A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella (5 page)

“No, I totally get it,” Ann said.

I’d known it all along. A match made in heaven. Cat Hater had grudgingly watched
The McNamaras
with My Lady, but I think that was mostly because several young and attractive female cast members regularly appeared to have misplaced key items of their wardrobes.

“You want to watch
it?” Craig asked. “I think it’s on in a few minutes.”

“Is it on tonight?”

My Lady plays fast and loose with the truth, on occasion. I try not to hold it against her.

Craig flipped
on the TV, and by the time I ventured out of the bedroom and resettled myself on the back of the couch, they had completely forgotten about my earlier misbehavior. They were sitting closer now. Not touching, but the Mastiff-sized gap had shrunk to a Pekingese-proportioned one.

I leaned against Bella’s soft belly and dozed off to the
delicious sensation of having the top of my head washed.

Things quickly started looking up.
I don’t know when it was arranged, I missed the actual event—maybe he called Ann at work—but Craig asked My Lady on a date. A real date this time, not some off-hand invitation to take nourishment together. He’d bought tickets to some swanky do—a gala fundraiser, I think—and invited Ann to accompany him.

I won’t do Ann the injustice of implying that she is a poor dresser, but I will reveal that her wardrobe
—if you don’t count the scrubs she wears to work—consists entirely of blue jeans, tops made from stretchy material and sneakers. She owns nothing suitable for attending functions which include the word “gala”.

Three days before her date with Craig, Ann went shopping and returned with bags full of dresses. I
was assuming she intended to pick one and return the rest. Perhaps she suffered from the dressing-room phobia which I’m given to understand is highly prevalent among human females. I’d gotten the impression that dressing-phobia mostly manifests itself during bathing-suit-buying season, though, so maybe purchasing seven dresses when she needed only one was simply a case of extreme indecision on My Lady’s part. 

Whatever the reason, Ann spent several hours putting on and taking off dresses. It seemed to me that there was a clear front-runner. It had a short fluffy skirt and the sort of neckline favored by the female contingent of
The McNamaras
. I may have been unduly influenced by the fact it was the same color as Bella’s green eyes.

I’d made up my mind. I didn’t need to see all the options over again for a fifth time. Besides, I was overdue for my supper, so I decided to let my views be known.
I hopped up on the pile of dresses which lay on the bed, blocking access to all alternatives to the one she was wearing.

“Cupid, get off!” 

I wasn’t getting through to her. I would have to take more drastic action. Since Ann was still wearing the green dress, it occurred to me that if could inflict some minor damage to it My Lady would have difficulty retuning it.

From my elevated height on the bed, I
might just be able to reach the tags dangling from the waistline of the dress. I removed myself from the pile of dresses before I inadvertently mutilated the wrong one.

“Cupid, get off my pillow!”

I retreated to the foot of the bed. My Lady undid the back zipper and started to slip the green dress off. My time was short. I made a leap, swiped at the tag and missed. This was unfortunate because, while I missed the tag, I did not miss the skirt. There was a sharp rending sound, and the next thing I knew My Lady was taking a swipe at me.

As I’ve said before, My Lady is not normally violent
. However, as the earlier incident with the porcelain puppy in repose indicates, she does have her breaking point.

“Two-hundred and forty-five dollars down the drain. They’ll never take this back!”

Ann had her back turned, and I took this opportunity to cram myself into the tiny cavity underneath the bottom shelf of My Lady’s nightstand as a precaution.
 

The next day
, Ann left for work with all the dresses except the green one. It remained hanging on the back of her closet door. I felt bad about the dress, I really did.

I needn’t have. The following afternoon, Ann’s mother came over with her sewing machine and stitched up the tear. When she was done, one couldn’t even tell it had come in contact with my claws.

“So who’s this boy you’re going out with?” Ann’s mother asked.

“He’s not a boy. He’s thirty-five.”

“When you get to be my age, thirty-five counts as a boy.”

