Read Online World without Cats by Bonham Richards - Free Book Online
Authors: Bonham Richards
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while she was away from the clinic. She hopped into the Porsche and headed for Lewis Road. Poor Dottie. So many of her friends think she’s a crackpot; she’s just a lonely widow. It’s her business if she wants to keep cats. I don’t know anyone who’s as kind, intelligent, and quick-witted. Sure, she’s eccentric … Vera switched to gas and headed for the nearby community of Somis.
The two women had met shortly after Vera set up her practice in Camarillo. Several of Dorothy’s cats had come down with enteritis. She’d driven into Camarillo, looking for a veterinarian who would make the trip to her home in Somis, north of the city. Vera, unlike many vets, often did make house calls. She agreed to drive over to Dottie’s after the woman pleaded with her, contending that she had too many cats to transport to the clinic. Three other vets had declined to make the trip. Vera drove to Somis the very next day.
Over time, Dorothy and Vera had become good friends. Occasionally, Dottie would invite her to dinner, and the two women would converse at length on a variety of topics, from cats to casseroles. Vera valued her companionship. She enjoyed the tasteful, rustically furnished living room. Sometimes Dorothy would play the harpsichord after the meal, and Vera would lean back in an antique bentwood rocker, close her eyes, and lose herself in the music.
Turning into the driveway, Vera saw that Dottie was waiting in front. The chubby, middle-aged woman manifested a pathetic aspect, standing there in her cotton-print dress. Her hands hung by her sides, a kerchief clutched in the right one. Her graying hair was unkempt, and her usually smiling eyes were puffed and red. The two women hugged.
Dorothy immediately burst into tears. “Oh, Vera, I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Well, Dottie,” Vera responded, assuming a brisk professional mien, “I’ll just have to take a look at the cats, won’t I?”
Accustomed to animals as she was, Vera nevertheless marveled at the profusion of felines as they went inside.. Vera made a quick, surreptitious count of twenty-two. She knew there were others in and around the house. The vet hardly noticed the musk-ammonia odor permeating the living room. Vera had once warned Dottie that she was probably in violation of laws prohibiting so many felines in one residence. Dottie had not seemed concerned.
They sat on the overstuffed sofa whose sides were frizzy from years of clawing. Beside Vera was a kitten pulling at the corner of an antimacassar while another looked on with interest. The once-fine handmade burl coffee table, legs scratched and clawed to bare wood, bore gilt-framed photographs of relatives. The largest was an eight-by-ten of Dorothy’s late husband, who had died of prostate cancer over twenty years ago.
One item of furniture which, except for its legs, showed little evidence of cat damage was the exquisite hand-painted harpsichord by the front window. Vera knew that, although Dorothy allowed her babies the run of the house and never punished them much when they climbed on chairs, tables, sofas, and the like, no cats were allowed to venture onto the harpsichord. A squirt of water from a spray bottle that Dorothy kept within reach was enough to keep most of them off the instrument.
Her husband Dave had given her the harpsichord on her thirty-third birthday. She’d taken lessons for three years from Madame Lubitzovna, who’d maintained a studio in the nearby town of Ojai. Building on her years of playing the piano, Dorothy learned to play quite well for an amateur. Vera recalled that, once, when Dottie was playing for her, a thin mongrel tabby accompanied the delicate music with a discordant yowl that both women found hilarious, if cacophonous. Dottie had named the singer Dietrich, after the German baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.
Vera noticed at once that many of the animals appeared lethargic. “All right, hon, I want you to tell me everything that
The two women had met shortly after Vera set up her practice in Camarillo. Several of Dorothy’s cats had come down with enteritis. She’d driven into Camarillo, looking for a veterinarian who would make the trip to her home in Somis, north of the city. Vera, unlike many vets, often did make house calls. She agreed to drive over to Dottie’s after the woman pleaded with her, contending that she had too many cats to transport to the clinic. Three other vets had declined to make the trip. Vera drove to Somis the very next day.
Over time, Dorothy and Vera had become good friends. Occasionally, Dottie would invite her to dinner, and the two women would converse at length on a variety of topics, from cats to casseroles. Vera valued her companionship. She enjoyed the tasteful, rustically furnished living room. Sometimes Dorothy would play the harpsichord after the meal, and Vera would lean back in an antique bentwood rocker, close her eyes, and lose herself in the music.
Turning into the driveway, Vera saw that Dottie was waiting in front. The chubby, middle-aged woman manifested a pathetic aspect, standing there in her cotton-print dress. Her hands hung by her sides, a kerchief clutched in the right one. Her graying hair was unkempt, and her usually smiling eyes were puffed and red. The two women hugged.
Dorothy immediately burst into tears. “Oh, Vera, I don’t understand what’s happening.”
“Well, Dottie,” Vera responded, assuming a brisk professional mien, “I’ll just have to take a look at the cats, won’t I?”
Accustomed to animals as she was, Vera nevertheless marveled at the profusion of felines as they went inside.. Vera made a quick, surreptitious count of twenty-two. She knew there were others in and around the house. The vet hardly noticed the musk-ammonia odor permeating the living room. Vera had once warned Dottie that she was probably in violation of laws prohibiting so many felines in one residence. Dottie had not seemed concerned.
They sat on the overstuffed sofa whose sides were frizzy from years of clawing. Beside Vera was a kitten pulling at the corner of an antimacassar while another looked on with interest. The once-fine handmade burl coffee table, legs scratched and clawed to bare wood, bore gilt-framed photographs of relatives. The largest was an eight-by-ten of Dorothy’s late husband, who had died of prostate cancer over twenty years ago.
One item of furniture which, except for its legs, showed little evidence of cat damage was the exquisite hand-painted harpsichord by the front window. Vera knew that, although Dorothy allowed her babies the run of the house and never punished them much when they climbed on chairs, tables, sofas, and the like, no cats were allowed to venture onto the harpsichord. A squirt of water from a spray bottle that Dorothy kept within reach was enough to keep most of them off the instrument.
Her husband Dave had given her the harpsichord on her thirty-third birthday. She’d taken lessons for three years from Madame Lubitzovna, who’d maintained a studio in the nearby town of Ojai. Building on her years of playing the piano, Dorothy learned to play quite well for an amateur. Vera recalled that, once, when Dottie was playing for her, a thin mongrel tabby accompanied the delicate music with a discordant yowl that both women found hilarious, if cacophonous. Dottie had named the singer Dietrich, after the German baritone Dietrich Fischer-Dieskau.
Vera noticed at once that many of the animals appeared lethargic. “All right, hon, I want you to tell me everything that
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