The Randy Romance Novelist(12)
I thought about that for a second before I answered. “Um, what’s wrong with giving money to the soup kitchen? That’s actually really nice of them.”
“Really? Not when they charge five ninety-nine for a bucket of piss water they claim is chicken broth.”
“What?” I asked. “The soup kitchen doesn’t charge. Are you talking about Soup and Bowl, the restaurant five blocks down?”
“Have you been there? It’s disgusting. I refuse to support such an establishment.”
Many things came to the forefront of my mind, but I blocked them away because I didn’t want to get into a fight with my boss about the soup kitchen. It wasn’t worth it.
“Can I ask what you’re doing with Sir Licks-a-Lot? I thought Animal Control took all of the cats.”
“They thought they did. I was able to stuff Sir Licks-a-Lot away before they could find him. I need to ask you a favor.”
And just like that, I knew exactly what the next few words were going to be coming out of Gladys’s mouth. Dread and self-hatred filled my bones as I watched her old lady eyes become full with tears and a slight ounce of hope.
Oh, crap.
“What kind of favor?” I reluctantly asked.
“I need you to take Sir Licks-a-Lot home with you. My landlord won’t allow cats in the building, so I can’t take him or else I would.”
“My landlord doesn’t either,” I answered with fake defeat and a lift of my hand, really trying to show off my disappointment. Thank God for New York City living and strict apartment rules.
“Yes, he does,” Gladys returned, shaking me out of my moment of glory from my quick thinking tongue. “I looked up your address this morning and called your landlord. I had to pay a hefty pet fee of five hundred dollars, but it’s all set with your landlord.”
Crap!
My mind started sifting through a Rolodex of excuses. I mentally tried them out before I said them out loud because right now, I would say just about anything to avoid taking Satan’s feline back to my apartment with me.
Excuse: He won’t match the ambiance of the apartment.
Nope—he would actually go perfectly.
Excuse: We go to bed at seven at night, so our sleep schedule probably won’t sync up.
Nope—cats sleep all day every day, idiot . . . that’s when they’re not plotting your death.
Excuse: Henry’s allergic.
Nope—She’s seen him in the office multiple times.
Excuse: I don’t know anything about cats.
Nope—I know TOO much about cats.
I had nothing. Just one last lousy excuse . . .
“I don’t think I’m in a financially stable place to be able to provide for Sir Licks-a-Lot’s needs at this time.”
“Oh, don’t worry about that.” Gladys waved her hand to brush my excuse away. “I will increase your salary by three hundred dollars bi-weekly to take care of him.”
That was one hell of a significant raise; how could a girl turn that down?
“You’re the only one I trust, Rosie. Please do this for me. I already had a courier drop off cat supplies and some of Lickey’s favorite toys. Say yes.”
Right before me, Gladys’s eyes transformed into giant saucers, begging and pleading with me to do this “tiny” little favor.
I turned to the crate and stared Sir Licks-a-Lot down, trying to form some kind of bond with the cretin. His yellow eyes didn’t blink as his whiskers twitched from his paw running over them in a deranged kind of way. I gulped, and thought maybe it wouldn’t be that bad. He’s just a cat . . .
***
“Go ahead, scratch the sofa one more time; I dare you,” I called out, holding a spray bottle with both hands and pointing it right at the culprit. It’d been five hours since I gathered all my things at the office and hauled “Lickey” across Midtown and back to my apartment. Just like Gladys said, she had a large box of cat items waiting for me at the apartment full of catnip, scratchers, a litter box, a pooper scooper, feeding bowls, and of course, smelly wet cat food.
The taxi ride back to the apartment was a real treat. One would have assumed I was slowly killing him inside his crate, maybe twisting his leg off, by the crazed meows popping out of his mouth. The cab driver kept looking in his rearview mirror until I told him the cat was in heat and searching for someone to bang her. That warranted a middle claw from Sir Licks-a-Lot, and I think that comment was the reason why I’d been dealing with kitty tornado ever since I got home. Apparently, he didn’t like to be called a she . . . noted!
With one sock on my foot, hair tossed into a side pony—not by my doing—and clothes askew, I found myself fighting an epic battle of human versus feline, skin versus whiskers, claws versus hands. We fought for our freedom, for our rights in the apartment, for the upper hand in this creepy ménage of furball and homosapien. I battled with him incessantly about his boundaries, his designated space, and mostly on how many times I could squirt a cat before he got it through his teeny tiny cat brain that he was not to scratch the damn couch.
His paw was midair as I screamed, “Do it!” My hands shook, ready to squirt the little bastard across the apartment. I could feel sweat start to trickle down my back in anticipation of a squirt-a-thon that consisted of me screaming like a banshee, squirting the cat, while he ran around in circles, trying to avoid Hurricane Rosie.