Anxious Tough Guys

 

Writer Lady steps into the hallway with Carp following close behind her. She continues down the hall, checking the bedrooms first. “House show me Dobby's room.” She calls to the ceiling. A door appears in front of her with a sign on it that reads: Real tough guys only. No Posers Allowed. Spots and Smudge this means you. A bright orange paw print signifies the end of the ginger tabby’s message. Writer Lady reaches out for the doorknob grabbing it. TP’s voice fills the hall. “No Touchie Touchie! Only the secret Tough Guy knock will allow entry.” She turns to Carp who shrugs.

“Don't look at me, I don't know anything about this.”

“Aren't assassins supposed to be tough guys?” Writer lady asks.

Carp puts his hands to his chest, the assassin-in-training responds, “I'll have you know that I have yet to give a target so much as a hangnail,” correcting her. “I did manage to put an arrow into my former literary agent’s boss’ back tire. Of course I was aiming for my ex-agent's new Timmy Chews at the time.”

“Don't assassins kill people?”

Carp rolls his eyes, “The Timmy Chews were from a special collection of highly sought after ultrahigh heels on the market for a limited time. Each pair had its own registration number. How many times do I have to keep telling people this?” He asks.

“What would a Tough Guy knock be…”

“Your guess is as good as mine.”

Writer Lady thinks for a bit. “This is my house.” She says before banging on Dobby's door with her fist.

“We keep telling you Daemon the answer’s 'No.' You're not mean enough to be a tough guy.” Dobby says opening the door.

Writer Lady and Carp look at each other.

“A demon from a place so deeply lodged in Hell that the only way inside is located at the base of Faerie’s most dangerous volcano isn't mean enough to be a tough guy?” She asks.

“He is a bit of a marshmallow.” Carp points out.

“He was the only one to remember me on Mother's Day.” Writer Lady admits turning to Dobby.

“Didn't he just give you a big box of tissues?” Carp asks.

“There were flowers on the outside of the box. He didn't know they weren't real.”

“Lame.” The ginger tabby says.

“A lame gift is better than not being acknowledged at all.”

“Sorry Mom.”

Writer Lady looks at Dobby with her most disapproving expression. “Apologies mean nothing...” she says.

“...unless I change my behavior.” Dobby says finishing Writer Lady's sentence.

“I do listen.” He says. “Part of the time.”

The sound of explosions and rapid fire can be heard in the background. Dobby comes closer stepping into the hallway closing the door nearly all the way, placing himself squarely between Writer Lady and the inside of his room.

“Who do you have in there?” she asks.

“Peter, Dylan, Ray...Diomedes might come later if he's not feeling as nervous he's been lately. The game was too stimulating for him the other day. All the usual people, what's up?” Dobby asks.

“The anxiety alarm has been going off. Carp and I are both fine so we're trying to figure out who’s triggering it. Does anyone in there with you seem well… jittery?”

“No. We're all fine.”

“Are you sure there's no one in there that seems to...I don't know...be taking losing a little too personally?”

“No Mom we're having a great time.”

More sounds of rapid fire and explosions go off behind the ginger tabby.

“Dude your plan totally worked. You got to come see what happened.” Ray’s voice calls out. "Hurry man.”

Dobby turns his head in the direction of the sounds coming from his room.

“If you notice anything strange..”

Dobby turns back to Writer Lady and nods.

“We're resuming in five…” Ray calls. “Four…”

The ginger tabby looks behind him and turns back to Writer Lady.

“Anyone a little nervous? Having random outbursts…”

Dobby looks at Writer Lady.

Three... can be heard from the other side of the door.

“This anxiety seems to hit creatures very suddenly without warning.”

“Yeah.”

“Call me if you see anything.”

“Okay Mom I've got it.” Dobby says closing the door.

Writer Lady and Carp stand in the hallway as the sounds of Halo commences in the distance.

“Did he seem anxious to you?” Writer Lady asks.

“Not at all, the gamers seem to be okay. If you want to get that query letter wrapped up today we need to get going.”

