I Choo-Choo-Choose You! by Gwen Cooper

Author:Gwen Cooper [Cooper Gwen]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781946885838
Publisher: BenBella Books, Inc.

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Strict honesty compels me to say that there actually was one game Scarlett enjoyed playing with me—although describing it that way requires loose definitions of the words game, play, and with. The “game,” such as it was, consisted of Scarlett hiding behind a table leg, or underneath the couch or bed, and leaping out at me as I walked past. She’d hurl herself at my ankles, latching on with her teeth and front claws while her back claws kicked at me furiously, “bunny feet” style, until she drew blood, or I tripped and fell, or both.

I wore heels to work every day. I didn’t have the greatest balance in them, and I was always terrified when Scarlett jumped at me that a pointy heel might inadvertently puncture her head or vulnerable belly. In the process of trying to quickly shuffle my feet away from Scarlett and remain upright at the same time, it wasn’t at all unusual for me to end up tumbling to the ground, falling heavily against whatever piece of furniture Scarlett had just jumped out at me from. I bruised rather easily, and my arms, shoulders, and chest were soon spotted with incriminating black-and-blue marks.

It couldn’t really be said that Scarlett played this game of hers “with” me, because if I made any attempt to touch or even look at her, the game was immediately over, and off she’d run. And even describing it as “play” seems inapt, because Scarlett’s surprise attacks didn’t feel playful so much as . . . mean-spirited. How else could I describe it? Whenever I hit the tiled floor of our apartment with a loud “Oof!” I always sensed that Scarlett was enjoying a silent kitten laugh at my expense. It’s funny when humans fall down!

Still, I was pathetically pleased at receiving even this much attention from my otherwise aloof feline. Like her complaining, this was something else Scarlett did only with me—never with Jorge. Maybe it was true, I reflected (trying not to notice how desperately I was grasping at straws), that you only hurt the ones you love.

Things came to a head one day at work. The school-based community service program I ran was considered a crime prevention initiative, and our administrative space—located in a small office park in southwest Miami—had been donated by the Miami police department. Our next-door neighbor was the bomb squad, and I spent many a happy work break in our shared parking lot, watching as the puppies who were being trained to sniff out explosives bonded with their handlers.

On this particular day, I’d taken off my blazer in the heat of a broiling afternoon, and the sleeveless silk top I wore underneath left my battered arms bared. I didn’t really think about it until one of the bomb-squad officers I was friendly with—a six-foot-two wall of muscle named Eddie del Toro—followed me through reception and into my private office as I returned from lunch, closing the door behind him. Startled at this unprecedented behavior, I turned to face him with a question mark clearly written in my raised eyebrows.

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