Read Online How to Moon a Cat by Rebecca M. Hale - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rebecca M. Hale
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his bent arthritic frame. With each stilted step, the day’s sunny breeze rifled through the gaping holes that flapped at the garment’s knees.
Harold allowed himself the rare pleasure of a short smile. It takes a certain expertise to sculpt a pair of overalls into such a perfectly comfortable fit, he thought with pride.
An extra gust of wind whistled down the sidewalk, causing Harold’s loose pant legs to balloon out behind his bony frame.
“Proper ventilation,” Harold mused with satisfaction. “That’s the key. Makes you feel as if you’re not wearing anything at all.”
He grunted out loud. While the occasional nudist wouldn’t draw a raised eyebrow in some parts of the Bay Area, the well-heeled patrons of Jackson Square would certainly object if they caught sight of one here. Harold chuckled to himself, imagining the scene.
With a sly smirk, he turned to glance into the nearest highbrow antique store. The stiff-suited proprietor and his Prada-clad client stared back reproachfully. Harold continued down the street, adding an extra jiggle to his lurching gait for the watchers’ benefit.
Midway down the next block, he reached the van. He crept stealthily along the outside of the vehicle until he could peek over the hood to the front windows of the Green Vase.
A stringy long-legged man in green spandex leggings pranced back and forth in front of the cashier counter. It was difficult to see past the man’s flailing appendages, but he appeared to be pushing a large baby stroller around the showroom.
Feeling the ever-present drizzle of congestion seeping from his nose, Harold retreated behind the van and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief. He let loose a loud honking blow that filled the center of the cloth; then he stuffed it back into his overalls.
As Harold returned to his peeping position, he spied a woman with brown hair and thick-framed glasses standing near the front of the store. The woman faced the street, but her attention was focused on the stroller in front of the cashier counter. Her hands were planted defiantly on her hips. Harold could read the skepticism on the downward tilt of her face.
“Come on, Carmichael,” he grumbled bitterly. “It’s time to work your magic.”
Harold’s upper lip curled with disgust as he watched Monty turn the stroller in a giddy circle around the woman. The springing curlicue locks on the top of his head bounced in time to his over-energetic demonstration of the stroller’s cat-friendly features. Harold shook his head, grateful that he was on the opposite side of the glass, shielded from what was surely an ostentatious oration.
As Monty stepped back from the stroller, Harold knitted his eyebrows with concern. “Don’t back off now, nitwit,” he snarled. “Close the deal.”
Just then, Harold spied two pairs of orange-tipped ears poking out the top of the carriage.
“Well then,” he groused crankily as the expression on his wrinkled face began to soften. “About time.”
While Harold continued to monitor the scene, the pudgier male cat hungrily licked his lips, straightened his posture, and let loose a long howl. The female sitting in the stroller beside him pawed the air imploringly, her open mouth presumably sending convincing cat sounds to her owner.
Finally, the brown-haired woman threw her hands up in the air, as if submitting to what she knew to be a ridiculous proposal. Harold waited until he was certain the woman had agreed to bring her cats with her on the trip to Nevada City before turning to hobble back up the sidewalk.
A long, painful block later, Harold’s limping figure reached the spot where he’d parked his truck. With an impish wave to the antique dealer glaring furiously from inside the adjacent storefront, he pried open the driver’s side door and hefted himself into his rusted rig. After a last sarcastic grimace at the shopkeeper, Harold plugged the key into the ignition and chugged off down the street.
A block
Harold allowed himself the rare pleasure of a short smile. It takes a certain expertise to sculpt a pair of overalls into such a perfectly comfortable fit, he thought with pride.
An extra gust of wind whistled down the sidewalk, causing Harold’s loose pant legs to balloon out behind his bony frame.
“Proper ventilation,” Harold mused with satisfaction. “That’s the key. Makes you feel as if you’re not wearing anything at all.”
He grunted out loud. While the occasional nudist wouldn’t draw a raised eyebrow in some parts of the Bay Area, the well-heeled patrons of Jackson Square would certainly object if they caught sight of one here. Harold chuckled to himself, imagining the scene.
With a sly smirk, he turned to glance into the nearest highbrow antique store. The stiff-suited proprietor and his Prada-clad client stared back reproachfully. Harold continued down the street, adding an extra jiggle to his lurching gait for the watchers’ benefit.
Midway down the next block, he reached the van. He crept stealthily along the outside of the vehicle until he could peek over the hood to the front windows of the Green Vase.
A stringy long-legged man in green spandex leggings pranced back and forth in front of the cashier counter. It was difficult to see past the man’s flailing appendages, but he appeared to be pushing a large baby stroller around the showroom.
Feeling the ever-present drizzle of congestion seeping from his nose, Harold retreated behind the van and reached into a pocket for a handkerchief. He let loose a loud honking blow that filled the center of the cloth; then he stuffed it back into his overalls.
As Harold returned to his peeping position, he spied a woman with brown hair and thick-framed glasses standing near the front of the store. The woman faced the street, but her attention was focused on the stroller in front of the cashier counter. Her hands were planted defiantly on her hips. Harold could read the skepticism on the downward tilt of her face.
“Come on, Carmichael,” he grumbled bitterly. “It’s time to work your magic.”
Harold’s upper lip curled with disgust as he watched Monty turn the stroller in a giddy circle around the woman. The springing curlicue locks on the top of his head bounced in time to his over-energetic demonstration of the stroller’s cat-friendly features. Harold shook his head, grateful that he was on the opposite side of the glass, shielded from what was surely an ostentatious oration.
As Monty stepped back from the stroller, Harold knitted his eyebrows with concern. “Don’t back off now, nitwit,” he snarled. “Close the deal.”
Just then, Harold spied two pairs of orange-tipped ears poking out the top of the carriage.
“Well then,” he groused crankily as the expression on his wrinkled face began to soften. “About time.”
While Harold continued to monitor the scene, the pudgier male cat hungrily licked his lips, straightened his posture, and let loose a long howl. The female sitting in the stroller beside him pawed the air imploringly, her open mouth presumably sending convincing cat sounds to her owner.
Finally, the brown-haired woman threw her hands up in the air, as if submitting to what she knew to be a ridiculous proposal. Harold waited until he was certain the woman had agreed to bring her cats with her on the trip to Nevada City before turning to hobble back up the sidewalk.
A long, painful block later, Harold’s limping figure reached the spot where he’d parked his truck. With an impish wave to the antique dealer glaring furiously from inside the adjacent storefront, he pried open the driver’s side door and hefted himself into his rusted rig. After a last sarcastic grimace at the shopkeeper, Harold plugged the key into the ignition and chugged off down the street.
A block
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