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

distance, I nudged it back to its original hiding place and went about my business.
 
    The morning of D-Day, I was up with the robins, scratching to get out. I dared not risk the possibility of missing Craig; I must be in place before he came out of his apartment. I retrieved the loaf of bread from behind the dumpster and dragged it, under the cover of the bushes skirting the foundation of the building, until I had Craig’s car in my sights.
    So far I’d been relatively immune to detection, but now I had to make my way through two rows of parked cars without exciting curiosity.  I waited until the coast was clear and set out across the expanse of concrete. I was exhausted already. Pulling half of one’s body weight with one’s teeth is no picnic.
    I had to pause several times in the shadow of cars to let human residents make their way to their cars unimpeded. I don’t think any of them noticed me. Such was not the case with Fred the Mastiff from 12B.
    Now, I know Fred, and he’s more bark than bite, but he—like most dogs—will eat anything, no matter how disgusting. He made some aggressive sniffs in my direction and was bounding over to investigate—no doubt with the intention of absconding with my rightful loaf—when his owner called him back.
    That’s the main reason I’ve never had any real respect for caninekind. They have no minds of their own. Humans refer to dogs such as Fred as being “well-trained”.  I think brainwashed is a more accurate assessment.
    Wi th Fred properly restrained and no longer a threat to life and property, I resumed my journey and finally reached the sanctuary of the underside of Craig’s car.
    Now for the trickiest part. The placement of the loaf of bread required finesse. Place it too far behind the wheel, and Craig was sure to spot it. Place it too close , and it would not create the proper verisimilitude when the moment of truth arrived.
    After a great deal of fussing—placing the loaf and standing back to look , moving it a little to the left and standing back, and moving it a little to the right again—I was finally satisfied with the placement. I retreated to the hood of Craig’s car for a little light grooming and a much-deserved rest.
    I must have dozed off, because the next thing I knew Craig was standing over me, speaking in th at treacly voice humans use with animals. I’ve never liked that voice, but it seems to be a universal trait amongst animal-lovers, so I’ve learned to be indulgent.
      The gist of Craig’s honeyed words was that I had to get off the car because he was late for work. I pretended not to understand. That’s the best way, I always think. No use in letting on that one fully comprehends every word they say.
    In the end , Craig lifted me down himself, tickled me under the chin and sent me on my way. I made a show of sauntering off in the direction of home.
    Craig got in his car and started up the engine. Unbeknownst to Craig, I had gone no farther than the car parked in the space to the right. I was lurking underneath, which gave me an unobstructed view during the moment of impact.
    The loaf of bread, as a realistic imitation of a feline body being struck by a car in motion, could not have been better. I waited until Craig had shut off the engine. Then I darted under his car. I flung myself against the back of his front passenger-side tire, obscuring the flattened loaf of bread as fully as possible, went limp and waited.
    I couldn’t see Craig, of course, with my eyes closed. But as soon as he caught sight of me, he employed one of Cat Hater’s favorite words. Normally not a practice I smile upon, but appropriate in this case.
    I let out a piteous moan, just to let him know I was still alive. Craig then used Cat Hater’s second favorite word. I let out another piteous moan and opened one eye halfway.
    Craig had his phone out. I could feel him messing with the tags hanging from my collar. It was all I could do to keep from smiling to