Raining Cat Sitters and Dogs

14

My alarm went off at its regular time, and I got up with a surprisingly clear head, as if my middle-of-the-night tryst with a million dollars had given my nervous system a boost. I was so full of energy that I ran an extra lap around the parking lot track with Billy Elliot, and I spent a few extra minutes with every cat playing spirited games of attack-the-peacock-feather or leap-at-the-flying-dish-towel.

Even pilling Ruthie went faster. Now that she knew what to expect, she seemed to look forward to being lifted from her head. I’ve found that to be true with most cats. I’m not sure whether it’s because they associate the feeling with being kittens carried by their mothers, or if they just think they might as well get it over with. She and I did our act in about a minute flat, and then she ran to Max for praise.

Max said, “I think Ruthie knows you used to be a cop. She’s intimidated by authority.”

He said it in a joking way, but I suspected he missed being able to intimidate people with his authority.

I said, “That’s an act she puts on. She’s really using me to save face. This way she doesn’t have to give in and swallow the pills by herself, plus she gets extra attention from her favorite human.”

He looked pleased. “She does follow me around like a dog.”

I wasn’t surprised. Even when they live with more than one human, Foldies typically become especially bonded with one person.

I left Max and Ruthie admiring each other and sped to Big Bubba’s. When I whisked away his night cover he fluttered his wings as if he had as much extra pep as I did. I opened the door to his cage so he could hop out, and he clambered from his doorway to the top of his cage and surveyed his domain like a king. Parrots are like cats in their belief in their own superiority over all other beings.

I left him there and went to the kitchen for his morning fruit. He was still atop his cage when I came back, so I gave him half a peeled banana.

I said, “Would you like fries with that?”

He gave me the one-eyed bird stare and pecked at the banana.

I scraped poop off his perches and washed his dishes. I removed the dirty paper from the bottom of his cage and put down fresh.

I said, “I’m giving you the sports section today. You like that?”

He spread his wings and sailed to the floor. I opened the sliding doors to the lanai so he could go out into the fresh air. Instead, he waddled to the table that held his TV, and pecked at a table leg.

I said, “Not talking today, huh? Well, that’s okay. I have days when I don’t feel like talking either.”

I put fresh seed and water in his cups. I hung a fat sprig of millet from his cage roof.

I said, “How about some Cheerios with your seed this morning?”

He didn’t answer, but I gave him some anyway.

He flapped his wings and hopped over the slider groove to the lanai where he stalked around the perimeter like a border guard. Wild birds in the trees immediately began loud insistent chirping, and he squawked bird-language replies that sounded like a military commander ordering his troops to shape up. Max would have been proud of him.

While he shouted to the wild birds, I got out Reba’s hand vac and sucked up all the seed shells and fluffy little underfeathers that had fallen on the floor. Then I went out to the lanai and coaxed Big Bubba onto my arm. With his relatives looking on from the trees, I ran around the lanai a few times while Big Bubba raised his wings for balance and hollered with excitement. The wild birds probably thought I was Big Bubba’s handmaiden, a servant who meekly provided his every need. They weren’t far off.

When I was too winded to run anymore, I carried him inside and let him hop into his cage. Then I turned on his TV and tuned it to the Discovery Channel.

I said, “I’ve enjoyed our time together, Big Bubba. I hope you’ll keep everything we’ve said confidential.”

He cocked his head and fixed me with one eye. He said, “Did you miss me?”

I laughed. “Too late to sweet-talk me now, Big Bubba. But I’ll be back this afternoon and we can discuss it.”

Big Bubba was my last pet visit of the morning, but before I headed to the Village Diner for breakfast I stopped at Hetty’s house. Like before, I heard her footsteps stop behind the door so she could look out the peephole before she let me in. She was smiling when she opened the door, and she invited me inside as if she really meant it. She was wearing an elastic bandage wrapped around one wrist.

Louder than necessary, she said, “I was just telling Jaz that you might stop by this morning.”

Ben skittered out of the kitchen, his puppy feet so fast and awkward that he slid on the wooden floor. Jaz swung into the open doorway behind him, a giggle trailing to a stop when she saw me. She wore shorts with just-bought creases in them and one of those barely-there cotton tops that look indecent on any woman over the age of fourteen. Her skin and hair had a new glossy look, as if she’d had a recent bath and shampoo.

