The Christmas Cat Part 2

"So you need to decide, Garrison. Do you want to agree to this responsibility? It was your grandmother's last wishes that you do this for her. But she knew about your allergies and she realized you might refuse-"

"I'll do it," he said suddenly. "It was obviously important to her. How could I not do it?"

Mr. Miller smiled. "She would be happy to know this."

"So am I supposed to tell these adoptive families that they'll get ten grand just for taking in a cat? I mean, that would make it pretty easy to find homes. Just run an ad in the newspaper or online and I'll bet my phone would start ringing nonstop."

"You could do it that way." Mr. Miller frowned as he slid some paperwork into a large manila envelope. "But that would make it difficult to sift the suitable adoptive homes from the gold diggers."

Garrison nodded. "Good point."

"Basically, it's up to you-I mean, how you choose to handle this. Your grandmother's final wish was for her cats to find good homes and for the people who adopted them to be blessed in the process. She was well aware that some of her cats were older and might not be easily placed. The last thing she wanted was for them to go to a pet shelter or wind up on the streets or be euthanized."

"That's understandable."

"And she realized that it would take you some time to work out the details of her final wishes," he continued. "To that end, she's left you some living expenses. Enough for a month or two, depending on how you handle it." He slipped what looked like a cas.h.i.+er's check into the envelope.

"That was thoughtful." Garrison knew that his tone sounded flat and unenthusiastic, but it was the best he could muster. It wasn't easy discovering that one's grandmother was fonder of her cats than her own grandson. He knew that was selfish on his part, but Gram knew he had allergies when she started taking in felines.

"She also put details about the cats in here." Mr. Miller grinned. "Complete dossiers with photos and vet records and everything she thought might be needed in the case of her demise."

"Seems she thought of everything." Garrison felt slightly overwhelmed. Was he really about to become the keeper of the cats?

"I expect you'll want to remain in your grandmother's house while you're acting as guardian and handling the placement of the cats."

Garrison shook his head. "Not with my allergies."

"Right." Mr. Miller closed the thick envelope and slid it across his desk toward Garrison. "I'll admit that Mrs. Brown's plan seemed a bit eccentric to me at first, but the more I spoke with her, the more I realized that her heart was in the right place. She really loved her cats."

Garrison let out a long sigh. "Yeah . . . that seems obvious." He hated to think he envied a bunch of aging cats, but he couldn't help himself. Gram's estate was going directly to the felines. And really, why shouldn't she disperse her money as she saw fit? After all, those cats had been a bigger part of her life than Garrison . . . at least for the past sixteen years. In reality, Garrison had spent only six years under her roof. It was clear, those cats were her family.

3.

As Garrison drove home, he was determined to carry out Gram's last wishes to the best of his ability-and as quickly as possible. For starters, he would give Viola to Ruby. Surely that would make Gram happy. As he pulled into the driveway, he checked his watch to see that he still had a couple of hours on his allergy medicine. Besides that precaution, he had stopped by the drugstore to pick up a pack of disposable allergy masks as well as some medical-grade disposable gloves. He knew this might be overkill, but he didn't care. If necessary, he would get a respirator and maybe even a hazmat suit too. One couldn't be too careful.

"How'd it go with the lawyer?" Ruby asked. She'd emerged from her house just as he was closing the garage door.

He weighed his words. "It was . . . uh . . . interesting."

"Oh." She frowned.

"Do you still want Viola?"

Her eyes brightened. "Oh yes, I'd love to have her."

"Well, I need to find homes for all the cats. As soon as possible. It'd be great if you could take Viola off my hands and-"

"You won't have to ask me twice." Ruby followed him to the back door. "Do you think she'll be happy at my house?"

"I'm sure she'll be most grateful." He unlocked the door.

"I don't have any cat goodies . . . like food dishes and litter boxes."

"I'm sure Gram had plenty of that sort of thing." He paused to secure the mask and pulled on the gloves.

"You look like you're about to perform surgery," she commented as they went inside.

"Well, I do plan to remove some cats," he joked. "But not surgically."

She pushed ahead of him, calling out for Viola. "Here, kitty-kitty," she cooed sweetly. And just like that a small herd of cats came rus.h.i.+ng into the kitchen. "They probably think I'm going to feed them again," she explained as she bent down to scoop up the big Russian Blue. "There you are, Viola girl. You wanna go home with Ruby?"

Garrison froze in place as the cats swarmed around his feet. He didn't want to show how unsettling this was, but he could feel his heart racing and it was getting difficult to breathe. Or maybe that was the mask. "Go ahead and look around for what you need," he told Ruby. "Cat food or dishes or whatever. Take anything you like."

"Are you okay?" She peered curiously at him. "Even for a white boy, you look awful pale. Are you having a malaria attack?"

"No, no . . . it's-uh-just the allergy thing," he murmured.

"Looks like more than that to me." She tilted her head to one side as she rubbed the top of Viola's head, studying him closely.

