Hiss of Death

Funny how things work out.” Harry sat under the walnut tree outside the house, the sun setting.

Fair, enjoying the Sunday evening, nodded. “Yes, it is. When Nita and Al won the BMW at the five-K ball, it seemed a kind of recompense.” He turned to her. “You had your last treatment. My wife is her healthy, beautiful self.”

Harry beamed. “You are such a flatterer.” Then she hastily added, “Don’t let me stop you.”

He rose from his chair, bent over, and kissed her. “Beautiful.”

“Fair, I’ve had a lot of time to think. You and I endured a rough patch way back in what I think of as our time of troubles, but we ironed it out. I don’t think I would have gotten through all this as well as I have without you.”

“Hey, what about me!” Pewter, sprawled on another outdoor chair, piped up.

“Magic powers,” Tucker, under the chair, teased her.

“It’s been a wild ride.” Harry held Fair’s hand as he perched on the wide arm of the wooden chair. “And, you know, the biggest shock was Annalise. I still can’t believe she did what she did.”

“Me neither, but since B.C. people have justified killing in the millions by saying it’s for the greater common good. The millions doing the killing believe it, but the dead always remain dead. I swear the spirits return for vengeance. It may take centuries, but more misery is created.”

“Justice,” Harry simply replied.

“Revenge.”

She looked up at her husband. “Revenge. Justice. It’s the same to me, anyway.”

He smiled. “Many would argue differently, but I’m with you. The same. What we call justice is dressed-up revenge, and it’s necessary. You can’t have a society where wrongdoing isn’t punished.” He took a deep breath, beheld the mountains, then leaned over to kiss her again. “I thank God you’re alive.”

“We saved her.” Pewter puffed up.

“Shortro and Tomahawk had a lot to do with it.” Tucker watched the two buddies out in their paddock.

“They sure did,” Mrs. Murphy, in another chair, agreed.

“I think it’s fine that Fair thanks the Almighty”—Pewter paused, then a beatific expression passed over her gray face—“but he should remember that in ancient Egypt, cats were worshipped. Really, I think the practice should be reintroduced, along with daily heapings of catnip.”

Quick on the draw, Mrs. Murphy said, “Means you have to have your ears pierced and wear earrings.”

“No way!” Pewter’s ears swept back.

“She’s right, Pewts. All the statues and mummies wear gold earrings. My, you’d look so-o-o fetching.” Tucker laughed.

Rising, Pewter peered over the seat of the chair. “Name one place where dogs were worshipped.”

“None. We won’t wear earrings.”

Pewter’s pupils enlarged as she puffed up even more.

Mrs. Murphy counseled, “Pewter, will you calm down.”

“Well, we were worshipped. Who will worship this worthless, fat dog?”

“And how shall I address you? Your Eminence? Mother Pewter? I know, the Great Puss Bottom,” Tucker sassed.

Off the chair, Pewter hit the dog with her considerable weight. The two rolled over each other. Wrenching free of Pewter’s claws, Tucker took off like a shot, Pewter in hot pursuit. The corgi dodged, feinted, keeping Pewter running.

Mrs. Murphy joined in. Pewter made a big show of her anger, but by now it was all pure fun.

Shortro and Tomahawk watched the two cats and dog. So they chased each other.

Fair and Harry laughed, then Fair said, “I’ll give you a head start. Bet I can catch you.”

“Ha.” Harry bolted out of the chair.

Everybody was chasing everybody else.

Life is good.