Molly & Milty - A Love Story (installment seven)

First stop, of course, was the family room off the kitchen. I pointed my nose toward the TV and pawed open a cabinet to show him board games and toys left over from years before when Fred and Betty’s son Bruce was small.  When I glanced back, Milty was staring out the window watching snowflakes fall. Even my “meow” didn’t change Milty’s focus. 

 

He was only a step behind when I entered the dining room. I made a graceful leap onto the table and immediately went to the silver candlestick holders. I figured that by now, having seen Fred eat at the kitchen table a ton of times, he knew what a table was for. I wanted Milty to see that this table with silver candlesticks was for special occasions. Sadly, he couldn’t see my point because he was under the table, woofing and gnawing on his leather bone. I was losing patience. I didn’t see a reason for going into the den since Milty had just about made it his second sleeping chamber, sprawled on the sofa or an armchair or lapping up whatever crumbs he found on the coffee table. Instead, with a sweet purr and jerk of my head I started for the laundry room. Milty dropped the bone from his mouth, crawled out from under the table and followed me. 

 

This was going to be a slam dunk. A basket of Fred’s dirty clothes was parked in one corner, a box of soap sat on top of the shiny white washer and a few rags hung from a rope over the big sink. When I looked over to Milty, he was pulling a flowery bed sheet with his teeth out of the room. That was it. He had paid absolutely no attention to the family room, the dining room and now the easiest mark of all, the laundry room. There was no point in taking him upstairs. I, frankly, was furious. I jumped off the dryer and streaked past him straight to the kitchen, barreled out the doggy door and tried too cool myself down in a big snow bank.

 

I was still ranting when Fred walked into the house, sneezing, coughing  and wiping his nose. “I tried!” I yelled, racing into the living room. “I tried to be a guide, I tried to be a friend, I tried to educate Milty to the functions of this fake Tudor house! He doesn’t learn, Fred. He just can’t stay on point!” Fred tossed his briefcase down on his chair and sneezed. “And look at you,” I said. “You’re sneezing, coughing, in the grips of walking pneumonia! Why?” I hurtled onto the couch to a more oratorical position. “Because you’re outside walking that hound in the middle of a winter storm! You don’t walk me. I dob’t have a leash with a collar around my neck! I don’t even have a jeweled collar, let me remind you. No sir. I’ve got a box, a nice, perfumed box in the laundry room. I’ve got brains enough to do my toilet business indoors. You don’t have to get a sunburned nose walking me in the summer or risk death taking me outdoors in the middle of an ice storm!”

 

“You’re getting overly dramatic again, Molly. Milton just needs time. You know he was abused.”

 

“I don’t want to hear that word again, Fred!” 

 

I was through trying to be a good sport.  When I told Chester and Gabriella the Princess, they couldn’t believe Milty’s indifference or Fred’s displeasure with me. I won’t say I sulked. Cats aren’t sulkers. I hate to say this, but, honestly, cats don’t have the attention span for sulking. But I stayed in the top compartment of my scratching tree for several days. 

 

Fortunately, Fred had decided to renovate the breakfast nook. He hired two workers to make the window looking out on the backyard larger, strip the old wallpaper and paint the walls a bright, cheery yellow. I would have gone with a mellower peach. But the good thing was that Milty was busy bothering the workers every day and I ddin’t have to deal with his drooling and gnawing and woofing. I wasn’t even jealous when one of the workers brought Milty a steak!

 

The only thing that bothered me now was that the winter nights came early. It was already dark when the workers left for the day and Fred still wasn’t home from work. He had installed a timer that turned on a living room lamp and a kitchen light but, still, it was ghostly. Milty didn’t seem to mind. When you’re under a table gnawing a leather bone, how much light do you need?

 

I was the one who saw the lamp chord fizz. I was the first to hear the hiss.

 

Then I saw sparks. 