Still speaking as if I might have gone deaf since she last saw me, Hetty gestured me through the kitchen door. The kitchen had a faint aroma of bacon, a smell I love more than perfume. It didn’t take detective skills to guess that Hetty had made breakfast for Jaz.

She said, “Doesn’t Jaz look cute? We went to Wal-Mart last night, all three of us. Ben needed experience in a crowded store and Jaz was nice enough to go with us, and while we were there I saw a bunch of things that were perfect for Jaz. We had a great time.”

In other words, Jaz had returned to Hetty’s house after sundown, and Hetty had hauled her off to Wal-Mart and bought clothes for her. I wondered if Jaz had gone with her stepfather’s permission.

Instead of asking questions, I made female noises about the new clothes. Jaz didn’t exactly smile under my praise, but her face lost some of its tension.

In the kitchen, Winston sat at the table like a judge presiding at court. I scratched the top of his head and turned down Hetty’s offer of coffee and cookies.

I said, “Hetty, how’d you hurt your wrist?”

She made a mock grimace and waggled it in the air. “Oh, I twisted it this morning lifting a bag of puppy food. It’s not hurt bad, just a sprain. Good thing Jaz is here to help me with heavy things.”

Jaz said, “And combing Ben.”

Hetty looked a mite embarrassed. “And combing Ben too. My goodness, if Jaz weren’t doing that, Ben would be a tangled mess.”

I bit back a grin. Ben’s puppy hair did need combing, but he wouldn’t exactly be a tangled mess if he skipped a day. I also suspected that Hetty’s injury was mostly talk, a way of making Jaz feel needed and important. Nothing wrong with that. We all need to feel important.

I said, “Good thing you’re nearby, Jaz. Where did you say you live?”

The girl shrugged. “A few streets over. I don’t know the name.”

She was either a really good actress pretending not to know her own address, or a kid who hadn’t lived in her house long enough to learn it.

Careful as walking on spilled birdseed, I said, “Is your house on stilts? So you go up tall steps to get to your front door?”

She seemed to consider whether it was safe to answer, then nodded. “How’d you know?”

“Just a guess.”

Hetty looked perplexed, wondering how I’d figured out where Jaz lived.

I hadn’t the faintest idea where she lived. I had described Reba Chandler’s house because the boys had come to Reba’s believing it was where they’d find Jaz. It therefore seemed a safe bet that she and her stepfather lived in a house that looked like Reba’s.

I was doing so well with my hunches that I tried another one.

I said, “It’s really nice of you to help out here, Jasmine.” I pronounced it “Jas-min.”

“Jas-meen,” she said, then clapped her hand over her mouth.

I tried not to look as pleased as I felt. “I said it wrong, huh? Sorry.”

Above her covered mouth, her eyes were wide and frightened.

Hetty said, “No matter how you say it, it’s a pretty name.”

The girl lowered her hand, but she looked wary. “I’m not supposed to go by that name now.”

Hetty’s eyes met mine for an instant, both of us keeping our faces still.

I said, “I have a friend named Maureen, but I’ve always called her Mo. I don’t remember why I started calling her that, but Mo fits her better than Maureen. Maureen is sort of formal, don’t you think? Mo is friendlier.”

She said, “I don’t want to be a Rosemary.”

Hetty and I exchanged glances again.

I said, “You seem more like a Jasmine than a Rosemary.” I was careful to pronounce the name Jas-meen.

Stiffly, she said, “That’s because I am a Jasmine. That’s what my mother named me.”

Hetty picked up the empty teakettle and carried it to the sink to fill, and Jaz was quickly beside her.

She said, “I’ll do that! You’ll hurt your wrist!”

Hetty smiled sheepishly and allowed Jaz to fill the pot and carry it to the stove. Jaz looked serious and determined. She and Hetty obviously had a mutual-admiration thing going.

As Jaz settled the pot on the stove, she looked up at the purple clock on the kitchen wall and stiffened. “Oh, my gosh! I didn’t know it was so late! He’ll kill me if he finds me gone!”

With her face anxiously pinched, she turned and ran out the back door, letting it slam shut behind her.

Hetty said, “What—”

I didn’t stick around to hear what she was going to say. Instead, I grabbed my keys and ran to the front door as fast as I could. Unlike Jaz, I pulled it closed behind me before I charged to the Bronco. I was determined to find out where Jaz lived.