far longer than I had anticipated. I was hit with a major Frappuccino craving but couldn’t find a Starbucks (a problem I hadn’t had since 1994). Then I hit rush-hour traffic, there was an accident on the Bay Bridge, yada, yada, yada.
When I finally arrived in my neighborhood I only had fifteen minutes to spare before getting to the restaurant. I thought about just going straight to dinner, but I needed to feed my cat and my feet were screaming to be freed from the designer torture devices I had confined them in.
I ran upstairs to my third-floor, two-bedroom f lat, and went straight to the bathroom, then rushed into the living room, where I pressed the play button on my answering machine and sat down on the arm of my sofa as I began to unbuckle my strappy sandals.
“I know what you’re really up to, Sophie,” a voice began. I did a quick double take. The voice wasn’t normal. It didn’t even sound fully human. Someone had left a message on my machine using a voice synthesizer.
“You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat,” the caller continued, “and that would be a shame…because I do…love…cats.”
And that was it. The whole message.
I looked down at the one shoe I still had on and tried to make sense of what I had just heard. “Curiosity killed the cat,” I repeated. Was that a death threat or a donation request from the SPCA?
Where was my cat?
My heart jumped to my throat. Where was Mr. Katz?
In a f lash I was on my feet, my gaze quickly moving from the window seat to the couch to the love seat. Not there. Not under the coffee table or under the dining table.
I opened my mouth to call out to him, but I was too scared to actually make a sound. He had to be here, he just had to be!
With one shoe still securely on my foot I hobbled into the kitchen. No Mr. Katz. Okay, no need to panic yet. He could be asleep in my bedroom, or in the guest room. I lived in a f lat, not a mansion. I just needed to check the other rooms.
But of course even that wasn’t necessary. If Mr. Katz was home and able to walk I could get him to come to me. I reached out and, after sending up a quick silent prayer, pressed down on the electric can opener.
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Give him to the count of ten, Sophie,” I whispered to myself. “One, two…”
I felt something soft against my ankles. I looked down at Mr. Katz, who was nuzzling me and swishing his tail in anticipation of his next meal.
“Oh, thank God!” I dropped to my knees and tried to scoop him up in my arms. He evaded me and jumped up on the counter instead. He cast one eager glance toward the can opener, then narrowed his kitty eyes and glared down at me accusingly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really do have wet food,” I assured him, my voice shaky with relief.
Mr. Katz didn’t look convinced.
I got up and pulled a can of Fancy Feast from the cupboard and waved it in front of him. “See, it’s all good. I have food and you’re here, safe and gluttonous as always. No need to freak.”
I emptied half the can into his food bowl and then hurried back to my bedroom to change into a cute but much more comfortable pair of Munros, conscious of the fact that my car could be towed any minute.
The call had been a prank. That’s all. Although, the last time I had gotten a prank call it had been a serial killer playing the joke….
But this was different. Serious psychos killed cats, they didn’t love them. Everybody knew that the best way to identify which child was most likely to grow up to be a serial killer was to figure out which one liked to torture animals (which didn’t bode well for my nephew, but that was a different issue). The point was, I had nothing to worry about.
I just wish the caller hadn’t known my name.
5
When it comes to men I prefer the strong silent type. The ones who speak annoy me.
—C’est La Mort
BY THE TIME I GOT TO MAX’S, MARY ANN, JOHNNY AND RICK HAD already arrived and were waiting at a table,
When I finally arrived in my neighborhood I only had fifteen minutes to spare before getting to the restaurant. I thought about just going straight to dinner, but I needed to feed my cat and my feet were screaming to be freed from the designer torture devices I had confined them in.
I ran upstairs to my third-floor, two-bedroom f lat, and went straight to the bathroom, then rushed into the living room, where I pressed the play button on my answering machine and sat down on the arm of my sofa as I began to unbuckle my strappy sandals.
“I know what you’re really up to, Sophie,” a voice began. I did a quick double take. The voice wasn’t normal. It didn’t even sound fully human. Someone had left a message on my machine using a voice synthesizer.
“You know what they say, curiosity killed the cat,” the caller continued, “and that would be a shame…because I do…love…cats.”
And that was it. The whole message.
I looked down at the one shoe I still had on and tried to make sense of what I had just heard. “Curiosity killed the cat,” I repeated. Was that a death threat or a donation request from the SPCA?
Where was my cat?
My heart jumped to my throat. Where was Mr. Katz?
In a f lash I was on my feet, my gaze quickly moving from the window seat to the couch to the love seat. Not there. Not under the coffee table or under the dining table.
I opened my mouth to call out to him, but I was too scared to actually make a sound. He had to be here, he just had to be!
With one shoe still securely on my foot I hobbled into the kitchen. No Mr. Katz. Okay, no need to panic yet. He could be asleep in my bedroom, or in the guest room. I lived in a f lat, not a mansion. I just needed to check the other rooms.
But of course even that wasn’t necessary. If Mr. Katz was home and able to walk I could get him to come to me. I reached out and, after sending up a quick silent prayer, pressed down on the electric can opener.
I squeezed my eyes closed. “Give him to the count of ten, Sophie,” I whispered to myself. “One, two…”
I felt something soft against my ankles. I looked down at Mr. Katz, who was nuzzling me and swishing his tail in anticipation of his next meal.
“Oh, thank God!” I dropped to my knees and tried to scoop him up in my arms. He evaded me and jumped up on the counter instead. He cast one eager glance toward the can opener, then narrowed his kitty eyes and glared down at me accusingly.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I really do have wet food,” I assured him, my voice shaky with relief.
Mr. Katz didn’t look convinced.
I got up and pulled a can of Fancy Feast from the cupboard and waved it in front of him. “See, it’s all good. I have food and you’re here, safe and gluttonous as always. No need to freak.”
I emptied half the can into his food bowl and then hurried back to my bedroom to change into a cute but much more comfortable pair of Munros, conscious of the fact that my car could be towed any minute.
The call had been a prank. That’s all. Although, the last time I had gotten a prank call it had been a serial killer playing the joke….
But this was different. Serious psychos killed cats, they didn’t love them. Everybody knew that the best way to identify which child was most likely to grow up to be a serial killer was to figure out which one liked to torture animals (which didn’t bode well for my nephew, but that was a different issue). The point was, I had nothing to worry about.
I just wish the caller hadn’t known my name.
5
When it comes to men I prefer the strong silent type. The ones who speak annoy me.
—C’est La Mort
BY THE TIME I GOT TO MAX’S, MARY ANN, JOHNNY AND RICK HAD already arrived and were waiting at a table,
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