Ann just rolled her eyes. My mother would have given me the paw-pummeling of the century if I’d ever dared to roll my eyes at her, but Ann’s mother has a more forgiving nature. She just sighed.

“Well, whoever he is, he can’t be worse than that last boy you dated.”

Not only is Ann’s mother forgiving, she’s also a good judge of character.

“Jimmy wasn’t so bad.”

This time it was Ann’s mother’s turn to roll her eyes. I could see where Ann got it from.

“If Jimmy’s so great, then why aren’t you still together?”

It was an excellent question, one worth
serious consideration, but Ann didn’t seem interested in considering it.

“So, are you and Aunt Glenda back on speaking terms with each other yet?”

That shut Ann’s mother right up. She left, taking her sewing machine with her.
 

The evening of the gala
, Ann got home from work earlier than usual and set right to work. I’d never seen so many cosmetics and personal grooming products used on the same human body simultaneously.  

When Craig came up the stairs
to collect her, it appeared he had done the same. They left in a cloud of noxious chemical scents which lingered for hours. I fell asleep watching a dust-bunny under the couch vibrate in the draft coming up from the air vent. One moment, I was agog at the marvelous complexity of this marriage of fur and dust particles, and the next I was shaking myself awake because I’d heard a key in the lock.

It was Ann, accompanied by Craig, returning from their gala evening. The cocktail of chemicals had dissipated considerably, unless you count the swirling vortex of pheromones
which surrounded them, so I roused myself, stretched and sauntered over to offer a courteous greeting to our guest.  

“Decaf OK?” Ann asked Craig
. “Or I have some herbal tea—”

I’d gotten the impression somewhere that inviting a human
of the opposite gender up to your apartment late at night for a cup of coffee is usually code for something of a more libidinous nature. I think Craig was under that impression too, because when Ann asked the question he forgot he was scratching me behind the ears and stared at her.

“Maybe I should just go,” he said.

“How about chamomile?  That’s the perfect drink before you go to bed.”

“Uh—
”

“Chamomile always relaxes me.”

Ann was leaning up against the counter in what can only be described as a deliberately provocative manner. I wondered how many glasses of champagne My Lady had downed at this Gala Do, but I didn’t like to ask. No good ever comes of pointing it out when others overindulge.   

“OK,
I’ll have the chamomile,” said Craig. He looked a bit scared.

Craig drank his
chamomile, but he’d barely drained the last drop when My Lady grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and practically dragged him to the couch.

I stood and watched for a bit, but a little of that sort of thing goes a long way with me—
I’m not what you’d call a voyeur—so I retreated to the kitchen to see if anyone had dropped anything on the floor worth cleaning up.

A few minutes later, I heard Craig say, “Look. I really like you—
” I think My Lady pulled him back down on the couch then, because the next bit was unintelligible. “I Just don’t think—” he resurfaced just long enough to say and went down again, like a drowning man. “I don’t want to rush—” Gone again. “—anything and I think—” More muffled and unintelligible attempts to communicate. “You’ve been drinking—”

Craig finally broke free and made a run for the door. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said. “I promise.” Then he was gone.

My Lady, considerably disheveled and flushed, heaved herself up off the couch and headed to bed. She didn’t even bother to take the green dress off.       

Ann woke up the next morning rumpled and full of regret.

“I made a fool of myself, Cupid!” She wailed.

I disagreed. She’d left Craig with no doubts about her inclination toward
s him, and based on my belief that Craig was just as inclined towards her, I viewed her undignified and somewhat ill-bred behavior as a blessing in disguise.

However, when a woman is upset, it’s best just to let her talk, so I
draped myself across My Lady’s knees and prepared to listen attentively. I got off easy. Instead of waxing eloquent on the theme of last night’s humiliating rejection, she got out of bed and turned on the shower.

While she was in the shower, I heard the doorbell ring. Ann couldn’t hear it
, of course, over the running water, so I went to the door to investigate.

