Molly and Milty  (cont. - Part 4)

In the next few days, I tried my best to keep in mind that Milton was a rescue dog. I even started calling him Milty in my own head, but that always stopped when he drooled, you know, sort of like whitish clear bubbles running down the side of his mouth. Disgusting. Cats definitely don’t drool. That’s one of our significant pluses and that’s what I told Fred. I came right out after dinner.

“Cats don’t slobber, Fred. Milty does.”

Fred sort of smiled and tapped his pink finger, still sporting the gold wedding band, against the arm of his chair. I could see he was pleased I was using his endearing name for the hound, but that didn’t seem to change his opinions. I raced mindlessly – very difficult for cats who always have a thought in their head - from one end of the den and back to Fred. I was panting. “Sometime you’re going to have one of your friends over from the Rotary Club,” I screeched, “and he’s going to slip on drool on the hardwood floor and you’ll have a lawsuit on your hands. You’ll get sued, lose the house and I’ll wind up living in your foam green sedan with you and Floppy Dog. Is that what you want?”

Fred scoffed. “You’re being overly dramatic.”

Maybe I was that night. I had just seen a very pretty calico cat walking down the street by herself. I’m not being “overly dramatic” when I say that her steps reminded me of a dance I’d seen on Fred’s bedroom TV. The flat screen was filled with quick bows and rapid turns. Princes Gaby said I was watching a “tango.” Chester didn’t have an opinion. He never has an opinion about dances. Of course, when Miss Betty was still living, I always slept at the foot of the bed.

I’m not being jealous either. Maybe there is room for a dog in the house. But not a Milton dog. Gabriella was a rescue cat and she told me, as soon as we could get up on the fake Tudor roof and away from Floppy Ears, she told me while we were taking turns licking out an old yogurt carton, that there are small dogs at the shelter as well as big hounds like Milton. My point is that if Fred had brought home a smaller dog, he wouldn’t have had to bring home a bed for Milton that sprawls across the breakfast nook floor like a tugboat. Which reminds me, and this is something I spent a lot of times talking to Fred about: Why does Milton have to spend each night walking around his bed so many times. It’s always in the same place! “What’s he looking for? Why does he need a special bed anyway? Do I have a bed?”

“You have our bed.”

“Yes, when our dear beloved Miss Betty allowed me to sleep on it but now you close the bedroom door.”

“Because you jump on my head at three o’clock in the morning.”

“Sorry,” I said. “But things scare me deep in the night. The wind howls in the trees. Or the way you sometimes leave the closet door half open, and I see one of your suits hanging there that looks like a man. Or a car backfiring as it passes the house. Yes, I admit, those things make me jump. But I’m not trying to land on your head!”

It was clear we were having a little argument, not a cat-fight, just a mild disagreement, but I thought, as long as we were talking about cars, and Fred was sipping a glass of red wine, I might as well bring up another point.

“That doggie bed probably cost you a fortune, Fred. I remember when you brought it home. I was sitting in the garage on the nice warm hood of your car watching you try to pull the bed out of the back seat. I thought you were going to have to take the car door off.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Fred said. “You’re getting dramatic again.”

“I’m only using expressive language and images to make a point. You used to say to Miss Betty that politicians do this same thing all the time.”

I knew I wasn’t going to change Fred’s mind and that he would never tell me why Milty keeps circling a cushion looking for his bed, especially a bed that has a big silver star embroidered in the middle and is in the same place every night! Besides, Fred was opening his briefcase and I had something else on my mind, anyway. I passed Milty in the hall. He was chewing on a small stuffed bear, another present from Fred. Fred made it clear to me that it was someone in his office who heard about his new dog and bought Milty the present. Can you believe that? Yes or No? I can’t tell you the last time Fred bought me a toy. He always tells me that Miss Betty spoiled me, buying me all sorts of treats and toys. Maybe so, but I said very respectfully to Fred, as I twitched my whiskers, “Does that mean the treats have to stop? I’m still here. I’ve still got a heart.

(to be continued)