of the advantages of being a cat is that we usually find a way around this. Stevie’s next words were a testament to that.
“Follow me,” he said, with a roguish glint in his eye.
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said. We were in Stevie’s lair now, and even though I had my doubts about my new partner’s intelligence, he wouldn’t be much of a cat if he didn’t now the ins and outs of his own place. He led me up a creaking staircase covered with a worn-out oriental runner. On the landing he disappeared into a bathroom that had also seen better days and hopped onto the toilet seat. From there he took a quick leap and disappeared into an opening in the wall where once a vent had been.
“Are you coming?” his voice echoed from inside the wall.
“Yup,” I said, and in two bounds I had joined him. We were now inside the wood paneled wall and were heading South again. As I took in the sights—dust and mouse droppings—I asked him the one question that had been on the forefront on my mind. “Any good mice around here?”
“Nah,” he said, looking over his shoulder before taking a leap from one supporting beam to the next. “Sam’s a great Christian, or at least that’s what everyone tells me, but the part of his scripture about turning the other cheek, doesn’t seem to apply to mice. He’s managed to chase them all away by putting mousetraps everywhere. Word about these heavy-handed tactics spread fast—mouse to mouse so to speak—and pretty soon they stopped coming.”
I shook my weary head. This deplorable attitude towards members of the rodent population pained me and I said as much.
“I know,” he said, with a dejected twitch of his tail. “But what can you do? I rip open a garbage bag once in a while, but before the little buggers can catch a whiff of the stuff, Sam has fixed them with one of his traps. Ah, here we are.”
He slid gracefully through a small crack in the wall and we came out behind an old gas stove in the corner of what I assumed to be Father Sam’s famous study. Instantly Stevie hopped up onto an outsized desk taking up most of the space, and I took a closer look at that wastepaper basket Stevie had been telling me so much about. The one with all the discarded drafts of his sermon.
“Nothing here,” said Stevie from his perch on top of the desk. In the meantime I was having better luck sorting through Sam’s trash. I had smoothed out a few of his crumpled drafts and my eye had spied the magic word not once but dozens of times on every page: Bluebell was pretty much ubiquitous. I read the first sentence aloud—yes, cats can read. You didn’t know that, did you?
“Oh, my love. I yearn for you with every fiber of my being. I lust for you with every corpuscle in my body. I long to hold you in my arms and hug you, caress you, kiss you, love you with every—”
“Please,” said Stevie, holding up a paw. “If you don’t want a mess on the carpet better stop it right there.” He made a gagging sound and I saw what he meant. It was pretty soppy stuff.
“Um…” I hesitated to clothe my next thought into words. “Are you sure this is the draft of a sermon?”
“Of course it is. Sam doesn’t work on anything else. He’s devoted to his flock.”
I pursed my lips. I’d heard of a priest’s devotion to his parishioners before, but this was really taking things to the next level. I tried to break it gently. “Sounds to me like a love letter, Steve.”
Stevie let out an agonized wail. “So it is true after all! The silly goop has gone and fallen in love with some ghastly female. I knew it!”
I didn’t know what to say. “Tough luck,” I finally managed to mumble, and put a comforting paw on Stevie’s back. I sympathized with the poor sod, having gone through the same horrifying experience many times myself. In fact every time Zack falls in love—once a month, like clockwork—I fret and worry until the danger passes. Luckily so far it always has, but one never knows
“Follow me,” he said, with a roguish glint in his eye.
“Aye, aye, sir,” I said. We were in Stevie’s lair now, and even though I had my doubts about my new partner’s intelligence, he wouldn’t be much of a cat if he didn’t now the ins and outs of his own place. He led me up a creaking staircase covered with a worn-out oriental runner. On the landing he disappeared into a bathroom that had also seen better days and hopped onto the toilet seat. From there he took a quick leap and disappeared into an opening in the wall where once a vent had been.
“Are you coming?” his voice echoed from inside the wall.
“Yup,” I said, and in two bounds I had joined him. We were now inside the wood paneled wall and were heading South again. As I took in the sights—dust and mouse droppings—I asked him the one question that had been on the forefront on my mind. “Any good mice around here?”
“Nah,” he said, looking over his shoulder before taking a leap from one supporting beam to the next. “Sam’s a great Christian, or at least that’s what everyone tells me, but the part of his scripture about turning the other cheek, doesn’t seem to apply to mice. He’s managed to chase them all away by putting mousetraps everywhere. Word about these heavy-handed tactics spread fast—mouse to mouse so to speak—and pretty soon they stopped coming.”
I shook my weary head. This deplorable attitude towards members of the rodent population pained me and I said as much.
“I know,” he said, with a dejected twitch of his tail. “But what can you do? I rip open a garbage bag once in a while, but before the little buggers can catch a whiff of the stuff, Sam has fixed them with one of his traps. Ah, here we are.”
He slid gracefully through a small crack in the wall and we came out behind an old gas stove in the corner of what I assumed to be Father Sam’s famous study. Instantly Stevie hopped up onto an outsized desk taking up most of the space, and I took a closer look at that wastepaper basket Stevie had been telling me so much about. The one with all the discarded drafts of his sermon.
“Nothing here,” said Stevie from his perch on top of the desk. In the meantime I was having better luck sorting through Sam’s trash. I had smoothed out a few of his crumpled drafts and my eye had spied the magic word not once but dozens of times on every page: Bluebell was pretty much ubiquitous. I read the first sentence aloud—yes, cats can read. You didn’t know that, did you?
“Oh, my love. I yearn for you with every fiber of my being. I lust for you with every corpuscle in my body. I long to hold you in my arms and hug you, caress you, kiss you, love you with every—”
“Please,” said Stevie, holding up a paw. “If you don’t want a mess on the carpet better stop it right there.” He made a gagging sound and I saw what he meant. It was pretty soppy stuff.
“Um…” I hesitated to clothe my next thought into words. “Are you sure this is the draft of a sermon?”
“Of course it is. Sam doesn’t work on anything else. He’s devoted to his flock.”
I pursed my lips. I’d heard of a priest’s devotion to his parishioners before, but this was really taking things to the next level. I tried to break it gently. “Sounds to me like a love letter, Steve.”
Stevie let out an agonized wail. “So it is true after all! The silly goop has gone and fallen in love with some ghastly female. I knew it!”
I didn’t know what to say. “Tough luck,” I finally managed to mumble, and put a comforting paw on Stevie’s back. I sympathized with the poor sod, having gone through the same horrifying experience many times myself. In fact every time Zack falls in love—once a month, like clockwork—I fret and worry until the danger passes. Luckily so far it always has, but one never knows
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