“House.” Writer Lady calls to the ceiling, “Show us the kittens. Art on the walls surrounding the pair fades and new art appears as Writer Lady and Carp find themselves at the opposite end of the hall, in front of Aunt Purdy's door. A cheerful wreath of flowers marks the entry to Aunt Purdy’s room. Sounds coming from the other side of the door are softer than the sounds that had been coming from the other side of Dobby's. Carp knocks on the door. It opens within seconds, Aunt Purdy stands on the other side of the entry, she is smiling.

“Hello.”

“Hello.” Carp says, mirroring her greeting.

“I was wondering how you're feeling.” Writer Lady says.

Aunt Purdy thinks for a moment. “As we all know I'm not the same as I used to be. I have to admit that I’m feeling more relaxed than have felt in recent weeks. The herbal teas, music, and meditations are helping.”

Writer Lady and Carp smile.

“Not to mention the changes in diet, increased exercise, and being more mindful of what I watch and read.” Aunt Purdy continues. “They say this time of life is like a woman's second spring, it's more like spring cleaning if you ask me. The only way to get through it is to clear away your bad habits. All of them.”

Writer Lady reaches out and hugs Aunt Purdy. “We can't go through menopause for you, but we're all with you.”

“Don't forget what comes after spring cleaning.” Carp says.

Aunt Purdy and Writer Lady look at Carp waiting for more information.

“Redecorating!” He sings. “I'm not just talking about home décor, your body is doing new things so you can have a whole new look, I mean everywhere girl.”

And Purdy's lips turn up ever so slightly showing no indication whether she's up for making big changes or not kind of like the woman in the Mona Lisa, only happier.

“You heard the alarms?” Writer Lady asks.

“I did.”

“We're just checking on everyone making sure everything is okay.”

“I have quite a group of visitors today would you like to come and take a look?” Aunt Purdy asks before leading Writer Lady and Carp into her room.

Spots, Smudge, Furnatche, Paige and Daemon are all inside. Paige is blowing catnip bubbles for the animals as Daemon watches. The kittens watch the bubbles float along thoughtfully, anticipating where the bubble might go then quietly yet efficiently popping it with their claws. The baby dragon goes after the bubbles with greater enthusiasm, there's lots of jumping and happy yipping sounds. It’s an idyllic scene versus what had been transpiring in recent days.

“That was easy.” Carp observes as the pair leave Aunt Purdy's room.

“A little too easy.” Writer Lady counters.

“Pixie One is resting in her room. Diomedes is getting better but returning to his room when he feels overstimulated. TP and Pixie Too haven't been here for weeks so it's not them.”

The anxiety alarm goes off again.

“Someone's triggering it right now.” Writer Lady observes. “Who? Everyone's been accounted for. House, can you tell where the anxiety is coming from?” Writer Lady asks.

“Coordinates of anxiety outbursts are 8.6.75.309.” House responds in a monotone.

“Where is that?” Carp asks.

“How the hell should I know! Where do you think you are, in a Sci-Fi movie?” House responds.

Writer Lady rolls her eyes, “Thanks House.”

“Don't mention it.”

A thumping sound comes from the other side of the house. Writer Lady turns her head in the direction of the sound. There's another thump, this one is louder than the first.

Writer Lady and Carp take off in the direction of the sound. The writer and assassin-in-training stop in the entry to the bonus room. Tinkletoes is sitting next to the carport door. The self-proclaimed mercenary is sitting on the floor with his back against the wall, his knees are tucked in close against his torso like a child struggling to feel safe. Tinkletoes slowly bangs the back of his head against the wall. “Have you ever wondered,” the self-proclaimed mercenary asks. “what the meaning of a mercenary’s life actually is? Have you ever wondered why you're here. If lighted sabers, semi-automatics, and fancy cupcakes is all there is. Have you ever asked yourself if you're wasting your life?”

Query Letters and Anxiety Alerts With An Assassin-In-Training

 

Writer Lady sits down in High Command and closes her eyes as her breathing settles into a rhythmic pattern and slows to something calmer. She listens to the house and all who dwell within it. First, she listens for Daemon, a muffled cry of fear, screams of frustration, sounds of a demon thrashing about breaking things. Of course the last time that happened she heard lots of grunts, groans, and cries for help from House herself. Daemon was seemingly unaffected by the anxiety that was spreading, they were safe, for the time being anyway.

