Timepiece
Chapter 16

Copyright© 2015 by Old Man with a Pen

Many Egyptian Mau cats are grey overall with plentiful symmetrical darker grey spots covering the body and appendages; Pyewacket is cream and bronze ... with enormous ears and a banded tail. Arabian Mau cats are sometimes similar. When Pye broadcast a vision of her romancer, he looked identical to the African Desert cat.

Dessert, please.

Dr. J laughed again.

“What?”

“What you said,” J said ... menacing with her shotgun.

“I didn’t say nuffin’” I said.

Look at his mouth, Janine.

“How did you do that?” While it was a question, it was an accusatory question. MY lips hadn’t moved.

I simply nodded at the cat.

“Oh No. You’re not doing that to me,” Dr. J said.

Pyewacket decided to rub it in, Dr. J. It’s not David or Wendy, it’s me. I did it in my head.

Janine spun ... the shotgun followed along behind... “Convince me,” she said, looking Pye in the eye.

Pyewacket: Tell me how I can do that.

Doctor J: Read my mind.

Pyewacket: You have to broadcast. I can’t just sneak in. Oh ... you just did.

“Shit!” Dr. J exclaimed, “She did it.”

I did not.

“Didn’t do what?”

Shit.

Janine lost it.

When she calm down, she had a sit with Pyewacket. I took a photograph. Dr. J is laid back in my recliner, her hand gently rubbing Pyewacket’s creamy unspotted belly. Pye’s rear-legs are crossed at the ankles and her front legs are deadbeetled under her chin.

She is smiling ... as close as a cat can smile.

The tip of her tail is windshield-wipering ... just the tip ... caressing the underside of Doctor J’s wrist. They are telling silent stories. Pye is silent ... Dr. J is extolling the virtues of the yet unborn kittens and Pye is eating it up.

Every now and again, the hand slows or stops, the tail speeds up with a firmer contact to the wrist. Dr. J gives a start and begins rubbing again.

Wendy and I were seated on the couch ... maybe not seated ... reclining ... and watching cat and human bonding.

We woke up to the smell of coffee. Dr. J is in the kitchen.

Pye is sleeping in the recliner.

This is okay.

At 64 days gestation ... it is NOT okay. Pyewacket has decided that the recliner is her birthing box. 64 ... no kitts... 65... 66... 67, nothing.

We call a vet.

“How many days?”

“68,” we said.

“Call me tomorrow.”

“What?” I said. “No aspirin?”

We called. He asked.

“Nothing.”

“What breed?”

“Egyptian,” we said.

“Gimme a minute.”

We did, the clatter of a dropped phone.

“Still here?”

“Yeah,” we said. “What’s the verdict, Doc?”

“73 days. Egyptians are different.”

“So ... we’re supposed to tell the lion in the recliner that she has to be patient?”

“That bad?”

“Worse,” I said. “The recliner may not survive.”

“Fix her a box,” and he proceeded to explain.

“Done, done and done. She won’t use it,” I said.

Pyewacket yowled! Wendy had just informed her of the extra days.

Sure ... it was a quality recliner ... leather ... not hide of Naugha. Real leather ... expensive ... shredded. The vet could hear her.

“I firmly believe cats know more than most people give them credit. Your wife just told her of the extra days?”

“Yup,” I said.

“Describe her condition?”

“Balloon on sharp toothpicks. She’s already leaking milk.”

“Do I know the cat?”

“Nope ... she is wary of vets.”

“Color and markings?”

When we got to the ears, he said, “Arabian Sand cat ... where did you get her?”

“She banged on my backdoor one rainy night ... never left.”

“Fed her, did ya?”

 
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