Horgan’s sister came to visit for New Year’s. She smelled fine, kept to herself, and didn’t ask questions about the cache of weapons under the guest bed. This post is not about her.
It’s about her cat.
It started the moment Aunt Helga arrived, fluffy white cat in hand.
“You never told us she was bringing a cat,” I hissed at Horgan.
“Timber, this is Lolita. Be polite. Lolita, this is Timber. He’s not usually like this.”
“Do I have to share the litter box?”
“You share it with Lester and Pfizz already.”
Actually, I didn’t. Being former barn cats, even in the dead of winter, they still went outside. It was one thing to lick your own poop off your paws. But a stranger’s?? How could I make Horgan understand??
The white ball of fur hopped to the floor, looked me up and down, and stuck her tongue out. She disguised it as a lick of her paw, but I knew.
Because she ran under the bed and hid for the rest of the day.
On Day One, she left a hairball in my water dish. Was it because Helga forgot to pack her food? Did our diet not agree with her delicate stomach, as Horgan suggested? Try to be patient, Timber, he said.
On Day Two, she stole my tuna.
“She stole my food, Boss!”
“She hid all day yesterday. She was probably hungry, Timber.”
On Day Three, I woke up and she was sleeping on Horgan’s bed. In my spot. And he was petting her.
On Day Four, she had Lester and Pfizz teaching her how to shoot a pellet gun.
By Day Five, she still smelled no more like a mackerel than she had on the day she arrived. I was very relieved when Aunt Helga announced they would be returning to Minnesota that afternoon.
Lolita licked me goodbye. “Thank you for everything, Timber. I was really scared about this trip, but thanks to you guys, I had a really good time.”
“Not every cat is a secret agent cat,” Horgan reminded me. “Most of them are just cats.”
“For a regular cat,” I said, “I suppose she was okay. Even if she didn’t smell like fish.”