Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter And The Canary

I’ve tried to win him over with some of my most irresistible treats—a cube of cheddar cheese, some tuna jerky—but so far I’ve failed miserably. Except for Caroline, Franklin has absolutely no use for human beings.

I don’t blame him. I feel the same way sometimes.

Luckily for me, Caroline still needs the services of a pet sitter, because Franklin isn’t the only furry creature living under her roof. Before we went into the family room, I kneeled down in front of Charlie and leveled him with as serious an expression as I could muster.

I said, “Now, listen. I’m not sure you’ve ever met a rabbit before, but you need to know they can be very skittish.”

He wagged his tail enthusiastically.

“So if you can’t be polite, you’ll have to wait in the car all by yourself, and nobody wants that because you’ll probably rip the whole thing to shreds.”

He looked back over his shoulder toward the front of the house and sniffed the air. I think he was still thinking Mr. Scotland was looming nearby, so I tapped him gently on the top of his snout to get his attention.

“Got it?”

He cocked one ear and then wagged his tail again.

“Okay, let’s go.”

About a year ago, Caroline called me up to ask if I had any experience catching stray cats. It was well past midnight. She’d been down at the bar at Colonel Teddy’s, and walking home she’d spotted what she thought was a kitten running across the street. She followed it around the back of the hardware store only to discover a tiny, terrified rabbit, wedged in a corner behind a stack of wood pallets and concrete pavers. By the time I showed up, the poor thing was so exhausted it practically surrendered itself. All I had to do was put my cat carrier down and it hopped right in, no questions asked.

You don’t see them that often because they’re so shy, but lots of wild rabbits live on the Key. I had just assumed Caroline’s rabbit was one of them, but one look and I knew something was wrong. It had white fur as pure as snow, with downy beige ears and chocolate patches on its head and rump—not at all like our local rabbits, whose fur more closely resembles the splintery gray wood of a fishing pier. This particular little girl was most definitely not wild. In fact, I got the distinct impression that Caroline’s new friend had probably been purchased in a pet shop for Easter and then set “free” when the novelty wore off.

We named her Gigi, after the old movie with Leslie Caron and Maurice Chevalier, and that night Gigi slept curled up on the pillow in the curve of Caroline’s neck. We had decided the vet should probably have a look just to be on the safe side, so the next morning Caroline called from Dr. Layton’s office to report a clean bill of health and also to let me know that Gigi—she had just been informed—was a boy .

The name stuck, though. By then they were in love, and now wherever Caroline goes—restaurants, bookstores, shopping malls, you name it—Gigi goes with her, riding around in a vintage handbag with his little head and furry ears poking out the front. One thing about rabbits, though, they’re not too crazy about boat trips, so Caroline had hired me to take care of him while she was away.

Gigi’s cage—or rather, mansion —is situated on a specially built platform. The outside walls are painted to mimic the same wood-paneled facade of Caroline’s house, with the same arrangement of windows, each with a tiny pair of curtains behind real glass, and it has the same domed cupola on the peak of its tile-covered roof, in miniature of course, with a tiny widow’s walk running around it. There’s even an itsy-bitsy weather vane perched on top. And just like Caroline’s front door, Gigi’s door is lacquered a deep Chinese red and flanked on either side with little brass lamps that actually turn on. Spaced evenly along the front porch are three fluted columns that rise all the way to a balcony along the second floor.

The only difference between Gigi’s mansion and Caroline’s, other than the size, is that Gigi’s outside walls are all on hinges, so they can be folded open like louvered shutters to reveal the more conventional wire cage inside.

Of course, Gigi’s place doesn’t have a grand piano or paintings on the walls, but it has three levels, with a series of raised platforms that Gigi can play on, and there’s even a little raceway that goes right through the wall behind the cage to the sprawling pool patio outside. It’s all enclosed in a huge screened lanai, so Gigi can lounge around in the fresh air or explore the garden whenever he wants without having to worry about hawks or owls or alligators.

It’s a good life for a rabbit … or anybody for that matter.

I led Charlie up to the cage, steeling myself for what I was sure would be a tense introduction. I pulled his leash taut and whispered, “Now, remember, behave yourself.”

He gave me a wary look, as if to say, “Don’t I always?”

I had assumed that as soon as Gigi laid eyes on Charlie, he’d run and hide, but I couldn’t have been more wrong. He sat up on his hind legs, waggled his whiskers, and then hopped forward to say hi. He wasn’t the slightest bit perturbed and neither was Charlie. He acted as if he’d known Gigi for years, although I had a sneaking suspicion he was more preoccupied with Mr. Scotland than anything else. He kept glancing over his shoulder toward the front of the house.

I opened up Gigi’s cage and gave him a couple of scritches between the ears, and then moved him upstairs to his little balcony. I took out all the old bedding from his living room, wiped everything with a warm soapy washcloth, and then laid down a layer of newspaper, a sprinkling of wood shavings, and a fresh bed of timothy hay.

When I was done, Gigi came down the steps to evaluate my progress, and then I repeated the whole shebang on the upper floors while he set to work sculpting a nest-shaped bed out of the hay. Nobody had asked me to clean out Gigi’s cage, but I didn’t mind doing it. Just like humans, rabbits are a lot happier when their home is nice and tidy. We worked as efficiently as a professional housekeeping crew, and less than five minutes later the cage was as clean as a whistle and Gigi’s bed was perfectly formed.

I washed my hands in the powder room in the hall, and then we all went out to the lanai. I let Charlie off his leash so he could go exploring, and Gigi and I stretched out on one of the lounge chairs by the pool to munch on some sweet potato slices I’d brought along for the occasion.

At some point, I remembered the mail. Caroline had asked me to gather it up every day and leave it in a basket she keeps on the hall table. There’s no mailbox—everything goes through a brass-framed slot in the front door—and I remembered the last time I took care of Gigi the amount of mail that piled up on a daily basis was astounding, especially the catalogs. There must have been five or six a day, all full of the kinds of things I don’t normally give a flip about (or admit to): fancy watches, expensive designer gowns, resort spas, and priceless jewelry.

But I decided it could all wait. I wasn’t exactly sure when Caroline was coming back—she’d said it would be no longer than a week but she’d let me know. And anyway, we were all enjoying ourselves and I didn’t want it to end. Gigi was still on my lap, and Charlie was intently watching a lizard that had scampered up the outside of the lanai. I laid back and closed my eyes, listening to the sound of Gigi gently munching on his sweet potato while the birds and crickets sang the sun down.

Then I fell asleep.

* * *

One of the perks of being a pet sitter is that I can sometimes make it through an entire day without talking to a single human being. Not that I’m a social recluse or anything. Not anymore. I just feel more comfortable in the company of animals.