“Oh, God!” Harriet wailed. “I’m dying—this is the end for me! And just when I looked my absolute best!”
“You do look your absolute best,” Brutus said, nervously looking at Gran, hoping for some measure of reassurance from the old lady. None was forthcoming, though, for Gran had shifted into higher gear, and the car was hurtling along the road at breakneck speed, almost clipping a few pedestrians and even a couple of cyclists in the process.
“Just when my big break finally came,” Harriet lamented as she placed a paw to her brow and closed her eyes, “fate caught up with me. I was destined for greatness, but it simply was not to be. Promise me white roses, sweetness.”
“Plenty of white roses,” Brutus promised.
“And a funeral fit for royalty.”
“Absolutely,” Brutus said.
“Is she really dying, Max?” asked Dooley as Brutus took his mate’s paw and patted it consolingly.
“I doubt it, Dooley,” I said. “Harriet is one of those cats who will never die. She’s a diva, you see. And we all know that divas outlive us all, in spite of all the drama.” Or perhaps because of it. Ordinary folk like you and me keep all that drama inside, while the Harriets of this world let it spill out at every available opportunity, transferring the bulk of their tragedy onto the shoulders of others.
We finally arrived at Vena’s, and lucky for us, there was no one in the waiting room, so we were ushered straight into the doctor’s main office, where she patiently awaited us, a sardonic smile on her face. You can say about Vena what you will—and I know that in the past I’ve called her a vicious butcher, a cruel sadist and a cat’s worst nightmare—but the woman always keeps her cool.
“So what do we have here?” she asked now as Gran hoisted Harriet onto the operating table and Vena moved in to take a closer look at that suspicious spot.
“It’s cancer, isn’t it?” asked Harriet nervously. “How long do I have? Weeks? Days? HOURS?!”
And then the most amazing thing happened. Vena frowned as she studied the spot, then performed a sort of flicking motion with her index finger, and said,“There. All gone.”
We exchanged puzzled and confused glances.
“All gone? What do you mean, all gone?” Gran demanded.
“Just a bit of dried food,” Vena explained. She gave Harriet an admonishing wag of her finger. “Looks like someone hasn’t been grooming herself as thoroughly as she could have, mh?” She then directed a critical look at Gran. “And looks like some pet parent hasn’t been conscious of their basic duty of care.”
For once in her life Gran actually managed to look sheepish and apologetic.“I had a busy day,” she said. “So when Harriet told me she had a suspicious spot, I didn’t look any further but bundled her into the car and drove straight here.”
“Harriet ‘told’ you this, did she?” said Vena with a slight smile.
“Well, I mean she didn’t actually ‘tell’ me, of course,” said Gran, grinning nervously. “But… well, you know what I mean.”
“I do know what you mean,” said Vena with a wink at the old lady. “And now that you’re here, I think it’s best if I take a closer look at the entire clowder.”
And so, all because Harriet hadn’t bothered to lick her nose after her most recent meal, we were all subjected to Vena’s obnoxious prods and pokes!
Life isn’t fair sometimes. It really is not!
CHAPTER 16
[Êàðòèíêà: img_2]
To say that Tex had lived through better days would be an understatement. Even though he’d managed to collect every last one of his letters, and had even offered them to Marge with the original ribbon wrapped around them in a nice bow, Marge had refused the present with untypical coolness.
And so it was that the good doctor sat in the kitchen, drowning his sorrow with a glass of apple juice, when Vesta walked in and found him like that.
Since she’d had to corral four cats through a thorough medical examination—never their favorite pastime—and had had to accept defeat at work that day, suffice it to say she wasn’t feeling like some Florence Nightingale of old. Still, the moment she caught sight of her son-in-law’s sad face, her mother’s heart bled.
“Don’t tell me you’ve got cancer, too,” were her first words as she started making herself a cup of hot chamomile tea—a habit before retiring for the night.
Tex looked up.“Cancer? Who’s got cancer?”
“Harriet thought she had skin cancer. Turns out it was a piece of dried food stuck to her nose.” She shook her head. “If all cancers were as easily removed as hers, our work at the doctor’s office would be a lot easier.”
“Marge refused to take back my letters,” said Tex sadly. He gestured to the little pile on the kitchen table.
“So you got them all back, did you?” said Vesta, picking up the collection and idly rifling through it.
“I did. Took me all afternoon, but I finally managed.” He sighed deeply. “I’ll never be able to face these people again. Even Ted Trapper stopped me in the street to tell me how much he admired my penmanship. And if I’d considered publishing my letters. Said they’d be a big hit in certain circles.”
“What circles? What is he talking about?”
“He says a lot of guys have trouble expressing their feelings to their prospective girlfriends, and my letters would be a great primer on the subject. His exact words were, ‘There’s gold in them thar hills, Poole!’”
Vesta grinned as she poured hot water from the kettle into her favorite‘Greatest Grandma in the World’ cup. It was the same cup Odelia had gifted her many years ago, when she was just a little girl. Vesta took great care of that cup, and didn’t let anyone else touch it. “Maybe he’s right,” she said. “Maybe there is gold in them thar hills. Good old-fashioned love letters may have gone out of fashion in this day and age of tweets and texts and WhatsApp, but I still think there’s nothing more romantic for a girl than receiving a long letter from a boy.”
“I guess,” said Tex, but clearly his head wasn’t in monetizing his letters, but in reconciling the girl he’d written them for in the first place—many years ago.
“Look, if you want to show how sorry you are, and get Marge to forgive you,” said Vesta, as she took a seat at the kitchen table, “you need to do something more than simply return those letters to her. You need to wow her, buddy. Show her how much you still care—you do still care about my daughter, don’t you?”
“Of course I do! Even after twenty-five years Marge is still the only one for me.”
“I believe you,” said Vesta. “But it’s not enough to say it. You have to show it. Make her feel your affection. And the best way to do that is by—”
“Buying her dinner? Giving her a foot rub?”
“—saying it with—”
“Diamonds? Lingerie?”
“—flowers!”
Tex stared at her.“Flowers?” he asked, as if the concept was alien to him.
“Buy Marge a nice bouquet of flowers. Or better yet, buy her several. You’ll see how she’ll perk right up.”
“Is that so?” said Tex. If anyone had perked up, it was him. Clearly the notion of not having to splurge on diamonds or lingerie appealed to his tightwad nature.
“You do know what Marge’s favorite flowers are, don’t you?”
“Um…”
“Oh, Tex. How long have you known my daughter?”
He gave her a sheepish look.“Long enough to know what kind of flowers she likes?”
“Roses, Tex. Especially the pink variety. So if Marge were to arrive home from work tomorrow, and find her house festooned with roses in every shade of pink, I think she’d forgive you that silliness with those letters of yours in a heartbeat.”
Which actually gave her an idea. If she could figure out what kind of flower Natalie Ferrara liked, and whisper the idea in Tom Mitchell’s ear…