PART 3 - MOLLY & MILTY - In Love

Fred’s heavy-lidded eyes were shut. His double chin rested comfortably against the second button of his blue shirt. All I could think of was that his heavy breathing sounded very much like Milton’s raspy snoring and that sometimes, people, especially people with moustaches, don’t want to hear the truth. Which reminds me, Chester and Princess Gabby agree with me that those silly cat videos, all over the Internet, do not represent the feline intellect or our grit. Just hang out with a lost alley cat for a week.

 

I waited three weeks before rubbing up against Fred’s leg again, mostly because I had mixed feelings about this. I don’t want to give Milton all the credit, after all, he didn’t build it in the back kitchen door, but, since Fred had the doggie door installed for Milton, I’ve been able to use it, too. After all, it’s a door. There’s no sign saying: “NO CATS ALLOWED.” The great news is that because of the door, I’ve been able to reconnect with Chester and Princess Gabriella on the fake Tudor roof and hear some of the neighborhood buzz. The cats are still afraid of Milton and won’t rendezvous in the yard, which I’ve always considered to be a public animal space. 

 

“Fred, Fred,” I said, “I know this isn’t the most convenient time to approach you about Milton, but I think you should know something about Floppy Ears. Put down the lemon squeezer.” 

 

Of course, Fred didn’t. He loves dribbling lemon juice over his fried zucchini, but I knew he was listening. “Milton is hiding things,” I said. “Big and small things. I don’t think he knows the difference.” Finally, Fred looked over to me with a smile, his white mustache curling up at he edge of his lips and his blue eyes still sparkling even after so many months of crying over the passing of his wife, Miss Betty. “Haven’t you even noticed your missing a house slipper? It’s stuck in the snowy rose bush in the backyard. And, take a look and see if you can find the hot pad with the stitched windmill on it you and Miss Betty brought back from your trip to Europe. How could you forget? Of course, I didn’t go. You had me quartered at your sister’s house with that vicious cat Kaiser all the time you were on a deluxe vacation. Still the hotpad meant something to me just because Miss Betty used it all the time, including when she fried up that zucchini you like so much. And where is the  hotpad now?”

 

Fred blinked. “Where is the hotpad now?” He followed me straight out of the house, across the foot high snow into the tool shed. I poked my nose at the bottom of a rusty rake. Fred smiled, reached down and pulled out the hotpad. 

 

“I know what you’re going to say,” I quickly jumped in. “‘Milton had no idea of its sentimental value,’ but  I’m just sayin,’ it looks like Floppy Ears chewed on it, too.”

 

Fred did nothing, absolutely nothing to that dog. No limit on doggie treats. No outside playtime curfew. Nothing. Can you believe it? 

 

“He’s a rescue dog,” That’s all Fred said. “He was beaten and abused by the people he was with, so we’ve got to be very gentle with Milty.”

 

Okay, I kind of get it. Suffering is something we’ve got to address, especially in the animal world, so I give Fred props for his sensitivity. But I really wish he wouldn’t call him Milty. It sounds cuter than the big horsey dog he really is. I mean, someone’s got to be honest with Mr. Duparlo. That yowling at the door when he goes off to work drives me nuts. And guess what he said when I complained that Floppy Ears chews all his toys. I waited, with cat-like patience until Fred turned off the TV news before he grumbled, “It’s all rubbish.”

 

“Rubbish” was exactly my point. I seized the moment, leapt on to the arm of his chair, and vented. “I don’t want to be the negative one in this house but I’ve got to tell you that Milton is shedding hair all over the place.” I gave a quick glance to the Brown Mound of Hound (I sometimes call him that). He was sprawled on the couch, the black knob of his nose resting on a paw. I knew, even though I think he was looking straight at me −  sometimes it’s hard to tell because I think he’s cross-eyed - which I definitely think is genetic and  not the result of abuse. Anyway, I knew that I could speak about him in his presence because he doesn’t understand cat talk, let alone Cat-English. Fred is always shouting different commands and Floppy Ears just keeps jumping up and down as if he’s trying to catch a stick or a Frisbee. I was very matter-of-fact with Fred. “Dog hair is all over Miss Betty’s favorite wingback chair and I noticed a trail along the bedspread in the guest bedroom. You’re gonna lose Margarita, the cleaning lady, who, must I remind you, has been coming to the house way before I got here and was one of your wife’s favorite people.”

 

What do you think Fred did when I shared the hair complaint? He agreed with me. “Dogs shed hair. That’s part of their nature. Even you shed hair.”

 

I knew he might pull that trick so I was prepared. “Maybe a hair or two when I’m sitting in one place too long, but not bunches of hair you could make a mop out of!”

 

I saw him look over to Milton and wink. That really tweaked my whiskers. I went straight to the window, jumped up on the sill and watched the sun sink behind the blue and white house where I knew Princess Gabriella was dozing, unperturbed by a chocolate and white dappled hound that looked like he could knock over a hundred-year old Christmas tree or chew it into granola. I shuddered.