gallop across the snow-covered yard.
Elvis is not an outdoor cat.
Then things to go from bad to worse as I watch him climb up the ancient birch tree next to my cottage.
“Elvis, come down. Sweet kitty…” I mutter, swallowing the urge to verbally eviscerate him. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. All I have on is a wool sweater and if you ask me 30 degree weather requires a goose down comforter.
For the past ten minutes, no amount of bribery has convinced him to come down. He continues to lounge on a thick branch with his blue-gray tail lazily swinging back and forth as if he has no fornications left to give while I stare up at him with murder in my eyes.
He’s taunting me. He’s definitely taunting me.
“Here kitty kitty. Here you evil piece of shit. I’ve got tuna for you back in the kitchen.”
I’ve been told a million times not to let the cat out, but I’m also no match for his speed and agility. Have you ever tried to herd a cat? Thus the expression like herding cats.
Even more troubling, I’m not sure if he’s stuck up there or he’s choosing to ignore me. He doesn’t look scared. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s sprawled out on that branch like he’s king of the damn jungle.
I’m two minutes from grabbing a ladder because my grandmother cannot find out. She’s in town, at the senior center for her weekly card game, and isn’t expected back for another hour. She will freak if something happens to this cat. When Maeve, the female, died two years ago, I saw my Nan cry for the very first time in my entire life. She took to her bed for two days and wouldn’t eat.
Nothing can happen to this cat––ever.
“Elvis please. I’m begging you.” Turning his nose up, he looks disinclined to grant me any mercy. “Seriously, if you don’t come down from there right this minute I’m going to go get a ladder! Get the hell down right this minute you!”
“Something tells me that’s not gonna work.” Turner walks up to stand next to me with two large paintings hanging from his hands. Landscapes. The first is the Adirondack Mountains in fall. The second is another winter scene. Both equally stunning.
He’s dressed in black track pants and a thermal again. And unfortunately my body chooses this special moment to remind me that Turner, the Scrooge, is an incredibly sexy man…wonderful.
He catches me staring, and I look away, back up at the cat, heat inexplicably crawling up my neck. Turner’s attention follows. Elvis, of course, is in the midst of licking his balls again.
“He does