By Liz McLeod
Still Your House Manager
“Id oo mama’s widoo baybee cat,” I oozed, skritching Miss Carol T. Cat’s furry cheek. “Ess ooo id!”
She glowered at me, from the comfortable living room chair where she reclined with dignity. Her ears tipped back ever so slightly.
“Id mama’s baybee kiddy wassum fooooood? Ess ooo does!”
Her eyes narrowed. “Cease that witless prattle at once,” she snapped, in a voice that sounds to the unfamiliar like the old Carlton Bridge raising on a winter afternoon. “If you mean to ask me if I wish to dine, the answer is of course in the affirmative.” She thumped off the chair and took two steps toward the kitchen before freezing in place. “That odor,” she demanded, turning to face me. “Identify its source.”
I shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. I knew I’d forgotten something.
“Well?” she asked, fixing me in a penetrating glare. “Your answer, please. My time is valuable.”
“I guess I forgot to – ah – I forgot…”
“My patience has a limit,” she interrupted. “I have determined the source of the aroma for myself. It would seem that my personal facilities have not been serviced according to our agreed-upon schedule. Is this an accurate conclusion?”
“Yeah,” I replied with a weak shrug. “I guess I forgot to clean your box.”
“Ah. You realize of course that this is unacceptable.”
“Well, I had other stuff to do.”
“Indeed? It is your view that other activities carry a higher priority than my own personal hygiene?”
“I was down at the Strand,” I countered. “I have a lot of work to do there.”
“Describe it,” she commanded.
“Well, you know,” I began, with a sad, wheedling tone to my voice, “ even though there’s nothing going on at the Strand in the way of shows, I still got a lot to do in the building. I have the popcorn kettle all dismantled for one thing so I can do a bunch of deferred maintenance that’s hard to do when you’re using it every day.”
“Popcorn?” she snorted. “You hew-mons and your fixation on idle snacking. Surely you realize that steam-extruded vegetable starch is hardly of any meaningful nutritive value. You should follow the feline example, and snack on small rodents, which serve as a complete source of healthy protein. But continue, explain to me why these activities are of greater importance than your duties here.”
“The more work I can get done there now,” I argued, “the better prepared we’ll be for when we reopen. And not only that, I did some work under the sinks, cleaning the drains, making sure all the lines feeding the soda fountain are secure, that there’s no unexpected leaks or anything. Do you know what a mess soda syrup can make if it leaks and there’s no one there to deal with it? That’s the spreadin’est stuff in the world. Ever hear of the Great Boston Molasses Flood of 1919? Soda syrup’s even worse!”
“As usual,” Miss Carol disdained, “you exaggerate.” She paused to nibble an imaginary speck from her flawlessly-groomed coat. “But I suppose that these tasks that you mention are of significant importance, since they relate to the ultimate source of our family income, and thus by extension to my own personal sustenance and comfort.”
“Thank you,” I murmured, my head bowed.
“But see to it that in future, your duties there do not interfere with your duties here.”
“I’ll reevaluate my priorities at once.”
“See that you do.” She turned, and approached her feeding bowl.
“Ridiculous fat barrel cat.”
“What was that?” She whirled around to confront me.
“Oh, nothing,” I assured her. “I was merely complimenting your distinctive physique.”
“As well you might,” she replied.
And I think I heard her purr.