 

Smoke was curling up from the floor. I started to blink. My nose twitched. I’m not what some people call a scaredy-cat, but I’m smart enough to know the signs of fire. Small yellow flames growing bigger were shooting across the rug towards the drapes. I started to yowl. My house, Miss Betty’s house she had put so much time and love into decorating, Fred’s house with a paid off mortgage was being threatened! The fake Tudor was going to go up in flames! I shot a look towards the living room arch. Milty had scampered into the room, probably attracted by my desperate yowls. He looked over to the leaping flames. “Do something!” I screeched. Milty spun around and charged from the room. “Scaredy-cat!” I yowled. “I knew you didn’t care about the house. You never gave a hoot about the rooms I showed you!”  I jumped from the Lazy Boy and leaped to the safety of a China cabinet. 

 

That’s when I saw Milty. He had the wire handle of one of the worker’s plastic buckets between his teeth. From my perch I could see it was filled with water. He lugged it step by step, dropped the bucket at the edge of the flames, and butted it over with his head. The water splashed across the flames. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes were fluttering. Milty raced from the room. Seconds later he was back. The second bucket was heavier. He was yanking it between his teeth, grunting with each step as he dragged it toward the fire. It was the bucket of sand he had been sniffing at when we went room by room through the house. He reached the flames just as they caught the bottom of the drapes. Again, he knocked the pail over smothering the flames, kicking the sand with his giant paws. He grabbed the base of the burning drape with his teeth and pulled it down into the soaking wet sand.

 

I saw him through the smoke. He was facing me, panting. Limping towards me on his burnt paws.

 

I told you I have a heart. It dropped a thousand miles.

 

I explained everything to Fred when he got home. I didn’t hold back on the tears in my eyes or my praise for Milty. “He’s my hero,” I whimpered. Fred listened but I could see his mind was on getting Milty to the vet. I wanted to go along. While they were gone, I sat like a statue in the front window waiting for them. Hours passed, in what seemed like endless moons, until they finally returned. Milty’s front paws were wrapped in white gauzy bandages. Fred cooked him a huge burger for his evening meal. Again, I wasn’t jealous. I would have cooked it for him and smothered it with a fancy cheese if I knew how to cook. 

 

That night, from my perch on the scratching post, I watched Milty circle his bed a hundred times on his bandaged paws before he flopped down. I waited until I heard his snoozing breath. Then I climbed down from my post and curled onto the plaid  covered bed with the star in the middle, beside my hero.

 

And to this day that’s the way Milty and I sleep each night. I still see Chester and Gabriella the Princess on the fake Tudor roof, but now I spend most of my time hanging out with Milty. I know Miss Betty would be very proud of me.

 

Like I said, I’m seven. Sages and even ordinary people think seven is a very lucky number. It only came once in this cat’s life. The year I met Milty.

 

 

END

“Molly and Milty – A Love Story”   installment 6

 

He didn’t even look up from his newspaper! I couldn’t really come back with another petty complaint, even though I wanted to tell him the absolutely, most disgusting thing I’d ever seen. More disgusting than dumpster diving, or drooling, or chewing up a sweet panda bear. I waited weeks until my emotions had settled. Then I struck. Fred had just poured his glass of wine, scooched into his Lazy Boy, and opened his newspaper to the sports section.  It was snowing lightly outside. I could see lights glowing in the windows of Gabriella’s house across the street.

 

“Fred, Fred?”

 

“Yes?” He lowered the newspaper so we could see eye to eye.

 

“It’s not easy for me to say this. But your loveable Milty is drinking from the toilet!” I blurted it out. In one ghastly howl I got it off my chest. I raced around the room in a circle, shouting, “Toilet! Toilet! Toilet!”

 

“He’s what?”

 

I was almost out of breath when I slid to a stop at his new burgundy slippers, repeating, “Drinking from the toilet!”

 

“Impossible, Molly. I always put the seat cover down. It’s habit. Betty insisted I do it.”

 

He was using the Miss Betty card again. but I wasn’t going for it this time. “Sweet Miss Betty passed away two years ago. You’ve been forgetting because she’s not here to remind you.”