Relaxing a bit she returns to the source of her current torture, her query letter. After looking around the room a few dozen times. she's hit with a spark of inspiration. Confident no one else is doing what she's thinking of, she completes a new query letter in a matter of minutes. “Yay.” She whispers as she finishes typing.

“I heard that.” Carp says as he enters High Command. “Finally getting that query written?”

“Yes. All finished.” Writer Lady announces with a wide grin.

“May I read it?”

“Please do.” The Assassin-In-Training stands behind the Big Writing Chair and begins reading. “Uh-huh.. uh-huh..” Carp laughs and points to the second paragraph before continuing to read and say uh huh. He turns to Writer Lady after he finishes reading. “You're going to have to write a new one.” He says.

Writer Lady drops her forehead to the surface of her desk in defeat. After a few beats she raises her head and turns to Carp. “You said that the first query letter was too boring. It didn't capture the essence of my novel. You said the second query letter showed no imagination.”

He nodded.

“This captures the feeling of the story and shows lots of imagination. It's practically dripping with it.”

“Too much. If there was any more going on I'd feel like I was trapped in a chocolate factory with Willy Wonka. Try again.”

“Why?!” Writer Lady asks. “Whatever happened to ‘an agent will accept a query written in crayon if it’s a great book?’”

“You haven't made your book sound that good.” He says. “The agent needs to feel like they’re about to embark on a journey with someone who can talk about their work intelligently and in an interesting manner with the general public.” Carp thinks for a minute, “They want to know you can talk to Oprah about your novel and get her interested in your work.”

“You used to be a novelist, you've read my book, would you write it...”

“...for you? No Sweetie, good query letters are a skill that you need to learn. Besides, if I wrote your query they would recognize me and run for the hills. Trust me you don’t want my stamp on this.”

Writer Lady sighs, “I wasn't asking you to do my work for me, I was hoping you could do it with me. Sit down next to me, show me where I'm going wrong as I'm doing it, point me in the right direction so it's not so painful and I have a firmer foundation when it's time to write the next query letter.” She looks at Carp beseechingly. “Please? I won't let myself start another book until I finish this query letter and I was supposed to start the new book three weeks ago.”

“You and your silly rules.” Carp responds. “I'll sit with you. It’s your letter, you have to do all the heavy lifting.”

“I'm expecting to.”

“Open a new document.” Carp instructs.

As the pair type, Writer Lady and Carp argue then discuss which leads back to arguing.

Anxiety alert. Anxiety alert! Sirens go off inside High Command complete with warning light flashing. Writer Lady and Carp stop working and look at each other.

“Stop!” Writer Lady calls.

The light on the wall next to the closet door stops flashing. The alarm sounds cease. The pair listen and wait for the sound of a panic attack in progress. They hear nothing.

“I don't hear anything.” Carp says.

“The alarm must be wrong. If there was another case of anxiety in this house, trust me, we would have heard it.” Writer Lady says.

The pair return to the query letter.

Anxiety alert! Anxiety alert!

The light goes off again, both Carp and Writer Lady jump.

“Stop!” Writer Lady calls.

The alarm shuts down. They listen and hear nothing.

She looks at Carp. “Are you feeling anxious?”

“About?” He asked, gesturing to the computer monitor. “No Sweetie, I used to write these in my sleep. Are you?”

“I was more anxious about query writing hours ago and I wasn't tripping the alarms. It's not me.” Writer Lady turns towards the entry to High Command. “I think we should do a walk-through.” She says as she rises from her chair.

When Creatures Of Faerie Are Contagious

 

Writer Lady is working away on that torture device that some call a query letter when she hears the sound of metal clacking against metal. “Crap.” She rushes out of High Command managing to head Pixie One off at the pass. Or at the slot in this case.

“I heard something. Something that might be dangerous.” The pixie says.

“It's not. It's just the mail.”

“Mail.” Pixie One says repeating the word. “I don't like the sound of that.”

