Catsby: A Novel

Chapter 19

After an hour in one of Catsby's many bathrooms playing Angry Birds on my phone, I returned to the foyer. Catsby and Dandelion had taken their reunion elsewhere. I checked the dining room. Also empty. That's when I heard laughter from one of the living rooms. I peaked into the room and found Dandelion and Catsby on separate ends of the couch. I'd been worried their reunion would be painful for one or both of them, and I'd have to mediate. They didn't look up when I walked in. Neither of them was crying. A good sign.

"Ahem," I said, making an obnoxious attempt to clear my throat.

Catsby whipped his head around. "Oh, hello, Old Spice."

I motioned to the picture window, where a steady stream of sunshine was making its way in. "It's finally stopped raining. Just thought I'd let you know."

"You're a regular ol' weatherman, aren't you, Dick?" Dandelion said.

"Indeed he is," Catsby said jovially. His spirits seemed greatly improved. I'd never seen such a change in someone before. Although the frown was still on his face—it was a permanent feature of his fursuit, after all—he was positively radiant with good vibes. Dandelion was all smiles as well. If they could have a little bit of happiness, even for an afternoon, who was I to be a cockblock?

"I should leave," I said.

"No—stay," Catsby said. "Now that the storm has passed, we'll all go out on my boat this afternoon."

"You have a boat?" Dandelion asked, eyes wide.

"A yacht," he said. "It's parked out back. We can go ram some icebergs."

"I hadn't planned on dying today," she said.

Catsby shrugged, as if he had prepared for this eventuality. "Then we can just drive it down the coast, anchor it in front of Chris Christie's beach house, and knock some golfballs through his windows."

We all agreed this sounded like a lovely way to spend the rest of the day. After lunch—Dandelion downed so many Long Island ice teas it was a miracle she could still stand—Catsby dragged me back to his master bedroom to find me something appropriate to wear. I was still in my open-backed hospital gown. Catsby was tired of looking at my ass every time I turned around.

Catsby disappeared into his walk-in closet, and returned twenty minutes later with a stack of polo shirts of every conceivable color under the sun (and a few colors only possible in other solar systems). He chucked them at me, one after another in rapid succession. I dodged the first two, but the third one caught me square in the face. The fourth hit me in the stomach, knocking the wind out of me. The fifth took me off my feet. I fell onto the bed, where Catsby continued to pile shirts on top of me.

"I can't breathe!" I said, attempting to claw my way out of the pile.

Catsby extended a paw to me and pulled me to safety. "I was just trying to have a little fun with you, Old Spice. Sometimes I get a little carried away, is all."

"Not all of us have your catlike reflexes."

"I'll try not to let it happen again."

I held up a blue polo shirt. It looked about the right size. A large painting above his cat bed caught my eye, however. "Is that who I think it is?"

He glanced up at the painting, which featured a regal-looking gentleman in a maroon jumpsuit. "Sir Catrick Stewart," he said.

"Are you a Star Trek fan?"

"Not particularly," he said with a sneer. "I'm a Catrick Stewart fan. He's one of the most prominent furries of our time. The first non-fleshie Star Trek caption. He's done a lot of good for the community. I wouldn't be where I am today without the paths he trailblazed."

"I saw him the other week, in Park Slope. He lives near Dandelion."

"You don't say?"

"I do say. I mean, I just said."

"It's a small world, isn't it? Everyone knows everyone. It's almost as if there's a writer in a room somewhere, working with a limited cast of characters. Not a very good writer, based on the sheer number of coincidences."

"It's in our nature to see connections between people and events," I said. "I don't think novelists should have to apologize for that."

"You sound like a writer."

"I have all these ideas for books, but never any time to write them," I lamented. I did a lot of lamenting back in the day.

"I saw how many drinks you were able to toss back at lunch today. You've definitely got the writer's temperament," he said. "And you say you have all these ideas, but no time? Here's how you become a writer, Old Spice: Make a butt-load of money, and then hire a team of ghostwriters to develop your ideas into books. That's what I would do."

I slipped the polo shirt on over my hospital gown. Catsby saw money as the answer to every problem. However, there are some problems money can't solve. It was with Catsby that I first began to develop my own theories about life and wealth, and I could already see that our paths would shortly diverge. I'd come out East to escape my privilege, only to be confronted with more money and privilege than I'd ever seen before. Or something like that. Who knows just what I was thinking, since I was literally sweating alcohol.

Catsby looked me up and down. "It looks like we still need to get you some pants."

He went back into his closet and returned, moments later, with a stack of sweatpants—which he proceeded to rifle at me, just like he'd done with the shirts. By the time I was finally dressed head to toe, there were so many clothes on the floor that it looked like an I.E.D. went off inside an American Apparel. I started picking the clothes up, but Catsby told me not to bother. "My butler will be by to sweep them up and burn them in the incinerator."

As Catsby and I boarded his enormous yacht—which, oddly, I'd never noticed docked just off the beach—I caught him pawing at the horizon. I'd seen him do this once before, the first night I'd laid eyes on him.

"What's out there?" I asked, peering across the ocean. Dandelion, who was already feeling queasy from imbibing over lunch, disappeared into the main cabin to "get her sea legs." I think that meant she was going to throw up.

"Dandelion's out there—or she was," Catsby said, gazing into the distance. "On clear evenings, there's this red light that dances around in the direction of New York City. I used to imagine it was Dandelion signaling me. Of course I knew it was nothing—a boat, I guess. But I liked to think she was out there, letting me know to not give up on us. That someday our paths would cross again."

There was a long silence.

"Wow," I said. "That's kind of messed up."

"I thought it was romantic."

I shook my head. "Do yourself a favor and don't ever tell Dandelion about this red light. She's here now. Just let it be what it is. A couple of old friends having a good time. Don't overthink it—and more importantly, don't let her know you've been thinking about her this much. Nothing turns a girl or guy off faster than a creeper."

"Huh. You bring up some interesting points, Old Spice."

Dandelion reappeared. "This boat is amazing! I can't believe you have an Olive Garden on here. Where did you ever get such a thing?"

"I won it in a poker game against a fellow named Earl Grey. The poor guy had a nasty gambling problem. His loss, my gain."

"You certainly have changed a lot since I saw you in that pet store window," Dandelion said. I swore I could detect a hint of sadness in her voice, as if she was nostalgic for the kitten she once knew—much in the same way Catsby was in still in love with that striking Kentucky girl he'd made eyes with all those years ago. Then again, I could have been overanalyzing the situation. Wasn't I the one who'd just told Catsby to stop overthinking things? Everything seemed to be coming together quite nicely. The good times couldn't last forever, but, hey, enough with the half-assed attempts at foreshadowing.