A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella Read Free Page A

laundry and propping up your sad little ego puts me in the mood? I’ll tell you one thing— ”
    We never got to find out what that one thing was, because My Lady picked up a porcelain figurine of a puppy in repose off the coffee table—tawdry and tasteless, I know, but don’t be too hard on her, we all have lapses in good judgment when it comes to matters of style and taste.
    “Yur gunna ####### throw that ####### puppy at me? I can’t believe yur actually gunna ####### throw that ####### puppy at me!”
    I don’t think My Lady had ever actually intended to hurl the porcelain puppy at Cat Hater. She’d certainly never thrown anything at anyone before, but there’s a first time for everything, so I took cover under the couch. My position under the couch severely hampered my powers of visual observation, so I had to rely on my ears. There was a brief period of heavy breathing—I think that was issuing from My Lady—followed by a snort and then the sounds of a hasty retreat. The door slammed, and I heard Ann go and turn the deadbolt.
    I emerged with caution. My Lady is a gentle soul, really, but one never can be too sure of how the most predictable of creatures will behave under extreme provocation. Abruptly, Ann threw herself onto the couch and started to sob.
    My Lady generally limits her crying jags to sedate sniffling and the dignified dabbing of the eyes with a neatly folded facial tissue. Sobbing was unprecedented, so I kept my distance and waited for her boiling emotions to return to a simmer before I attempted to render comfort and aid.
     
    I was worried . On one hand, a breakup appeared imminent. That was terrific. On the other, I was nowhere nearly prepared to substitute a suitable replacement. Craig and Ann had yet to meet in passing, as far as I could tell, and even if they had, that was not enough. Once they’d casually crossed paths even a few times, all hope would be lost. They’d be stuck in that stage where neighbors politely smile and wave, but never actually speak.
    Drastic action was called for, but I didn’t know what.
    The next several days were quiet. There was no sign of Cat Hater. Then, one early morning as I made my usual rounds to terrorize the local bird and rodent population—no good can come of letting lesser species get above themselves—it came to me.
    After I patrol the perimeter of the complex, I usually do a quick inspection of the parking lot. I have to exercise caution, because a large number of residents leave for work early in the morning. Craig is one of them.
    I loitered in a flowerbed, nibbling on a blade of grass, and watched as Craig came out of his apartment carrying a briefcase. Judging by the documents he leaves lying around, Craig is a lawyer. Surprising, I know. I’d always assumed that lawyers are the human equivalent of veterinarians—necessary evils, but not to be trusted.  
    It was the sight of Craig leaving for work, combined with my ruminations on lawyers and vets, which presented me with my Big Idea. It was brilliant, simple in its execution, and could not fail to produce the intended results. Unless, of course, I died in the process. But as they say, War is Hell.
    In preparation for the execution of my Big Idea, I abandoned my preemptive rodent control measures and nosed around the complex dumpster. Nasty places, dumpsters. Although from time to time one finds a tasty morsel worth a second look. I was not, however, looking to supplement my diet. What I needed was an expendable decoy. At first nothing presented itself. At least nothing that I had the capability of extracting from the dank recesses of the dumpster. Then, tucked behind the hulking receptacle, I found the perfect object, long abandoned and ripened to the perfect state of crusty staleness. 
    I tentatively tugged at the plastic bag cov ering the moldy loaf of bread. It was the perfect size and nicely hardened. After confirming that I would be capable of dragging its weight for the necessary