“Mail comes nearly every day. I'll get it.” Writer Lady continues walking to the closet, one that holds winter coats and boots as well as keeping incoming mail separate from the rest of the house. “Wait here.” Writer Lady instructs. She hears the fluttering of Pixie One’s wings fade as she reaches for the door and opens it. There’s a sharp intake of breath and a faint “Careful” in Pixie’s high pitched voice as she leans into the closet and picks up a stack of advertisements. Writer Lady returns to Pixie One in one piece much to the pixie’s relief. “Mail is one of the ways humans communicate with each other. Mail is printed on paper.”

“Pa--per..” Pixie One says tapping her chin as she thinks about what Writer Lady has told her. “Paper is bits of pulp that have been molded together. The pulp comes from trees. Trees that are killed to harvest it.”

“Yes. It’s harmless. Perfectly harmless.”

Pixie One nods with uncertainty.

She continues attempting to reassure her, “These are ads. Pictures of refrigerators and cars for sale, things like that. As I just said, they’re harmless.”

“What if the tree decides it doesn't want to be a picture of a sale car? What if it's angry about being murdered and it rises up against human cruelty and decides to eat us in our sleep?”

Writer Lady takes a moment before answering doing so with great patience.”First of all trees are not carnivorous so they won't eat us. Secondly, these are ads I don't want.” Writer Lady tosses the entire stack into the garbage. “The mail can't hurt us now.”

The pixie flies over to the trash can and peers inside. “You put the ads in the trash? The tree died for nothing?” Pixie One disappears in a puff of smoke and returns in another puff suitcase in hand. “If you aren't worried about being eaten by the tree that's fine. I won't die because of your indifference to the tree’s suffering. I'm leaving.” She announces. Pixie One’s body lights up. As she prepares to depart, a tiny bracelet appears on her ankle and turns a glittery red color grounding her to House’s energy. Keeping her from returning to Faerie.

“You know you can't do that, not until the anxiety has run its course.”

“I can't stay here.” Pixie One’s eyes well with tears. “It's not safe.”

“Sweetie, the anxiety you picked up is contagious for creatures of Faerie, we have to let it run its course. If you go home you'll spread it to everyone else. You don't want to make the other pixies, faeries, and unicorns sick do you? I know you don't feel safe at the moment but you really are.”

Pixie One looks down at her ankle and looks back at Writer Lady. “Can the bracelet be removed at least?” She asked.

“Not right now. House has some relaxing music and hibiscus nectar waiting for you in your room. Why don’t you go take a rest?”

“O-kay.” Pixie One says. The pixie flies out of the room slowly, halfheartedly pulling her suitcase behind her.

Writer Lady stops in the kitchen on her way back to High Command. She looks at the clean and empty coffee maker. “What I wouldn't give for a cup of coffee.” She says looking at it with longing.

“Can't do it.” A voice rumbles at a low growl behind her. “This mission is too important.”

“But I'm not sure how long I can keep calm and patient without a little coffee. These headaches are killing me.”

“It's more difficult to stay calm in a crisis if you're hopped up on caffeine. We have to stay calm until people stop acting crazy.” The self-proclaimed mercenary says as he rises from his seat. “I hate this too. If anyone had told me on my first day of basic training that in 20 years my primary focus was going to be watching over a bunch of crazy people I might have packed up my gear and walked home.”

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes with disdain. She finds it difficult to contain her anger. “This coming from a man who was convinced that dense fog was the harbinger of an alien invasion.” She takes a deep breath and counts to five. “I’m going to say this one last time. Aunt Purdy is going through the change and she's dealing with some anxiety as a result. Unfortunately for us anxiety is something the creatures of Faerie have trouble with. They can pick it up from other beings, it’s a virus for them. Apparently it's contagious and appears to slowly be traveling through this household. Furnatche picked up the anxiety, because he's closest to Aunt Purdy, it didn't really affect the little guy. Then Diomedes came down with it. He's getting better. Somehow Pixie One has contracted it. She's having more trouble. These are our friends, they're sick. They're not crazy. I don't appreciate you suggesting they are.”

“If they were human things wouldn't be happening like this.” Tinkletoes points out.

