Skeeter: A Cat Tale by Anne L. Watson

Author:Anne L. Watson [Watson, Anne L.]
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Novels
Publisher: Shepard Publications
Published: 2009-11-11T16:00:00+00:00

Love,

Lynne

February 5, 2000

Dear Angie,

Thanks for calling this morning. It was great to talk to you. Sorry about the ruckus in the background. It was Skeeter, of course. He resents it when I talk on the phone.

For a few minutes he waits, shifting from foot to foot like a kid. He has four feet to alternate among, though, so his performance is more interesting than any human’s could possibly be. Eventually, he starts to chew the handset cord or, if I’m on the cordless, my arm. If that doesn’t work, he runs around and caterwauls.

Sometimes he even puts his foot on the button and hangs the phone up. It looks deliberate to me. He may want me to get off the phone and pay attention to him, but it’s also possible he wants to make a call.

I’ve had some experience with people wanting to use my phone, and I know how demanding they can be. When I was married, my husband, Allen, and I lived in a two-flat building in Baton Rouge. At least, it was supposed to be a two-flat. It had a third, bootleg unit tacked onto the back—probably a former service porch. Now it was a tiny bachelor apartment.

The girls in the bootleg apartment lived a bohemian life. They didn’t bother me much, except having no telephone of their own, they often asked to borrow ours. This irritated me, not only because of the intrusion, but also because Allen all too obviously encouraged it—these girls were cute.

But even Allen was irritated one cold midnight when a knocking at the door roused us. He answered it and was confronted by an enraged older man.

“Where’s my daughter?” the guy yelled.

Allen stared at him blankly. “Who?”

“Cynthia, my daughter! Where is she?” His voice boomed in the stillness of the sleeping neighborhood. He crowded the doorway, seemingly about to push his way in.

Allen was bewildered. Cynthia? Oh, one of the girls in the bachelor apartment. He sent the man back there, locked the door, and returned to bed. We laughed with relief and went back to sleep.

About an hour later, an even more insistent knocking woke us again. Allen went to the door. It wasn’t the father this time—it was a shivering young man wearing nothing but a pair of cutoff jeans. He asked to come in and use the phone.

“What’s going on?” said Allen. Since he wasn’t talking to a cute girl, Allen had some inkling he was being imposed on.

“Cynthia’s father came and beat on the door,” said the boy. “I was there, so I pulled on my cutoffs and hid in the closet behind some clothes.”

“So?” Allen still didn’t see why the boy had knocked on our door.

“They got into a big argument. The old guy yelled: ‘We’re goin’ back to Tennessee, Cynthia!’ Then he jerked open the closet door and grabbed the clothes. There I was, hunkered on the floor.”

“What did you say?” asked Allen.

“What was there to say? I jumped out and ran. I guess she’s going back to Tennessee.

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