When a Cat Leaves You a Present, Decline

This week? I'll be working on my new book.

While I do, Monday through Thursday will be dedicated to Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) and Dolly Gee Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers. Friday, of course, will be the continuation and second-to-the-last installment in our serialization regarding one-time neighbors, the Beverage-y Hillbillies.



As I expected it would, yesterday’s post about Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) caught not only her eye but the eye of our little self-grooming hot-water bottle of a cat, Dolly Gee Squeakers (formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers).

Dolly Gee, aka, Here Kitty Kitty, aka Holy Crap Grab the Door Here Comes the Cat! came to us via the Humane Society. She is what appears to be a long-haired Siamese of some sort, a beautiful animal with stunningly crossed eyes.

“We think she’s about a year old,” said the woman at the Humane Society. “Of course, her eyes are a bit crossed, and she can’t seem to jump beyond, well, beyond standing on all four feet. And she does appear to have some sort of periodontal disease…” The woman paused. “She was dropped off in our night deposit box just two days ago, you know.”

As an aside, did you know you could do that? Drop an animal off via a night deposit box?

And four teeth? Well, what’s a little gingivitis amongst us beauties, eh? Perhaps she’ll grow some new ones. What do I know?

At any rate, she was just too beautiful, we thought, too friendly, too perfectly suited, size-wise. She’ll be a lovely companion to Ms. Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys).

And that was our theory.

In reality the two detected deep flaws in each other immediately. Words were exchanged, claws exposed. Dolly lobbed the first insult, derisively labeling Liza Bean an “indoor feeeee-line”. Liza Bean retorted by describing Dolly in such detail and with such vehemence that all I can recall are the words “polyester-pantsuited alley roamer”.

Liza Bean responded to the new arrival by perching herself atop Willie’s head for the next six weeks.

Dolly Gee responded by eating enough to triple her size in half that time.

How she managed to do that with four teeth, I have no idea.

And now, of course, Dolly Gee has seen yesterday’s post, knows that Liza Bean and I went out for a couple of drinks.

Look. I’d have taken her, but if you think Liza Bean can’t hold her liquor, you should see Dolly. Dolly’s got the morals of, well, a cat; and after a couple beers she’s up on tables, dancing suggestively, eventually disappearing with some Tom only to re-appear in the morning, looking sheepish and then drinking all the Fresca in the house as she nurses her hangover.

It’s embarrassing.

Liza Bean is furious with me.

“Running out of material?” she purrs viciously. “Needing to write about lunch with friends now, are you?” She narrows her bright green eyes at me. “Do you know what I deal with, every day, while you’re out, doing God knows what…”

“I hardly think that going to work constitutes God knows –“

Liza Bean is not to be dissuaded. “It’s horrible. Horrible. She sits there in those Daisy Duke shorts, humming entire Disney soundtracks – do you know she uses your eyeliner? Well she does. I have other places to go, you know. I don’t have to stay here.”

She lights a Virginia Slims – in the house! – and exhales toward the window.

I promise her I will take care of it, that I’ll find a discreet way to talk to Dolly Gee Squeakers (of the Humane Society Squeakers) about the sanctity of a peaceful home life.

“Well see that you do,” Liza Bean demurrs.

There is a brief pause.

“Frankly,” she says – and is that contriteness I hear in her voice? – “I didn’t think this conversation would go as well as it has. Hmm.” She pauses, visibly runs several thoughts through her head before dismissing them all.

She shrugs, takes a drag off her cigarette, then grinds it into the ashtray. She blows a smoke ring toward the window. “You might want to check the inside of your shoes before you go running out the door tonight.”

I cock my head at her in anticipation.

She shrugs again. “I left a little something in one of them for you.”

“Not the new ones!”

She closes her eyes, dismissing me. “The same.”

And with that, Liza Bean Bitey (of the Minneapolis Biteys) jumps down and trots over to the couch, where she curls up into a ball and falls asleep.