 

He took a sip of wine and thought a minute. “You’re sure? You’ve seen Milty do it?”

 

“With my beautiful golden eyes. More than once.”

 

“Well, I’ll just have to be more mindful. Thank you for letting me know.”

 

Thank you! Fred took the blame! No punishment for Milty. No teaching moment or showing He-Can-Do-No-Wrong- Milty not to do such a disgusting thing. I jumped over the couch. He was spared the ax of justice once again.

 

I started to walk away. Just as I got to the hallway, I couldn’t hold back. “His barking scares the mailman,” I muttered.

 

Fred heard me from his leather chair. “Walter has delivered the mail to this house for almost a dozen years and he hasn’t complained once, either before we got Milty or since we took him in.”

 

“We?” I huffed. “Fred, I used to sit on the window sill and watch Walter come up the walk lugging that heavy leather bag. He always waved to me when he saw me in the window. Since you got Milty, Walter hurries up to the door, drops off the mail and marches back to his cart. No wave, no smile. The barking destroys his usually friendly nature.”

 

Fred seemed to understand what I was saying. He nodded. “I’ll leave a note on the door, explaining that Milty is a friendly giant. But listen to me,” he announced from across the living room. “You’ve got to be more friendly towards Milty. Make the first, first effort. That’s what building a friendship is about. Don’t forget. He’s a rescue dog. Sometime in his past he was totally ignored and treated very badly.”

 

I took his conciliatory tone as a gesture to bring me back into a conversation. “Right,” I said, as I waddled back across the carpet. “You’re saying I should be the adult in this situation. Take the lead. Show the pup how things are done in this house.” I felt for the first time Fred was giving me some responsibility and acknowledging that I was the senior member in the Duparlo household. 

 

I puffed my chest just slightly. “You know you can count on me, Fred.  We’ve got a history together. I was there when Miss Betty passed and I’m here again for you to see us through this crisis with Floppy Ear, I mean Drool Wagon, I mean Milty. That’s right. Milty.”

 

Fred stared at me and blinked. I didn’t wait for another word from his lips. I did one of my famous twirls, a kind of two-footed pirouette and streaked from the living room.

 

It was snowing when I called for an outside roof meeting with Chester and Gabriella the Princess. Milty doesn’t like the snow and was snoozing in the house. I explained the situation to my two feline friends. I had been selected to show Floppy Ears the ways of the house. He had been in all of the rooms. That was easy to see because his brown and white hair was everywhere, but Chester quickly pointed out, “He doesn’t know what any of the rooms mean.” Gabriella jingled her jeweled bells and agreed.  “Function,” she said. “He needs to know how the function of each room changes a hotel into a home.”

 

Hotel into a home….  I really liked that. Princess Gabriella always had a ways with meows.

 

Three days later it was still snowing and I was ready to start. I watched Fred reverse the car to the street and drive away. He had already taken Milty out for her morning walk. As usual when it snowed, Milty was snoozing in his bed. I playfully rubbed my nose against him, something I’d never done before. He blinked his eyes, rose on his front legs and opened his big yap with a yawn. I thought his tongue was going to hit the floor. I pushed a smile across my sweet lips, doing everything to show him I was being friendly. I kind of jerked my head to the side, turned and trotted to the kitchen door. When I looked back, Milty was sniffing at a pail of sand the workers had left. I jerked my head again. This time I heard his paws tapping against the linoleum behind me. Honestly, just about any mutt in the Animal Kingdom would have followed my cute sway.  

MOLLY & MILTY - The Love Story Cont. .. Installment 5

“We’ve talked about this, Molly.” Fred closed his briefcase and looked at me. “You can’t have certain treats. The doctor said you’ve got colitis. That’s why you take pills.” 

