The Cat's Job Read Free Page B

strolled across the ice. When it reached the
steps, it neatly jumped over them, landing on the linoleum with a
solid thump.
    It stayed where it was for a second or
two, taking stock, Agnes thought, then stropped itself once against
her leg and moved deeper into the kitchen, bushy tail held
high.
    Agnes smiled, and shut the
door.
     
     
     

 
     
Feline Fancy
     
The Cat's Job
by Steve Miller
     
    "The cat's job is to be pretty!"
Sheila said with some asperity. "That's all a cat in my house has
to do. Purr once in awhile, let me touch it, and be pretty. What
more would you have a cat do?"
    Greg shook his head sadly. They'd only
moved in together three days ago and things had looked so bright.
This might not work out after all...
    "Well, for starters, I expect the cat
to sleep in the same room I do. It helps guard against things that
come in the night. It gets the flies that buzz around in the
summer. It kills the smelly socks, finds the balled up trash paper,
hides the extra pens and puts them away -- normal stuff for a cat
-- and it reminds us the world is not run for our
convenience."
    The cat at hand was majestically above
such discussions. So gray it was nearly blue, with a large squarish
face and a wonderful tuft of fur on each large ear, this was no
ordinary cat. This was the cat who lived here. It felt, without
ever putting it into so many words, of course, that what a cat does
is solely up to the cat.
    "Come now, Greg. Really, I don't mind your cat sleeping in
the same room with us, though I don't think it ought to stare at
us
that
way when we make love. I don't even mind if it sleeps at
the foot of the bed. But I don't think we have to keep that stupid
bag of his..."
    "Hers! I told you that ‘Landy' is
short for Mrs. Landsdale!"
    "Whatever! Just let me get rid of that
bag!"
    "Sheila..." he said and now the
argument moved out of the kitchen and up the stairs.
    Landy continued to sit serene on the
kitchen floor for several moments and then jumped without preamble
to the table, with a good view of the bag.
    The argument wandered around the
townhouse as the couple got ready to go out. It stayed for a few
moments in the bathroom while he shaved; it meandered into the
bedroom while she changed her blouse twice, decrying the weather
forecast, then it moved into the upstairs hall as he searched again
for the new can of deodorant in the linen closet.
    "But you were serious," she said
again. "I like you, Greg. I love you. I like Landy. But I know when
you're being serious and I don't think people are going to think
we're quite sane if we keep a beat-up old grocery bag on the
kitchen floor all of the time. You sounded so damn serious and
convincing last night when you told everyone that Landy's job was
to guard the monster in the bag!"
    Slowly into the front bedroom went the
argument, the bedroom that doubled as the electronic entertainment
center. "I promised him a tape last night. Somewhere. Somewhere..."
Greg said as he stared at the wallful of tapes, until finally
saying, "ta-da!"
    He turned to Sheila as if finding the
tape had made his point.
    "Sheila, listen to me. Landy has been
with me ever since she was a kitten. Seven years. In those seven
years she's had two or three toys, a couple of pets, and a couple
of jobs. You know, things that she took a shine to and played with
or watched or what-have-you. I want to keep her happy, because I've
only had good luck since she's been with me. So what if I say she
catches the monsters? It keeps me happy and it keeps her happy. It
can keep you happy, too, if you'll give it a shot."
    Downstairs, from the kitchen table, Landy spotted a subtle
movement in the bag. She was positive that the little bunch of
paper there in the back, next to the second crease north of the red
"F" in
Frank's Foodarama
had moved again. Twice this week it had
moved!
    Cautiously, Landy moved herself to
alert, changing her casual side-lean into a genuine crouch. Her
ears were near tuft-forward, she was