At first, she thought she might poison him. But with what? Rat poison? How to get him to eat it and how much? Antifreeze? Did they have any? If so, where and how would she feed it to him?
“What am I doing?” she asked herself. It seemed inconceivable that she, who adored cats, would be plotting to murder her own. But she had to, didn’t she? Otherwise, how could she live like this?
Could she take him for a ride? But how far? Surely, spindly, ugly, long-armed aliens would find it simple as two plus two to bring him back? She’d be alone in the house, and there’d be that awful thumping at the door, the sound of a zombie trying to break in.
Run him over with the car? Drop him from a high building? Can you go to jail for that? Probably so, if someone happened to see her do it.
The phone rang. It was Rhys. “I’m coming a day early,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind. You couldn’t possibly whip up that apple crisp of yours, could you?”
“Of course,” she muttered, and once off the phone, rubbed her hands in the manner of a cartoon villain while eyeing the cat who sat on the recliner placidly licking himself.
“To think,” she said, “of all the times I cuddled you and yapped away, that I cleaned your litter box, fed you, drove you through heavy traffic to the vet and back, and well… loved you! And all this time…”
She didn’t finish, because it hit her anew what he was and what was out there in the woods, the world, the sky, the universe. She sat down suddenly, as if she had fallen, stared into space, then got up and made herself a strong cup of coffee. For what she had to do, she needed fortification. Rhys would be there later that day. She had to make that damn apple crisp and something for dinner to boot. On the way back, she’d stop at the farmer’s market. A quick check out the back, and she saw Douglas carrying something into the workshop.
The city was an hour away. Quick work on her iPhone told her where to go; her GPS planned out the route. For once traffic was light, and she made good time.
“We’re a no-kill shelter,” said the attendant haughtily, “so I’m afraid we don’t have any room for more cats.”
“Well, too bad,” snapped Catherine, “because I can’t keep him and I have nowhere else to put him!”
She smacked down Brodsky’s carrier, turned on her heel and beelined out of there. Before the irate attendant reached the door after her, she was peeling out of the parking lot.
She worried that the woman might have taken down her license number, and then what would she tell Douglas when the police called? But was it illegal to insist on dropping off an animal at the shelter? Who knew? Her hands were shaking, and she dry swallowed a Xanax.
The tranquilizer had set in by the time she reached the farmer’s market, and the resulting apple crisp, squash bake and romaine salad, along with a nice pork roast she found in the freezer, more than pleased the billionaire’s appetite. A couple of bottles of Pinot Noir later, and Douglas and Rhys were mellow and merry.
But Catherine remained on edge. She waited, stomach in knots, for a thumping at the door… Brodsky returned, his eyes accusatory, mute as ever as he stored up information to report to his terrifying masters. Or at the very least, the cops to arrest her for animal cruelty.
But neither thumping nor cops ever materialized. Rhys’s trusted crew arrived the next evening to transport Douglas’s project to England and the day after that, they all left. An elated Douglas walked in the back door waving a check. He still had not noticed Bodsky’s absence, so high had been his excitement.
“Pack your bags, woman! We’re heading for the Caribbean! Don’t forget the sun block!”
She cleared her throat. “Um, I have reason to believe that Brodsky has taken off or something.” She hated to lie, did not lie to her husband… well, not before this.
Douglas stopped. “Oh. Well, I’m sure he’ll be back.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“He’s a weird cat.”
“Oh, you noticed?”
“Can’t put my finger on it,” said Douglas, “but not a regular type cat.”
He would never know that he’d been spied on. He would never know that anyone out there besides Rhys knew what humans could now do.
They adopted a dog from the shelter, not the one in the city, but the local county branch. A raggedy little thing, part Pomeranian, part only God knew what. Though it was a female, they named it Tesla. Unlike Brodsky, Tesla was quite free with oral expression and on occasion was heard to bark wildly at something in the woods. Whatever it was, she was not afraid of it. Tesla always came when called, and never once did Catherine feel that her loyalties lay elsewhere.
About Margaret Karmazin
