Dolly “Gee” Squeakers, formerly of the Humane Society Squeakers, pyramid-shaped feline and cross-eyed beggar of soft, chewy treats, lies flat on her back in the center of the room, the world’s least seaworthy vessel.
Poor Dolly. Since betting – and losing – her rent money on the Orangemen in the NCAA Final Fourlast March, the albacore in her life, both actually and symbolically, has been thin.
And her hardscrabble upbringing will not allow her to accept what she feels she has not earned.
“Dolly.”
Flat on her back, she stares in the direction of the floor fan.
Dolly do love a good breeze.
“Dolly.”
“Hmm?” She turns her bright blue eyes toward me.
“You gotta stop this whole moping thing. Frankly, you’re getting on my nerves.”
Dolly stares at me, raises her eyebrows.
“I’m serious,” I say. “Cut it out.”
“Maybe I’m deprethed,” she says. Teased as a kitten for her lisp, it is rare that she speaks, preferring to “meow-meow” her communications instead.
“Maybe you’re a goofy cat with a gambling problem,” I say, not entirely sympathetically.
The cat smiles. “Wanna bet?”
I smile back. I love a cat with a sense of humor. “Maybe we could work something out.”
She cocks her head at me. I have her attention.
“I’m speaking at Metro State again in October.”
The cat blinks.
“My first book, I Was Raised to be A Lert, is being used as a text book at a college; and they’ve asked me to speak.”
Blink. Blink-blink.
"Remember? I spoke there last year."
Blink-blink-blink.
“I’m hoping, Dolly, that you can help me organize my notes. And in exchange for that, I can offer you a third of a can of albacore three times a week and a professional grooming upon successful completion of the project.”
The cat sits up, offers me her paw.
“Put 'er there, Pearl. You got yourthelf a thecretary.”