It was Craig. I could recognize his unique scent wafting through the crack under the door. He left something on the mat—whatever it was had a distinctly floral aroma—and went away.

As soon as My Lady stepped out of the shower, I set up a ruckus at the front door. I scratched and yowled. Ann, still draped in a towel, came out right away.

“What
is the matter with you?” she demanded. I’m not sure why she persists in asking me questions. I never answer her. Perhaps, she considers these inquiries to be purely rhetorical.

She opened the door
, and I bounded out, barely missing the vase full of flowers which Craig had left on the mat—gerbera daisies, I think they were, or maybe I’m confusing them with some kind of baby food.         

Craig was exceeding my expectation
s. With no prompting from anyone—including yours truly—he’d made the perfect gesture. I went downstairs to congratulate him.

W
hen I got to Craig’s apartment, no one was there. I scratched and meowed, hoping to establish communication with Bella through the door, but she didn’t come either, so I went on my way. There was a rat problem developing around the dumpster which I’d been meaning to deal with for some time.

The gerbera daisies sat in a place o
f honor on the dining table for close to a week before they wilted and withered away. Initially, Craig’s offering of flowers had cheered My Lady up considerably and seemed to have gone a long way in making the memory of the gala evening aftermath fade to the status of a mildly amusing anecdote. However, when days passed and Craig didn’t call, the debacle came back to My Lady in its full humiliating horror.

I was just as confused as Ann. Craig and Bella were nowhere to be seen. I toyed with the idea of a
n alien abduction, but I’d never heard of them taking a cat—although you’d think if aliens are as intelligent as people claim they are, felines would be the first thing they’d go for.    

Another strike against the alien abduction theory was the fact that Craig’s car was
also missing. I’d noticed it was gone when I’d set out to intimidate the dumpster rats on the morning that Craig brought by the flowers. It had been missing that morning, and I hadn’t seen it since.

There was no sign of Bella. Multiple times a day, I’d stand outside Craig’s door and attempt to rouse someone within, but there was no response. I was worried. What if something had happened to Craig
, and Bella was locked inside his apartment, slowly wasting away, too weakened with hunger to cry out for help?
 

Finally, after several sleepless nights
—mine and My Lady’s—the missing creatures, human and feline, resurfaced.

“Where have you been?” Ann demanded, when we met Craig outside his apartment. He was carrying a suitcase in one hand and Bella’s carrier in the other.  

It was the wrong tone to take, but I understood her point of view. She’d been worried. If it had been up to me, about day three I’d have picked up the phone and called Craig, but it hadn’t been up to me. Don’t ask me why My Lady didn’t think of it herself. Perhaps she didn’t want to appear needy. Although I don’t know why she’d worry about a little thing like that, because she certainly didn’t think twice about appearing rude.

Craig took it well. He just laughed and said, “Why? Did you miss me?”

My Lady whacked him with her shopping bag.

“Oww! What have you got in there? Frozen rocks?”

“No. Ice cream.”

“What kind?”

“Butterscotch.”

“Can I have some?”

“No!”

Three minutes later, though, we were inside Craig’s apartment. The butterscotch ice cream sat untouched on the kitchen counter while My Lady and Craig made mutual explorations of each other’s oral cavities. I know that’s not the most romantic way of putting it, but you’ll have to forgive me. I’m a cat. We felines are not enamored with foreplay in the same way
you humans seem to be.

This went on for a while
, and Bella and I amused ourselves with a piece of crumpled up paper which had missed the wastebasket in the kitchen.

“Shall we go to the bedroom?” I heard Ann say.

“Uh—”

One
might have anticipated that Craig would enthusiastically welcome such a suggestion. At least one would if one had not already seen the state of Craig’s bedroom. The rest of his apartment was not going to win any awards for neatness, but navigating his bedroom floor required acrobatic skills and nerves of steel.

“What’s wrong?” Ann asked.

“Nothing.”

“
Well, shall we?”

“I have to go to the bathroom.”