Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Nine Lives

After Zoë’s surgery, the muscles in her hind legs began to wither away from inactivity, and I was worried she’d never get back to normal if she didn’t get some kind of exercise in. So Timmy and I put our heads together and came up with the perfect solution. It took some time and patience, as well as a floaty vest, but eventually I had Zoë doing laps in the pool. At first she’d just thrash around like a maniac, but once she realized the vest kept her afloat when I let go of her, she would happily motor around the pool like a brindle-butted tugboat.

I sat down on a chaise lounge at the edge of the pool, and as soon as Zoë saw me slide my bag over she started barking excitedly and swimming in circles. I pulled a couple of tennis balls out and tossed them in the pool. She immediately paddled after them, letting out an excited yip to let me know she’d take it from there.

Her goal is to get ahold of both balls at the same time, which even for her big maw is a tall order, so she’s busy for at least twenty minutes, sometimes longer. Eventually she’ll climb out of the pool, thoroughly spent, and loll around in the sun panting happily. It’s a good solid workout.

I stretched out on the chaise. When a dog’s happy and well exercised, there’s not much more to do than check the water bowl. Cats, however, are a whole different story. They have a flair for mischief rarely matched in the canine world. A cat can have all sorts of side projects in progress—toilet paper sculptures, potted plant demolition, trash can spelunking—so I consider it part of my job to do a thorough check of the house and right any feline wrongs I find, but with Zoë splashing around in the pool, I figured I could afford to take a break.

I pulled my new book out of my backpack and slipped it out of its crisp wrapping. I knew it was crazy, but I just couldn’t get over how beautiful it was. The cover was a deep forest green, its edges burnished darker by generations of curious readers, the embossed print gleaming like gold, which for all I knew it actually was.

I smiled with anticipation as I opened it up to the title page: The Furry Godmother’s Guide to Pet-Friendly Gardening, by V. Tisson-Waugh . The paper was a creamy white, and opposite the title page was a colorful, intricately drawn illustration of a long-tailed Maine Coon cat, perched proudly atop an overturned fruit basket set in the midst of a garden of flowering plants, all aflutter with bumblebees and butterflies.

There was an introduction by the editor, which invited the reader to enjoy the book as it was written, slowly and with loving appreciation for all things living, and not, as it said, “with one’s heel pressed firmly at the horse’s flank.” I ran my finger down the table of contents. The chapters all had Latin titles, which I assumed were all different plants, but they sounded more like fatal diseases you might get from a swamp mosquito, like Nepeta cataria and Dactylis glomerata.

The very bottom of the index page had been torn out, probably by some mischievous nineteenth-century cat, so I leafed to the back of the book to see how it ended.

“Huh,” I said.

Now I knew why somebody might have been willing to part with such a beautiful book. There was a section missing in the back, probably not more than twenty pages. All that remained of them were some ragged strips of cream-colored paper clinging to the inside of the spine and a few dangling threads here and there. For a second I thought, No wonder it was so cheap, but I had a feeling Mr. Hoskins hadn’t even noticed it.

By now, Zoë had pulled herself out of the pool and was stretched out on her back on the warm concrete, paws in the air and snoring loudly. I snapped the book shut and slipped it down in my backpack.

“Okay, Brindlebutt! Let’s move it inside.”

She hopped up and trotted over while I pulled out one of the striped beach towels Timmy keeps in a basket by the back door. As I dried her off, I could feel the long, thick bands of muscle in her hind legs. I congratulated her on the progress she was making. She wagged her tail and grinned all the way to the living room, where she took her place on the couch while I clicked on the TV with the remote and tuned to the Learning Channel. I personally wouldn’t allow any dog of mine to watch one single episode of Toddlers & Tiaras , but if that’s what Zoë likes, who am I to judge?

I left her with a kiss on the top of her velvety head and a promise I’d be back in a few hours for another swim. I figured I had just enough time to swing by the bookstore on the way to my last morning client. Not that I had any intention of returning my new book, but I figured Mr. Hoskins might want to know about the missing section, and he’d probably want to check the other books it came with just in case they’d been mangled, too.

Now when I think about that moment, I wonder how things might have been different if I’d just stayed there in Timmy’s apartment with Zoë for the rest of the morning. If I’d known what I was about to walk into, I would have sat right down on the couch next to her and watched a whole Toddlers & Tiaras marathon—every single episode of every single season.

But no.

That’s not what I did.

7

I have a morning routine that I’ve worked out over the years, and I stick to it with an almost military dedication. I roll out of bed, stumble into the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and pull my hair back into a tight ponytail. Then I pad into the closet and paw through the shelves for my standard uniform: khaki cargo shorts, white sleeveless tee, and a fresh pair of white tennis shoes. Anybody who knows me knows I can’t stand old, smelly shoes, so I keep a steady supply of brand-new Keds lined up on the rack in my closet. As soon as one of them gets even the slightest bit ragged, out they go, right to the Salvation Army.

I’m out the door and on the road by the time the sun’s coming up, and when my morning rounds are done, usually around nine or so, I head straight over to the Village Diner, where I have the same exact breakfast every single day. Then it’s home for a shower and a nap, and then on to my afternoon rounds, and then dinner and then bed. It’s the same every day, seven days a week.

In other words, I don’t like surprises.

Then again, as I cruised down Ocean Boulevard on my way to the bookstore, whistling happily along like one of Snow White’s seven dwarves, I had to admit: Breakfast on a silver platter was a nice change, especially when it was served by a beautiful man. I chuckled at myself for still thinking about it, but I couldn’t stop. Even though I felt like my schedule was still a little out of whack, it had put me in a good mood, not to mention the fact that my neck felt worlds better.

I wondered how I could convince Ethan to make sure that both nightly massages and breakfast service became standard additions to my daily routine.

I was looking forward to seeing Mr. Hoskins again. I had instantly liked him, as befuddled as he was, and I think I was kind of hoping that maybe we’d become friends. He was a little more disheveled than I remembered Mr. Beezy being, but there was definitely something similar about them. Of course, I couldn’t hope to re-create the bond I’d felt with Mr. Beezy, but it certainly couldn’t hurt to try. I think those bonds we form as children are almost impossible to find again, especially after we grow up and see the world for what it really is.

I pulled the Bronco into a spot just in front of Amber Jack’s, a local hangout with an open-air patio and a little stage in the corner for live music. During the day it’s deserted save for a few sparrows and snowy egrets foraging around under the tables for bits of french fries or burger buns from the night before, but in the evening it’s PTB—the Place to Be. In fact, they even have a live webcam so people can check out the crowd from the comfort of their own home anywhere in the world. The beer is cheap and the music is good, and it’s the kind of establishment where tourists can rub elbows with us locals and pretend they live in paradise all year long, too.