Блейз Клемент - The Cat Sitter's Cradle

I rode the mirrored elevator up to Tom’s floor and then used my keys to open the door. Tom was sitting at the kitchen table with a computer in front of him as usual, probably working on someone’s taxes. He spends a lot of time in front of a computer, and since I have no interest in computers at all, he is my sole connection to the Internet. He looked up and waved, and I waved back. He has a sweet, round face with warm eyes behind steel-rimmed glasses and a head of curly black hair. He looks like a slightly pudgy Harry Potter.

Billy Elliot came trotting up to say good morning, his tail wagging like an out-of-control whirligig. I patted him on his head, and he snuffed and snorted in that way dogs do when they’re happy to see you. I didn’t want to interrupt Tom’s work, so I snapped on Billy Elliot’s leash and headed out for our morning session.

A lot of older greyhounds suffer from all manner of long-term side effects from the way they were treated during their racing careers. Broken toes are common, torn ligaments, fractured bones, chronic arthritis. Most retirees are happiest when they’re lying on a nice soft bed at the feet of their humans, but Billy Elliot is different. He likes a good run at least twice a day, and that’s where I come in.

The Sea Breeze has a circular parking lot with an oval spot of grass in the middle that makes a perfect practice track. After Billy does his morning business and pees on every bush in sight, he starts out at a slow trot around the lot. This is completely for my benefit. He’s learned over the years that he can’t wear me out too fast or I’ll collapse from exhaustion after just a couple of laps. Gradually he works up to a good jogging pace, and we keep that up for about fifteen minutes. Usually it’s so early that we’re the only ones out. Sometimes I’ll let him off the leash and he’ll race around the track a few times at warp speed just to prove he’s still got it. Then we ride back up in the elevator, both of us panting happily.

Billy Elliot is like my own personal fitness guru. If Tanisha is the little devil on my shoulder trying to plump me up with her scrumptious cooking, Billy Elliot is the angel on my other shoulder, cheering me on as I burn off all those fat calories.

Tom was still working when we got back, so I hung up Billy Elliot’s leash, gave him a good scratch under the ears, and left quietly.

It was about seven thirty when I got to the Harwicks’ house. From the outside, it looked like a Mediterranean castle from some far-off country that had been uprooted and flown across the sea. It just didn’t fit, as impressive as it was. The long paved driveway sloped up to the grand entrance, lined on either side with palms and oak trees and bougainvillea in full bloom, scenting the air with their bubble-gum and cherry blossoms. There were turrets around the upper balconies of the house, where there were more flowering plants spilling over: trumpet vine, jasmine, honeysuckle, flame vine. There were ruby-throated hummingbirds and yellow butterflies flitting about everywhere. I felt like I was strolling through a postcard of a quaint Italian village as I walked up to the big wooden double doors. I pulled out my ring of keys and my notebook with the alarm codes written on it, turned the key in the lock, and opened the door. A loud beeping sounded throughout the house. I opened the cover to the little keypad on the side of the entrance and punched in the private code.

Charlotte was waiting for me at the bottom of the marble staircase, sitting in a sphinx posture and gazing straight ahead as if she didn’t notice I was in the same universe as she was, just as unfriendly as she’d been when I’d met her the day before. But she didn’t fool me. If she’d really wanted to shut me out, she would have been hidden somewhere.

I knelt in front of her and extended the back of my hand for her to sniff.

I said, “Hi, Charlotte. Remember me? I’m going to make your breakfast today.”

She didn’t respond, just watched me as I stood up and walked to the kitchen.

Her food bowl was on the floor with some stale crumbs of dry cat food in it. I wrinkled my nose, threw away the stale stuff, and washed the bowl. I don’t like to leave cat food sitting out because it affects a cat’s appetite the same way it would affect a human’s if the same food was always sitting on the table growing stale and unappealing. Yuk. When I feed a cat, the food is left out for fifteen minutes, then it’s tossed. Cats learn they’d better eat up when they have the chance. That way they look forward to mealtime and their appetites never become jaded. I leave them a kitty treat to enjoy between meals, but only one. I’m not sure how long they wait to eat their treats, but I imagine them sitting and watching the clock, thinking they’ll wait just a few more minutes before they pounce on it.

While I washed out her food bowl, Charlotte came into the kitchen and walked around with her tail swishing and little growls coming from her throat like a chef getting ready to shout obscenities at the kitchen staff because they’re too slow.

I said, “Oh, you’re so right. Yes, it is a lovely day. And did you see that moon last night? Beautiful!”

Charlotte stopped talking and stood with her front paws spread apart, ready for a showdown. She obviously did not suffer fools gladly.

I washed her water bowl and gave her fresh water. She watched me with a highly suspicious look on her face. I opened up the pantry and surveyed the rows and rows of cat food.

I said, “Which do you prefer, wet or dry?”

She swished her tail some more. Not in a friendly way.

Since I approved of the dry food more than the canned, I put a couple of scoops in Charlotte’s bowl and set out a kitty treat for later. When I put the food bowl down on the floor, Charlotte waited a few seconds before she crept forward to sniff at it.

I said, “Oh, were you thinking I would bring a taster for you to make sure your food isn’t poisoned? Sorry, Queen B. Eat up while I go check to see if you’ve committed any royal offenses.”

I scurried through the house on the lookout for overturned wastebaskets or chewed paper, upchucked hairballs, or flowerpots used as litter boxes. Everything seemed okay. In a spare bathroom, I hurried to empty the litter box, wash it, spritz it with my ever-handy mix of hydrogen peroxide and water, then rinse the heck out of it with scalding hot water. Cats like their toilets to be as clean as their food dishes. I’m like that myself, so I understand.

The big canopy bed in the master bedroom had indentations on the pillows suggesting Charlotte had slept there. I didn’t smooth them out or vacuum up the cat hair because I figured those spots gave Charlotte comfort while the Harwicks were gone. I could clean and straighten them later before they returned. Now it was time to feed the fish.

Still looking side to side for signs of things to clean up, I loped down the short hallway lined with mahogany dressers and swung open the door to the master bathroom. I came to such a quick stop that my Keds squeaked on the marble tile.

There on the floor, curled up in a ball, was the Harwicks’ daughter, Becca.

I gasped as she jumped to her feet, wiping her hair away from her face with the back of her hand. Her eyes were puffy and red, and there were wet trails of mascara streaming down her cheeks.

I said, “Oh my gosh, I’m sorry!”

She said, “Hello? Ever heard of knocking?”

I turned to leave. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I’ll come back later.”

“Wait wait wait,” she said. “I’m sorry. I’m having a really bad day. Please don’t go.”

She was wearing the same clothes and big black boots she had on when I’d met her the day before. I wondered if she hadn’t spent the entire night on the floor in front of the fish tank crying.