“If they were human they'd just be nervous. But they're not so they're nervous times fifty.” Writer Lady says.

“Could you at least get them to stop throwing up? It's disgusting.”

“How many times have you cleaned up a mess since this started?” House’s voice calls, echoing throughout the kitchen. “Zer-o! We're the ones handling it. Don't b**** about stuff you aren't even dealing with!”

Ignoring House, Tinkletoes leans in and whispers, “Do what you can to make them stop, the retching is terrible.”

“They have anxiety, stomach issues can come with that.” Closing her hands into fists Writer Lady takes another deep breath and heads towards High Command whispering to herself, “As long as the demon doesn't get it we’ll be okay. As long as the demon doesn't come down with this everyone will be safe.”

Stuck In The Fog With A Self -Proclaimed Mercenary

 

Writer Lady stirs when a strange sound invades her sleeping space. Deciding she doesn't want to know what it is she pulls the blankets over her head and turns away from the invader.

“Ssst.”

The sound repeats. She ignores it and hopes it will go away.

“Pssst.”

Clearly it hasn't gone away.

“Psssst!”

Writer Lady pushes the blankets down. “What!”

“Can I come in?”

Tinkletoes, of course who else would it be?

“Come in.” Reaching over, Writer Lady checks the time on her phone then turns on a light. By the time her eyes adjust Tinkletoes is standing over her. All mixed camo, combat booted, 6 feet 2 inches of him. The self-proclaimed mercenary is awake, dressed, and armed. “What's with the rifle?” She asks, pointing to the harness strapped across his torso.

“Well, I wanted to let you know that an invasion is coming so if you hear any banging, fighting, gunshots, or grenades going off it’s just me being my usual heroic self.”

Writer Lady looks at Tinkletoes, taking a moment to think before she answers. “Try to keep it away from the bedroom windows. I'm sleeping.” She begins to settle back down into the blankets and reaches out to turn off the light.

Tinkletoes coughs.

“And?”

“Is there any coffee?” He asks. “I got a thermos.”

“The coffee pot is all set up just press the button.”

“If you could please do it because pressing the button didn't work the last time.” Tinkletoes says.

“That was because the coffee maker wasn't plugged in. It's plugged in now.”

“Good.” He says, looking around. He turns his gaze back to Writer Lady, “If you don't see me after this remember I died doing what I loved. Thanks for everything, it was nice spending time with you.”

“Yeah. You too.” Writer Lady says as she turns off the light.

*****Thirty Minutes Later*****

“What?” Writer Lady says as she sits up in bed. “What was he talking about?” She asks. She listens to the sound of her sleeping household. “Invasions are noisy. I hear nothing!” Writer Lady throws back the blankets and climbs out of bed. “If I'm getting out of bed in the middle of the night again without a damn good reason there's going to be an invasion all over his head that he never sees coming.” She says as she puts on a robe and slippers. “Where does he get this crap?” Writer Lady stomps through the house, opens the carport door and sees nothing but fog. She goes back into the house for more appropriate footwear before setting out to find Tinkletoes. She finds him standing in her carport right between her car and her mail slot. He stands with his back to her. Writer Lady reaches up and taps him on the shoulder. Before Writer Lady realizes what's happened she's been pinned to the outside of her house and has a knife blade pressed against her jaw. The self-proclaimed mercenary is shining a bright light in her eyes.

“I've been waiting for you space alien.” Tinkletoes says.

“It's me. Writer Lady. I have a question.”

“How do I know you’re not a space alien? How do I know you ain't impersonating her?” He asks.

“You spend your most of your money on weapons and ammo, you're a card carrying member of Browncoats: Brothers Forever. You love dark chocolate mint cupcakes with salted caramel and bacon frosting with extra bacon on top and you have been known to trade doubles of any collectible item for Comic-Con tickets.”

“That’s all true but what does TP say about me?”

Writer Lady’s breath quickens as she fights an urge to panic. She doesn't know how to answer.

“What does TP say?” Tinkletoes asks a second time.

“You taught him how to help you cheat at Halo and when you win you gloat even though you know you cheated.”

Tinkletoes lowers his blade. “Good answer,” he says. “What did you want to know?”