"More than what?" He carefully stepped over a big furry cat that resembled a racc.o.o.n.

"Looks to me like you might have some kind of phobia, boy."

"Phobia-of what?"

"Cats." She pushed Viola up close to his face and he quickly jumped back, accidentally stepping on a cat tail or paw and causing one of the felines to let out a loud screech that made him jump even higher. Ruby laughed loudly. "I do believe I'm right. You have a cat phobia, Garrison."

"No, no . . ." He tried to calm himself. "It's just the allergies. I like to keep a safe distance from-"

"I saw it on a TV show not long ago. Maybe it was Dr. Phil. Anyway, they said the best way to conquer your fears was to face them head-on." She grinned wide, revealing a gold tooth. "I guess that's what you're doing right now."

"Right now, I'm going upstairs," he told her. "I want to see if there are any rooms that have been off-limits to the cats." Mostly he just needed a place to steady himself, a spot where he could close the door and catch his breath.

"Lilly always kept your room closed up tight," she called after him. "Hoping you'd come home to stay with her a while. It should be a cat-free zone." She chuckled. "Imagine a big strong-looking young man afraid of a pretty little kitty like you, Viola."

"Imagine," he muttered to himself as he scaled the stairs. He went down the hall and directly to his old room, quickly opening the door and stepping inside. Once again, he was pleasantly surprised to see that it looked exactly as he'd left it straight out of high school. It was like going into a comfortable time warp. Sure, the sports posters were curled at the edges and the plaid curtains and matching bedspread had faded some, but for the most part, nothing had changed. A little more at ease, he closed the door and leaned against it. Then he cautiously removed the face mask and, taking in a slow, deep breath, he felt himself beginning to relax.

Was Ruby right? Did he really have some kind of cat phobia? He peered at his image in the cloudy dresser mirror. His brow was furrowed and his hazel eyes looked worried, and even his pupils appeared smaller. Wasn't that a sign of fear? And yet, what did he have to be afraid of? He'd traveled the world, faced various forms of danger-everything from wild jungle animals to guerrilla warriors-and he had never felt unreasonably fearful of anything. And yet, it was undeniable, those silly old cats in the kitchen had just sent s.h.i.+vers down his spine. Maybe Ruby was right after all. It was possible that he was dealing with some kind of phobia. Perhaps he should take her advice (or the advice of that TV doctor she'd mentioned) and simply face his fears.

He looked around his old room, wondering if it might be possible to actually stay in Gram's house. It would certainly save him some hotel expenses. With this haven in his old room, he might be able to get by for a week or so. Hopefully it wouldn't take long to find homes for Gram's herd of felines. In the meantime, he'd attempt to take Ruby's advice by facing his fears and getting to know these cats better. At least he'd try.

"Yoo-hoo?" she called as she clumped up the stairs. "Are you okay, Garrison?"

He put his mask back on, adjusting it snugly against his cheeks. It was one thing to face one's fears, something else altogether to expose oneself to disturbing allergens. "I'm coming," he called as he emerged from his room, carefully closing the door behind him.

"I found some cat supplies," she informed him. "Lilly had a whole closet just chock-full of kitty goodies. I helped myself, like you told me to-hope that's okay."

"It's more than okay," he a.s.sured her as they went down the stairs. "Anything to get you and Viola off to a good start in her new home." Bracing himself, he reached out to give the gray cat a quick rub on the head. Baby steps, he said to himself. One cat at a time. "I hope you two are very happy together," he told Ruby. "And, uh, well . . . I shouldn't say anything, Ruby, but my grandma has made some provisions for the, uh, for the folks that adopt her cats."

"Provisions?" Ruby's brows drew together. "What do you mean?"

"I don't really want to go into the details now. But if you and Viola settle in nicely and you decide you want to keep her-"

"I already know I want to keep her," Ruby declared. "No question about that."

"Well then you shouldn't worry too much about the expenses of cat food and litter and vet bills and such."

She gave him a puzzled look. "What're you talking about, boy?"

"Gram made some provisions for her cats' new homes."

"What do you mean provisions?" she asked again.

He made a mischievous grin. "I shouldn't have said anything."

"You got that right, young man. You tell Ruby something like that and then leave her hanging?"

He held up his purple-gloved hands. "I'm sorry, Ruby. But that's all I can say right now. Okay?"

"Hmm . . . I guess so." Her mouth twisted to one side. "Now, you better take care of yourself and your little cat phobia, young man. I set my cat things out on the back porch. I'd like to get Viola home now. And I'll be sure to let you know how she likes living at my place."

"Thanks," he told her as they went into the kitchen.

"You let me know if you need anything." She sounded like her old cheerful self again. "Or if these cats start a-worrying you, just give old Ruby a call. I'll come to your rescue."

"Thanks. Appreciate it."

