“We can be ‘sick as a cat,’” he continued. “But not ‘sick as a dog’ or ‘sick as a rabbit,’ or even ‘sick as a mouse.’ It just stands to reason, doesn’t it?”
“It does,” I said, though I was starting to find this conversation a little trying.
“Oh, there she is,” said Brutus, as a feline female hove into view.
“That’s not Shanille,” said Harriet. “That’s Samantha.”
“Oh, right.”
And so the long wait began. I’m not sure if you know this, but not all cats possess the virtue of patience. Harriet, for one, most definitely does not, and neither does Brutus. Dooley, because he often inhabits an alternate universe, is better equipped to deal with these matters. As for myself, I find that it helps if you think of something else entirely. And so I started to imagine what I would find in my food bowl when we got home that night. Odelia likes to change things up, you see. She knows that always eating the same thing gets tedious after a while.
“Look, it’s Kingman,” said Brutus, causing me to emerge from that perennial discussion about whether I like chicken best or turkey.
Kingman now came waddling up to us, looking distinctly distraught.
“The worst thing happened!” he cried even before he reached us.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dooley immediately. “Has the world ended?!”
“No, the world hasn’t ended,” said Kingman, breathing stertorously as he plunked himself down. “But it wouldn’t surprise me if it does. Shanille is gone!”
“Gone? What do you mean, gone?” I asked.
“I dropped by the church earlier, so we could walk here together, as we often do, and she wasn’t there!”
I relaxed. This wasn’t as bad as I thought. “That doesn’t mean she’s gone, Kingman. That means she’s gone out somewhere.”
“But Shanille never goes out! Where would she even go?!”
He was right, of course. Cats rarely go places. We’re your essential homebodies, never happier than adhering to our fixed routines and enjoying the creature comforts of our own wonderful little homes.
“Maybe Father Reilly decided to take a vacation?” I ventured.
The large cat gave me a look of exasperation.“Father Reilly never goes on vacation! His parishioners need him! Just like cat choir needs Shanille!”
“Maybe they’ve been abducted by aliens,” Dooley suggested. “Or maybe Father Reilly has gone to Rome. Don’t priests go to Rome to be with the Pope?”
“They do,” Kingman confirmed, “but at least she could have told me!”
“Could be that Shanille had an accident,” said Harriet with a light shrug.
“I say we organize a search party,” said Brutus. “Save Shanille!”
“I’m sure she’ll be here any moment,” I said, trying to inject some reason into the conversation, which was getting a little out of hand, I felt.
More cats had turned up, and the sound of nervous conversation filled the air. The distinct lack of conductor hadn’t escaped anyone’s attention, and cats being cats, all possible explanations were being entertained. Shanille had joined a cult and moved to India. Or Shanille had been abducted and was being held for ransom by a gang of catnappers. Though the most original theory was that she had been snappedup by Hollywood, and had moved to LA to star in a movie about her life.
“As if,” Harriet scoffed when this possibility was suggested to her. “Shanille’s life isn’t interesting enough to be turned into a movie.” She cleared her throat and raised her voice. “Listen up, you guys! Unfortunately Shanille won’t be joining us tonight. So as her second-in-command I’m going to take over. If you could please all take your positions, we’ll start with some warm-up exercises for the voice!”
These warm-up exercises apparently consisted of using the full range of our vocal cords and projecting as loudly as possible and as far as possible. The upshot was that within five minutes windows on all sides of the park were being opened, angry heads were being thrust out, and voices were raised in anger, with a few of those hanging from their windows even throwing the odd shoe in our direction.
Personally I wouldn’t have minded being pelted in the lower back with a nice sneaker—an Air Jordan, for instance, or an Allen Edmonds. I could even go for a soft Yeezy. But instead I got an old army boot for my trouble. It was big and bulky—not to mention smelly—and not a nice way to start the evening!
Around me, more footwear started raining down, causing cat choir to cut its session short for once. And so Harriet’s vocal warm-up exercises, which had sounded like such a good idea, turned out not to be such a good idea after all. And when a police siren sounded in the distance, drawing closer, we decided to skedaddle.
“I hope Shanille is all right,” said Dooley as we made a run for it.
“I’m sure she is,” I said, as I dodged a pair of Chuck Taylors.
This unexpected hailstorm of shoes didn’t bode well for the future, though.
“This is an outrage,” Harriet gasped as she barely escaped an incoming Mary Jane. “We should file a complaint against these people! For assault and battery!”
“I’m not sure throwing a shoe at a cat is in the penal code,” I said.