Catsby by Andrew Shaffer

Author:Andrew Shaffer [Shaffer, Andrew]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: 8th Circle Press

CHAPTER NINETEEN

After an hour in one of Catsby’s many bathrooms playing Angry Birds on my phone, I returned to the foyer. Catsby and Miley had taken their reunion elsewhere. I checked the dining room. Also empty. That’s when I heard laughter from one of the living rooms. I peaked into the room and found Miley and Catsby on separate ends of the couch. I’d been worried their reunion would be painful for one or both of them, and I’d have to mediate. They didn’t look up when I walked in. Neither of them was crying. A good sign.

“Ahem,” I said, making an obnoxious attempt to clear my throat.

Catsby whipped his head around. “Oh, hello, Old Spice.”

I motioned to the picture window, where a steady stream of sunshine was making its way in. “It’s finally stopped raining. Just thought I’d let you know.”

“You’re a regular ol’ weatherman, aren’t you, Dick?” Miley said.

“Indeed he is,” Catsby said jovially. His spirits seemed greatly improved. I’d never seen such a change in someone before. Although the frown was still on his face—it was a permanent feature of his fursuit, after all—he was positively radiant with good vibes. Miley was all smiles as well. If they could have a little bit of happiness, even for an afternoon, who was I to be a cockblock?

“I should leave,” I said.

“No—stay,” Catsby said. “Now that the storm has passed, we’ll all go out on my boat this afternoon.”

“You have a boat?” Miley asked, eyes wide.

“A yacht,” he said. “It’s parked out back. We can go ram some icebergs.”

“I hadn’t planned on dying today,” she said.

Catsby shrugged, as if he had prepared for this eventuality. “Then we can just drive it down the coast, anchor it in front of Chris Christie’s beach house, and knock some golfballs through his windows.”

We all agreed this sounded like a lovely way to spend the rest of the day. After lunch—Miley downed so many Long Island ice teas it was a miracle she could still stand—Catsby dragged me back to his master bedroom to find me something appropriate to wear. I was still in my open-backed hospital gown. Catsby was tired of looking at my ass every time I turned around.

Catsby disappeared into his walk-in closet, and returned twenty minutes later with a stack of polo shirts of every conceivable color under the sun (and a few colors only possible in other solar systems). He chucked them at me, one after another in rapid succession. I dodged the first two, but the third one caught me square in the face. The fourth hit me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. The fifth took me off my feet. I fell onto the bed, where Catsby continued to pile shirts on top of me.

“I can’t breathe!” I said, attempting to claw my way out of the pile.

Catsby extended a paw to me and pulled me to safety. “I was just trying to have a little fun with you, Old Spice. Sometimes I get a little carried away, is all.

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