 

That ended my treats request, but don’t think I just swallowed that white pill without some consultation. On about the third day of taking it, I lodged the pill on the side of my mouth and hurried out to show Gaby in the back yard. She’s still very active, but she’s gone through a lot of medical procedures, herself. Sometimes we call her the clinic warrior. Anyway, she confirmed that the white pill was definitely for colitis. Fortunately, Milton wasn’t around, or he would have probably barked her off the fence and I would have choked on the pill. When Fred finally got home, I’d have to be rushed to the clinic and maybe, hopefully, been brought back from the dead. Okay, I’m getting dramatic again.

 

You’d think with summer ending and the cold autumn winds, Milty would want to stay more inside. But not Milty. He pushed the backyard gate open and raced out to the street. “I followed him, Fred, just to see what kind of mischief he could get into. What really grabbed my attention was Milty chasing cars and even a truck down our beautiful street. He was barking and even his half ear was flapping.” I jumped up on the arm of Fred’s chair, just to emphasize my point. “How dumb is that, Mr. Duparlo? The dog is chasing a car. I’ve taken a zillion rides in your car. I still remember Miss Betty cautioning you, ‘Not so fast, honey. You’re going sixty.’ Sixty Fred! You tell me what dog can run sixty miles an hour? He may as well be chasing the wind. Don’t you see? Along with all that drooling, there’s something wrong in his head. Like I said before, he has no sense of fundamental physics.”

 

What do you think Fred did? Scold Milty? Take away one of his toys or make a no treat day? No, all Fred did was fix the gate and buy a better lock. 

 

Then, a few days before Thanksgiving, Chester told me something that just about turned my white socks gray. He saw Milty going into one of those big green boxes in back of the gas station the next street over. Milty was actually able to wiggle himself up the side of the box – Chester called it a dumpster – and come jumping out with a half a hot dog in his mouth. The bun was sticking out from the corner of his mouth, like a yellow cigar. It was probably the mustard that did it. Anyway, I couldn’t wait to tell Fred. I thought this was a definite game changer.

 

“He’s a disease spreader, Fred. Who knows what he’ll pull out of the dumpster next? And it’s on your head. A disease that could spread across the whole world.”

 

“You’re getting dramatic again, Molly.” Fred stuffed some papers into his brown, leather briefcase, stamped F.C. in gold. 

 

“You’re living with a Dumpster Diver.” My voice was shaking.

 

“Do you expect me to believe all this nonsense about a dumpster and a yellow cigar?” Fred zipped up the briefcase and opened the front door. “I’m off to work. Instead of finding everything wrong with Milty, get to know him better. He’s smarter than you think, and he’s got a great sense of humor.” He shut the door. I raced to the front window and watched his foam green car pull down the driveway. My stomach turned just as green as his sedan.

 

Get to know her better? The thought stuck in my mind like a rap beat. Why would I want to get to know a drooling hound? 

 

Fred stayed out most of Thanksgiving day, having a big dinner with Miss Betty’s sister, her husband and their family. He brought home some very tasty treats. Personally, I love sweet potatoes and gravy. 

 

But when I complained to Fred that Milty was eating food off the table, something I definitely was not allowed to do, even when Miss Betty was still living. You know what Fred said? “That’s wrong. I’m glad you brought my attention to it. I’m probably giving him too much kibble and not enough wet food. Thank you for noticing this, Molly.”

 

Thank you! Thank you? My hair stood straight up. I didn’t want a ‘thank you’. I wanted action! Discipline! Punishment! I talked the whole thing over with Chester and Gabriella. We had a meeting in the yard when Milty was sleeping on the sofa. At least, we didn’t have to meet on the fake Tudor roof. “Fred isn’t thinking like a normal person, probably because the death of his wife is still affecting him,” Gabriella said. She nodded, very wisely. The jeweled bells on her collar jingled. 

 

I hate to sound petty but those jeweled bells kept me from thinking about what she had just said.  It wasn’t Gabriella’s fault. She had a perfect right to jingle her bells. But the first time she did it, when she got the fancy collar for Christmas, I immediately wanted one, too, and I wasn’t embarrassed to tell Fred. After all, every girl needs a little bling.

 

“The jingling will freak out Milty,” he said.

 

“But you just bought him a beautiful leather collar decorated with big silver studs, like stars. I’ve been wearing the same collar for six years!”

