“Right, right,” said Buster vaguely, then patted my bare belly. “Next time use some aftershave, Max. Takes the edge off.” And with these words, straight from an expert’s lips, he strolled off.
I glanced down at my belly, and saw that Buster was right: there was still a certain measure of razor burn, or, to be more exact, the scratch marks where I’d been shoved through that window. I sighed. The last couple of days had been really tough: I’d been booted through a window, almost drowned—thrice—been shat on by a crazy pigeon, and kicked out of Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory by its managing director or CEO.
“I hope Odelia disinfected those wounds, Max,” said Dooley now. “Wounds like that can get infected, and you can get sepsis and die.” He studied me carefully. “How are you feeling? Any headache or nausea? Dizziness? Feeling faint?”
“None of the above, Dooley,” I said with a laugh. “In fact I feel fine.”
“Mh,” he said dubiously, clearly not inclined to take my word for it. “I think you should go and see Vena,” he said finally.
“Vena!”
“You’ve been through a lot. You may have residual trauma. Even brain damage, for all we know. Just to be on the safe side Vena will have to do a CAT scan and make sure.”
“I’m not going to see Vena and I’m not having a CAT scan, Dooley. I promise you that I feel perfectly fine.”
“Mh,” he repeated, then placed his paw against my forehead. “You’re running a fever, Max,” he determined. “If I were you—”
“Look, I’m fine, buddy,” I said, shaking off his probing paw. “I promise you.” I glanced around and caught Brutus’s eye. He was looking at me intently, and now wandered over.
“How are you feeling, Max?” he asked solicitously.
“I’m fine,” I said.
His gaze dropped down to my midsection, only this time, instead of making fun of my sixteen-pack, he shook his head. “I don’t like the look of you, Max. Are you sure you’re fine? Sometimes these traumatic experiences tend to linger, and make their full impact felt much, much later. And I’m not just talking about the door incident—you practically drowned tonight, buddy.”
He placed a paw against my brow, earning himself a nod from Dooley.
I closed my eyes. This was starting to get a little ridiculous.
“You’re hot,” said Brutus. “I don’t like it, Max. I think you should go and see Vena.”
“I’m not going to see Vena!” I cried. “I’m fine, I’m telling you—fine!”
“Delirium,” said Dooley with a knowing nod. “I see it in trauma patients all the time.”
“How would you know anything about trauma patients!” I said, quickly losing my customary equanimity.
“You forget I’m an expert, Max,” said Dooley.
“Yeah, Dooley watches General Hospital,” Brutus chimed in. “He knows his stuff.”
Dooley was glancing around. “I just wish cats carried mobile phones. We really should call 911. Get you to a hospital.”
“I don’t want to go to a hospital! I don’t need to go to a hospital! I’m fine, I’m telling you—I feel just great!”
Harriet had now joined us, and was giving me the kind of look one gives a terminal patient who’s about to expire. And then she placed a paw to my brow. “A little hot,” she determined. “You’re running a fever, Max.”
“I am not running a fever!” I cried. “If I were running a fever would I do this?” And I performed a little jig in place, kicking up my paws and generally making a spectacle of myself. “Or this?” And I actually did a high jump combined with a high kick—Jackie Chan style—landing on my tush as I did. “Ouch,” I murmured.
More cats had gathered around to watch my little show, and all of them were murmuring words of concern about my health and well-being. The words ‘Vena’ and ‘death wish’ hummed through the air, and I was starting to feel more and more that I probably shouldn’t have come to cat choir after all.
Cats, in case you didn’t know, can be drama queens—even the males of the species—and it was clear to me now that they were loving this piece of real-life drama playing out right in front of their eyes. And the more I tried to convince them I was fine, the more they thought I was on the verge of death.
“Let’s take you home, Max,” said Dooley, gently placing his paw on my arm, like one would a recalcitrant patient in a mental hospital. “Nice and easy now. That’s it.”
“Get well soon, Max,” a voice rang out, and soon more cries of “Please don’t die, Max,” and “Hang in there, buddy,” echoed through the air.
And when Shanille came up to me, placed a paw on my shoulder, gave me a sad look, and said, “If you want cat choir to sing at your memorial service, Max, you’ve got it. And I’ll be sure to give you those last rites whenever you feel ready.” And then she clapped Harriet on the arm. “And Harriet here will sing a nice requiem. Won’t you, darling?”
“Absolutely,” said Harriet solemnly. “And Brutus can deliver the eulogy.”
And then they both gave me such a sad look that it kinda broke my spirit. It’s very hard to convince people you’re not dying when they’re all convinced that you are.
So I allowed Dooley to lead me away, and soon the hubbub of cat choir died away and it was just the two of us, walking side by side.
“Do you really think I’m dying, Dooley?” I finally asked.
“Try to stay positive, Max,” he said in response. “And trust Vena. She’s our last hope.”
“But—”
“Shush, Max. You need to save your strength.”
And so we walked on, and as we approached Harrington Street, all of a sudden there was a loud screeching sound overhead, and the next moment Moses had materialized out of the blue—or I should probably say the black, as it was a dark night—and attacked!
“Please don’t!” Dooley cried. “My friend here is sick and dying!”
“Good!” Moses yelled and came rocketing down at us at break-neck speed.
So we did what we usually do when large birds attack us from the sky: we ran for cover.
Lucky for us there were some hedgerows nearby, so we ducked underneath them, neatly thwarting Moses’s line of attack.
“Get out of there, you pussies!” the bird yelled. “Get out here where I can get you!”
“Fat chance!” I yelled back.
“Go away!” said Dooley. “I need to get my friend to a doctor. He’s dying, I tell you!”
“That’s the best news I’ve heard all week!” said Moses, and did something I hadn’t expected: he landed right in front of us, and came trotting up to where we were hiding.
And then he started picking at us with his big sharp beak!
“Ouch!” I said when he got me in the shoulder.
“You can’t do that!” said Dooley. “You can’t attack a dying cat!”
“Watch me,” said Moses, and gave me another peck on the head.
“Leave me alone!” I wailed, and suddenly remembered that I was actually a cat, and Moses was a bird, and that usually cats attack birds, not the other way around.
So I got out my claws and when next Moses lunged at me, I swiped at him and hit him on the beak!
“Hey, you can’t do that, cat!” he said. “No fair!”
“Be careful, Max!” said Dooley. “Don’t overexert yourself!”
But I suddenly didn’t feel weak at all. And instead of cowering underneath that hedge like a coward, I decided to fight back. The events of the past couple of days suddenly made me go a little berserk, and so I walked up to the bird, who must have seen that I meant business, and he actually reeled back!
“Come here, you big bird bully,” I growled. “Let me give you a lesson in humility.”
“Too late, Frank,” said Moses. “You ate my mother—you ate my brother—you ate my father—now you’re going to have to deal with me!” And he attacked!
“Wait—what did you just call me?”
“By your name, Frank,” said Moses. “Now taste my vengeance!”