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Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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open the front door.
“Or better yet, a Monty monitor,” I added testily.
Before I had a chance to complain about yet another contraband key, Monty pushed a large bulky contraption through the entrance. His fingers were wrapped around the handle of what appeared to be a child’s stroller.
The device had three rubber wheels arranged in a tricyclestyle formation that supported a carriage constructed out of metal tubing and green nylon fabric. The passenger seating area was deep and wide enough to easily accommodate two toddler-sized children. The front and top portions of the carriage had been modified with a zippered net cover that kept the occupants secured inside while providing a window for them to see out.
“What do you think?” Monty asked smugly.
The wheels squealed against the wooden floor as he rolled the stroller back and forth in front of the cashier counter. He flicked a lever with his thumb, causing the wheels to screech to a sudden stop. “Nifty hand brake,” he said, his voice as slick as a used car salesman’s.
“What’s it—for?” I asked tentatively, although I suspected I already knew the answer.
“For the trip, of course,” Monty replied as he spun the stroller around in a tight circle to show me the opposite side.
A small plastic sign cut into the shape of a yellow triangle had been pinned to the carriage’s nylon fabric. The sign depicted a silhouette image of the heads and shoulders of two cats below a bold black-lettered message: CATS ON BOARD.
Monty’s face glowed with excitement as he pointed to the sign. “I call it the Cat-mobile .” He leaned over the top of the stroller and unzipped the net cover.
“Top-of-the-line model,” Monty boasted with a dramatic hand flourish. “Only the best for my feline friends.”
Rupert bounded up to the buggy and lifted himself onto his back haunches, sniffing loudly as he looked inside. After a few preparatory tail swishes, he jumped into the stroller. His back feet caught the edge of the netting, impeding his progress, but he eventually squirmed his way into the passenger compartment. A moment later, his head poked out the opening. With a furry grin on his face, he looked approvingly up at Monty.
I shook my head at the cat-modified carriage. “This will never work,” I protested, pointing to Isabella. Her tail bristled in offense as she glared at the stroller. “There’s no way we’ll get her in that thing.”
Isabella sent me a sharp rebuking look, even more deprecating than the one she had just issued the Cat-mobile. Monty stepped back as Isabella stiffly approached the buggy. Slowly, she circled the exterior, closely inspecting the wheels and the passenger compartment’s fabric covering. After a last icy glare at me, she issued a sharp chirp of warning to Rupert and leapt gracefully inside.
Reluctantly, I dropped the duffel on the floor and approached the stroller.
“They can’t spend the whole trip in there,” I said, putting my hands on my hips as I peered down at my cats. “They won’t be allowed inside the hotel.”
Monty pushed the cart forward, carving an arc around me. “I’ve got it all worked out. If we can’t sneak them into the rooms, they can sleep in the parking lot. There’s plenty of space in the van.”
THE VAN—RUPERT’S orange-tipped ears perked up at the reference. He poked his head out of the carriage and licked his lips hungrily. For several months now, Rupert had been convinced that the primary function of Monty’s cargo van was to transport not artwork—but fried chicken.
Rupert looked directly at his person and sent the clearest message he could muster.
“Take me to the chicken delivery van!”
An emphatic “ Wra-ooo!” was all she heard.
HAROLD WOMBLER HOBBLED down Jackson Street toward the white cargo van parked against the curb alongside the red brick front of the Green Vase antiques shop. The threadbare fabric of the contractor’s overalls hung limply from
“Or better yet, a Monty monitor,” I added testily.
Before I had a chance to complain about yet another contraband key, Monty pushed a large bulky contraption through the entrance. His fingers were wrapped around the handle of what appeared to be a child’s stroller.
The device had three rubber wheels arranged in a tricyclestyle formation that supported a carriage constructed out of metal tubing and green nylon fabric. The passenger seating area was deep and wide enough to easily accommodate two toddler-sized children. The front and top portions of the carriage had been modified with a zippered net cover that kept the occupants secured inside while providing a window for them to see out.
“What do you think?” Monty asked smugly.
The wheels squealed against the wooden floor as he rolled the stroller back and forth in front of the cashier counter. He flicked a lever with his thumb, causing the wheels to screech to a sudden stop. “Nifty hand brake,” he said, his voice as slick as a used car salesman’s.
“What’s it—for?” I asked tentatively, although I suspected I already knew the answer.
“For the trip, of course,” Monty replied as he spun the stroller around in a tight circle to show me the opposite side.
A small plastic sign cut into the shape of a yellow triangle had been pinned to the carriage’s nylon fabric. The sign depicted a silhouette image of the heads and shoulders of two cats below a bold black-lettered message: CATS ON BOARD.
Monty’s face glowed with excitement as he pointed to the sign. “I call it the Cat-mobile .” He leaned over the top of the stroller and unzipped the net cover.
“Top-of-the-line model,” Monty boasted with a dramatic hand flourish. “Only the best for my feline friends.”
Rupert bounded up to the buggy and lifted himself onto his back haunches, sniffing loudly as he looked inside. After a few preparatory tail swishes, he jumped into the stroller. His back feet caught the edge of the netting, impeding his progress, but he eventually squirmed his way into the passenger compartment. A moment later, his head poked out the opening. With a furry grin on his face, he looked approvingly up at Monty.
I shook my head at the cat-modified carriage. “This will never work,” I protested, pointing to Isabella. Her tail bristled in offense as she glared at the stroller. “There’s no way we’ll get her in that thing.”
Isabella sent me a sharp rebuking look, even more deprecating than the one she had just issued the Cat-mobile. Monty stepped back as Isabella stiffly approached the buggy. Slowly, she circled the exterior, closely inspecting the wheels and the passenger compartment’s fabric covering. After a last icy glare at me, she issued a sharp chirp of warning to Rupert and leapt gracefully inside.
Reluctantly, I dropped the duffel on the floor and approached the stroller.
“They can’t spend the whole trip in there,” I said, putting my hands on my hips as I peered down at my cats. “They won’t be allowed inside the hotel.”
Monty pushed the cart forward, carving an arc around me. “I’ve got it all worked out. If we can’t sneak them into the rooms, they can sleep in the parking lot. There’s plenty of space in the van.”
THE VAN—RUPERT’S orange-tipped ears perked up at the reference. He poked his head out of the carriage and licked his lips hungrily. For several months now, Rupert had been convinced that the primary function of Monty’s cargo van was to transport not artwork—but fried chicken.
Rupert looked directly at his person and sent the clearest message he could muster.
“Take me to the chicken delivery van!”
An emphatic “ Wra-ooo!” was all she heard.
HAROLD WOMBLER HOBBLED down Jackson Street toward the white cargo van parked against the curb alongside the red brick front of the Green Vase antiques shop. The threadbare fabric of the contractor’s overalls hung limply from
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