 

“Who gave you that collar, Molly?”

 

He went right for my heart. I almost whimpered, “Miss Betty.”

 

“Do you really want to replace that collar given to you by the woman who loved you with a glitzy store-bought collar? Molly, that’s your last memento from her.” 

 

“No,” I whimpered again. He had me pinned emotionally against the wall. “It’s just such a cute collar.”

 

“I know,” Fred said, staring down at his newspaper. “But cute will never replace love.”

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)

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. 

Molly & Milty continues... 

I just said losing Miss Betty was the saddest day of my life, that was until six weeks ago when a big, floppy dog bounded and barked his way into my fake Tudor house. Fred hadn’t given me a heads up, not one clue, like maybe a doggy dish next to the kitchen door or a leash draped over the back of a chair. That way I could have made a mental adjustment to the new arrival. Frankly, the dog has all but destroyed my peace and solitude. You simply can’t think when a beast is barking. Even worse, he’s scared away Princess Gabriella and Chester who used to visit me on the shingle roof and in our nicely trimmed backyard on summer days.

Fred has tried to convince me that, with Miss Betty’s passing, the house is empty all day and needs some kind of protection. What am I? I thought to myself. I’ve been protecting the fake Tudor house for the last two years.  Not one stranger has gotten past the front door. I’m a guard cat! And, if purrs come to paws, I have Princess Gabriella and Chester to back me up. 

 

Then Fred played the sympathy card. He told me that the dog – Milton, that’s his name – was a rescue dog. He’d been very badly treated by the people he’d lived with and lost part of his right ear and then he was left to wander the streets, until the Animal Rescue truck picked him up. 

 

I’ve got a heart. You’ll agree that his was definitely a sad story. Gaby and Chester had told me more than once of cruel animal owners mistreating their pets, doing all kinds of mean, thoughtless acts, like leaving a pet for hours in a locked car on a really hot day or flushing a turtle down the toilet to see if it could swim back up, but rescuing Milton was keeping me from some very peaceful afternoons dozing on the arm of the living room chair and hours of silence remembering Miss Betty.

 

I’ve just been watching Milton chew on a leather bone, toss it from his lips to the sofa, race to the sofa and grab the bone in his mouth and start chewing it again. To me, that’s taking a lot of energy to find the same bone that he had in his mouth in the first place. I’ll bet he doesn’t even know it’s a fake bone, just like he doesn’t know this house is a fake Tudor. What kind of protection is a dog like that going to give Fred’s house? 

 

Milton is bigger than the dog house Fred should have bought him. His head is even with the kitchen table. Every time he runs through the house, his brown ears droop and flap, even the one that’s partly missing. Don’t ask me what he’s chasing because I can’t see anything in front of his shiny black eyes. All I see is the blur of his spotted brown and white fur and all I hear is his big brown paws pounding the carpet and the polished hardwood floors that Miss Betty loved, and his gross panting that sounds like he’s trying to get a sock out of his throat.

 

That’s why, one summer night, without thinking too much, I hustled into the den and decided to wake up my real protector. He always dozes after dinner in his brown Lazy Boy chair. “Fred… Fred.” I did a purr-rub against his leg. “This is really important or I wouldn’t have awakened you. I’m not going to mention that all Milton does is toss a leather bone around the living room. I won’t waste your time with that, although, just as an aside, when was the last time you bought me a toy that didn’t have a bell on it?” I could see his eyes slowly closing again so I got right to the point. “Milton really doesn’t know what space means.  He wags his tail against the glass coffee table with all of Miss Betty’s beautiful candy dishes on it, which, by the way, have been empty for two years, and he races upstairs and runs in and out of the bathroom knocking over shampoo bottles and your shaving cream. I’ve been following him and he really has no agility. I’m just sayin,’ he has no sense of space.” I raised myself on my front paws and repeated, “No sense of space.”

 

 "Molly and Milty" will continue - Sunday, August 8, 2021, enjoy!