dad. He comes in behind his son, holding the hand of his other one. “Hissy doesn’t like it.”
He’s right, Hissy doesn’t, but Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad.
I hiss again as I exit the room —
Hssssssssss
! — then fly up the stairs. Down the hall, I duck intothe master bedroom, where I dive under the big square bed.
Zeb clambers up the stairs. “Cat!” he cries. “Hissy cat! Where ar-r-r-re you?”
He toddles into the room. He knows my hiding places.
Hssssssssss!
I say again. He really can’t take a hint. He’s worse than Georgie.
He peeks under the bed. “There you are, Hissy cat. Come here. Come on.”
Is he kidding?
When I don’t come out, he climbs onto the bed and starts hopping up and down. He hiccups my name each time he lands.
I lay my snout on my paws. It’s no wonder I have trouble sleeping in this house.
Light footsteps skip up the stairs, then Abe steps into the doorway. The other twin. He’s wearing his stuffed-rabbit puppet, Medium Sad Guy, on his hand. Its long silver ears dangle almost to the floor. Abe’s head tilts up and down in time with his brother’s bouncing.
Abe is a nice, quiet boy, who never wakes me or chases me or jumps up and down on my head. Are all human twins so opposite?
“HISS-sy! HISS-sy! HISS-sy!” Zeb chants.
Heavier footsteps on the stairs. Dad’s.
“Come here, Zeb,” he says, entering the room. He steps past Abe. “Give the cat a break.”
I appreciate this, though Dad, who’s a carpenter, didn’t exactly give the cat a break today. He made a terrible racket out in his backyard workshop with his hammers and his shrieking, grinding power tools. And his radio. His rock ’n’ roll.
Again, Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad. He continues to hop and chant.
Dad steps up to the bed. “Come on,” he says. “Jump to Daddy.”
Zeb hits the bed one more time. Dad grunts. I assume he caught the boy, so I shoot for the door. I swerve past Abe’s ankles into the hall, then down the stairs.
Georgie appears when I reach the bottom. I guess she couldn’t sleep, either.
“What’s the matter, Hissy?” she asks. “Is Zeb bothering you?”
Yes, Zeb is bothering me.
She bends down and picks me up. I don’t mind being picked up. I don’t love it, but if done properly, it’s not horrible. Georgie doesn’t do it properly. She turns me onto my back, with my belly up, which is how humans carry their babies. It is not how cats carry theirs. It makes me nervous. And annoyed. I growl.
Grrrrrrrrr!
She scratches my chest with her finger.
I wriggle.
She holds me tighter.
I hiss.
Hssssssssss!
“Oh, Hissy,” she says, “why are you in a bad mood?”
I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a mad mood. I bare my claws and twist.
“Ow!” she says, loosening her grip.
I fall perfectly to the floor, onto all four paws. I spring away. I am using all the energy I’ve saved up.
“You little rascal!” Georgie calls after me. “You scratched me! Come back here and say you’re sorry!”
I won’t be doing that.
3.
Dad Drops the Ball
I slink into the kitchen, my ears twisting, listening for Zeb. He’s up in his room, pounding on something. The boy takes after his father.
Bam, bam, bam!
I don’t understand this drive to hammer. Maybe if I had thumbs …
I make for my food and water dishes. One is nearly empty; the other needs freshening. Dad’s been so busy in his workshop that he forgot about the cat’s needs. He didn’t forget about his own, however. He dipped into the kitchen several timesto snack and refill his water bottle from the spout in the refrigerator door. I doubt Dad would care to drink water that had been sitting in a bowl all day.
I pick up a few kibbles with my tongue then crunch them. They taste as they always do: dry and slightly fishy. I’d prefer actual fish, but I don’t have enough energy to go out and find and kill one.
I still need water, so I pad into the bathroom. The toilet seat is down. Rats. I won’t risk
He’s right, Hissy doesn’t, but Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad.
I hiss again as I exit the room —
Hssssssssss
! — then fly up the stairs. Down the hall, I duck intothe master bedroom, where I dive under the big square bed.
Zeb clambers up the stairs. “Cat!” he cries. “Hissy cat! Where ar-r-r-re you?”
He toddles into the room. He knows my hiding places.
Hssssssssss!
I say again. He really can’t take a hint. He’s worse than Georgie.
He peeks under the bed. “There you are, Hissy cat. Come here. Come on.”
Is he kidding?
When I don’t come out, he climbs onto the bed and starts hopping up and down. He hiccups my name each time he lands.
I lay my snout on my paws. It’s no wonder I have trouble sleeping in this house.
Light footsteps skip up the stairs, then Abe steps into the doorway. The other twin. He’s wearing his stuffed-rabbit puppet, Medium Sad Guy, on his hand. Its long silver ears dangle almost to the floor. Abe’s head tilts up and down in time with his brother’s bouncing.
Abe is a nice, quiet boy, who never wakes me or chases me or jumps up and down on my head. Are all human twins so opposite?
“HISS-sy! HISS-sy! HISS-sy!” Zeb chants.
Heavier footsteps on the stairs. Dad’s.
“Come here, Zeb,” he says, entering the room. He steps past Abe. “Give the cat a break.”
I appreciate this, though Dad, who’s a carpenter, didn’t exactly give the cat a break today. He made a terrible racket out in his backyard workshop with his hammers and his shrieking, grinding power tools. And his radio. His rock ’n’ roll.
Again, Zeb doesn’t listen to his dad. He continues to hop and chant.
Dad steps up to the bed. “Come on,” he says. “Jump to Daddy.”
Zeb hits the bed one more time. Dad grunts. I assume he caught the boy, so I shoot for the door. I swerve past Abe’s ankles into the hall, then down the stairs.
Georgie appears when I reach the bottom. I guess she couldn’t sleep, either.
“What’s the matter, Hissy?” she asks. “Is Zeb bothering you?”
Yes, Zeb is bothering me.
She bends down and picks me up. I don’t mind being picked up. I don’t love it, but if done properly, it’s not horrible. Georgie doesn’t do it properly. She turns me onto my back, with my belly up, which is how humans carry their babies. It is not how cats carry theirs. It makes me nervous. And annoyed. I growl.
Grrrrrrrrr!
She scratches my chest with her finger.
I wriggle.
She holds me tighter.
I hiss.
Hssssssssss!
“Oh, Hissy,” she says, “why are you in a bad mood?”
I’m not in a bad mood. I’m in a mad mood. I bare my claws and twist.
“Ow!” she says, loosening her grip.
I fall perfectly to the floor, onto all four paws. I spring away. I am using all the energy I’ve saved up.
“You little rascal!” Georgie calls after me. “You scratched me! Come back here and say you’re sorry!”
I won’t be doing that.
3.
Dad Drops the Ball
I slink into the kitchen, my ears twisting, listening for Zeb. He’s up in his room, pounding on something. The boy takes after his father.
Bam, bam, bam!
I don’t understand this drive to hammer. Maybe if I had thumbs …
I make for my food and water dishes. One is nearly empty; the other needs freshening. Dad’s been so busy in his workshop that he forgot about the cat’s needs. He didn’t forget about his own, however. He dipped into the kitchen several timesto snack and refill his water bottle from the spout in the refrigerator door. I doubt Dad would care to drink water that had been sitting in a bowl all day.
I pick up a few kibbles with my tongue then crunch them. They taste as they always do: dry and slightly fishy. I’d prefer actual fish, but I don’t have enough energy to go out and find and kill one.
I still need water, so I pad into the bathroom. The toilet seat is down. Rats. I won’t risk
Similar Books