“What was all that crap you said earlier about? All that talk about if I die it was nice spending time with you?” 

 Tinkletoes looks around to ensure no one is listening.

  It's 3:00 a.m., no one is listening.

“We're being invaded.”

“By whom?” Writer Lady asks.

“I was hoping for space aliens but the enemy has yet to show themselves so I'm not sure yet.”

Writer Lady expels the air in her lungs in an attempt to dissipate the need to yell and wake the entire neighborhood. What she needs to do now is question his logic inspiring her to pause. Writer Lady finds herself questioning whether logic exists in Tinkletoes’ world. “How do you know there's going to be an invasion?” She asks. “Did someone send an announcement? Has another community been invaded?”

Tinkletoes steps past her as he moves to the opposite edge of the carport. The self-proclaimed mercenary looks out in the direction of the street in front of them. “You ever see fog this thick before?” he asks.

“No, not around here.”

“That's because fog this thick isn't natural, it's not normal.” The self-proclaimed mercenary gestures to the fog. “I know there's going to be an invasion because of the fog. It's their announcement. We're coming. Get ready. It's why I'm out here at 3:00 a.m. fully armed. Whoever invades will not take this house.” Tinkletoes turns to look at Writer Lady. “You best head inside now.”

Suppressing an urge to roll her eyes into next week, Writer Lady nods solemnly and quietly goes back inside; she manages to make it into the kitchen before she bursts into a fit of laughter.

Letting Go Of Brent And Other Christmas Miracles : Chapter 6.2

 

I sat down on the window seat with a fresh mug of tea in hand, watching as my new community mingled on the street below. The week had flown by. This was the first time since I found Lester that I felt relaxed. At ease. I missed my best guy terribly but Cassandra was right, there was something about this apartment that felt like it fit. Like it was meant for me.

For a few brief minutes it was good to be here.

If this was one of the romance novels I usually enjoy on a night like tonight this would probably be time for the grand gesture.

The moment the love interest realized what he was about to lose, quit acting like a douche and showed up late in the third act or the moment for the meet cute with the exact man the lonely yet lovable protagonist was hoping her lost crush was going to be (whereas the crush turns out to be lacking in the very qualities the main character needs in a partner).

I looked at the clock. Six pm on New Year’s Eve. “It’s not going to happen Renee.” I whispered to myself. “Not for you. Not tonight.” I looked around the room. “What are you going to do about it?” My eyes stopped at a box topped with a large unopened bag of cat food. “I’m not going to sit around here feeling sorry for myself.” I said setting my mug down next to the window.

The cold air hit hard as the door closed behind me. “I’ll warm up if I keep moving. Keep moving.” I whispered to myself. With the college being closed for the semester, students and a large portion of the staff having left for the holidays, I was able to navigate both pedestrian and foot traffic fairly easily. Shelter hours showed they closed at six pm. but the Open sign was still up and the lights were on. I decided to take a chance and try the door letting myself in.

Moments later, a young woman emerged from the back of the building, drying her hands on a towel as she walked. “We’re closed for the holiday. Is this an emergency?” She called.

“No. Actually I wanted to know if you accepted donations.”

“We do. We accept food and supplies for both cats and dogs. Money is fine too. Cash or card only.”

“I have a box here. The food hasn’t been opened. I wasn’t sure what you could use and what you couldn’t so I just brought everything.” I spotted Lester’s favorite food dish in the box, the one with his name and an illustration of a cartoon bird in the bottom. I quickly lifted it out of the box. “Everything except this bowl.”

The young woman looked at me.

“That wasn’t supposed to be in the box. Sorry.”

Her eyes studied mine for a few beats before she returned to exploring the contents of the box. “How long ago did you lose him?” She asked.

“What?”

“Your cat...when did he die?”

My voice caught as I said, “A week ago.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“You sure you don’t want to keep some of this?” She asked. When I didn’t answer right away she looked up. “For your next cat?”

“Lester was my grandmother’s cat when she took me in. After she died he moved in with me. He’s never not been there.”

“I get it.” After finishing pulling the items from the box she picked up a pen and started scribbling. “If you change your mind.”

I nodded.

“We also have fostering programs if you aren’t ready to make a lifetime commitment or if you ever need a kitty fix we can always use an extra pair of hands around this place.” She extended a hand. “I’m Terri by the way.”

“Renee.”

“Nice to meet you Renee. So what was Lester like?”

“He was a short haired domestic black cat. He was a cranky old man.” I found myself smiling a little with the memory.

“He didn’t like people?”

“Only if they had food. He would share the bed with me. He would let me help him down from high places when it became too painful for him to jump down on his own. He was a good companion.”

“I’ve pulled out what can be sanitized, we can accept the unopened food. Thank you for thinking of us.” Terri said handing back the box.

“You’re welcome. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year.”

I turned to leave, before I walked through the door I heard something. I turned around.

“Because you had a cat like Lester, can I talk to you about something?”

“Sure.”

“We have this female cat, I’m kinda worried about her.” Terri hesitated. “It would be easier just to show you.”

Raising my head from beneath a sea of bubbles I ran my hand down my face and opened my mouth to get a breath of air. As my eyes focused they found a pair of green eyes peering at me from behind the toilet. They belonged to an adult female. A gray and white short haired domestic. She had big eyes and round cheeks. One of the sweetest faces I could imagine and she was slowly dying. When I heard her story, I knew I had to bring her home.

Rory had been dropped off by local law enforcement. The residents had been arrested and the children in the home sent to live with grandparents in another state. The grandmother was highly allergic to cats. Rory was nervous. Especially frightened by loud noises. This healthy well cared for spayed cat was relaxing some but she still drank little and did not seem to be eating. The vet told Terri unless something changed Rory probably wouldn’t make it much longer.

Terri was hoping that if someone fostered her in a quiet environment she might come around. My experience caring for a senior cat at the end of his life and being single with no children made me a very good candidate. As much as I’d been hurting lately, I still found myself wanting to help.

Rory’s eyes grew big. I turned my gaze away from hers and pretended she wasn’t there.

“I used to have a cat that lived with me. His name was Lester.” I said quietly. “We were together for his entire life. He was well cared for, happy, and safe.” I peered over the edge of the tub. She was still on alert. I finished my bath and left her alone to rest. Things went on like that for the rest of the evening. I woke just before midnight to find the bowl of food sitting near a towel covered cushion on the window seat still untouched. I had hung my heaviest blankets over the windows in an attempt to diffuse any sounds from fireworks or gun fire.

Turning on a lamp I found her watching me from underneath the coffee table. Without looking at her I continued. “We have a lot in common you know. We both are suffering...from broken hearts.” I looked in her direction, she was still there. “You a bit more I think. Guess what? We don’t have to suffer. We can get through this together. I hate to ask something of you since we just met a few hours ago but if I keep taking care of you will you please take care of me? Keep me company so I’m not sad?” I question whether this is a good choice or not for a moment. I think about what is it we need when we feel rejected or alone. The answer came quickly we need to feel loved but sometimes a person also needs to feel needed. She had a little boy who needed her. Rory was not only taken from her home but from the child she loved and cared for. Terri said Rory was about six. If the boy was very young Rory might feel lost like a mother does when her child is no longer there. It was a long shot. If I stressed my need for care and said a little prayer maybe a Christmas miracle would come to me.

I’d take it.

I don’t care if it’s a week late.

“The most important thing I need you to do kitty is to eat something.” I said, reaching out for the top of the coffee table and a paper plate where the remnants of my dinner was sitting, I laid a bit of chicken on the floor near her before closing my eyes.

When I woke the next morning she was curled up on the window seat sleeping. Food was missing from my abandoned plate. A small portion of kibble was no longer in her bowl and the water was gone. A belated Christmas miracle had arrived. Rory had eaten, as long she kept eating there was hope. As long as there was hope, well, that’s all that really mattered.

“Happy New Year Brent." I whispered. "I wish you health and happiness in the coming months.” 

  My love interest had not shown in the eleventh hour yet I was not alone. There was room for hope, time for growth, healing and to find a kitty her forever home.

The End and The Beginning.