"Or if you get hungry, you come on over. In fact, I've a mind to just whip up some chicken pot pie tonight." She gave him a sly look as she wrapped part of her coat over Viola. "Maybe I'll see if I can bribe you with food . . . get you to talk."

He chuckled. "Ruby, Ruby."

"Or maybe you don't like my pot pie like you used to?"

"I haven't had a good pot pie in years," he said eagerly.

"Alrighty then. My stomach don't like eating too late at night. Come five thirty, you get yourself over to Ruby's kitchen and don't you be late."

"Will do." He saluted her.

"And I a.s.sume you'll take over feeding the cats now."

"Yes, of course."

She pointed to the refrigerator where a laminated page was attached by a cat-shaped magnet. "That's Lilly's detailed instructions. She always kept it there for me. Sometimes if she had to be gone for a spell-never more'n a day at most-I'd see to the cats."

He glanced at the note. "Good to know." He opened the door for her and seeing her box of cat goods, scooped them up and followed her over to her house.

"Thank you, son." She rewarded him with a wide smile.

"Thank you for taking Viola." He set the box on a chair inside her back door.

"See you at five thirty."

"You bet." He grinned to himself as he closed her door. One cat gone, five to go. Maybe this wasn't going to be so hard after all. And it warmed his heart to imagine Ruby's expression when he handed her a check for ten thousand dollars next month. By his calculations that should be a little before Christmas. Nice!

He retrieved the duffle bag he'd stashed in the Pontiac and carried it, along with the envelope from Mr. Miller, into the house. He wanted to read through the papers from Gram's attorney, but as soon as he got back into the kitchen, the cats began converging and meowing . . . as if they expected something from him. What? A glance at Gram's directions on the fridge revealed these cats were used to eating their dinner between four and five. And it was just a little past four.

Still wearing the particle mask and gloves, he removed Gram's instructions from the fridge and continued reading. He quickly realized this was more complicated than just filling a big bowl with Cat Chow. Each cat was listed individually. Even with Viola adopted by Ruby, there were still five different feline diets to contend with. Garrison had to read through it several times, condensing it down to this: Oreo had to be fed by himself in the laundry room with just a special low-fat dry food because he was overweight and would devour the other cats' foods if he got the chance; meanwhile, Spooky needed special drops in her canned food to prevent hairb.a.l.l.s; Rusty had a special mix of both dry and canned food; and Muzzy needed to be fed a special gluten-free food. It seemed that the only cat without special dietary needs was Harry.

"G.o.d bless Harry," Garrison said as he laid the instruction sheet on the counter. Then he looked around at the cats clamoring around his feet. "Which one of you is Harry?"

The big racc.o.o.n-like cat seemed to look up expectantly, rubbing himself against Garrison's legs as if to confirm that he indeed was Harry. "Well, that's easy for you to say," Garrison told the friendly cat. "But I need more evidence." Now he remembered the "dossier" that Mr. Miller had described. Hadn't he mentioned photos?

He opened the envelope and dug through it until he found the section that described the cats. Seeing that it was rather lengthy, he decided to take it up to his room where he could read it without wearing his mask and gloves. "I'll be back soon," he promised the cats as he hurried away.

The top page was for Viola, but since she had already found a home, he barely skimmed it. However, he did discover that, besides being a Russian Blue, Viola was twelve years old and slightly moody. She was very attached to Gram and considered herself to be the top cat. "Viola will not do well in a house with children and noise or other pets," Gram had written. "She would prefer being re-homed with a mature single woman who is affectionate and can bestow on Viola the special attention that she craves."

Garrison chuckled. Well, Ruby should be just about perfect. Really, this wasn't so difficult. He sat down on his bed and flipped to the next page. A photo of a big orange short-haired cat grinned back at him. Rusty. Apparently this cat was ten years old, fairly easygoing, and got along with children. "Rusty is the clown cat," Gram had written. "He is playful and loving and would enjoy a home with a big family and lots of attention and even other cats. Rusty gets along well with others."

"Good old Rusty," Garrison said as he set that page aside.

Spooky, he soon discovered, was the calico, a seven-year-old female that Gram had taken in two years ago. She was also the least social of the cats and very moody. "Spooky is independent, but she still likes attention. She would probably do best in a home without other pets." Since he had three cats to go and he knew they were hungry, he didn't bother to read all the details about Spooky.

He saw the photo of the black-and-white cat. Naturally, that was Oreo. That was easy to remember. He was nine years old and had come to Gram as a kitten. He sounded easygoing enough.

The loud Siamese cat was Muzzy. She was eight years old and according to Gram, "somewhat demanding and talkative." Garrison set her page aside.

Finally he saw the page for Harry-and, as it turned out, he was the friendly cat that resembled a racc.o.o.n. Harry was a Maine c.o.o.n cat that had found his way into Gram's home and heart just a year ago. "Harry is a very special cat," she had written. "I don't like to say he's my favorite, but if I could only keep one cat-G.o.d forbid-I would choose Harry. He is five years old and the smartest one of the bunch."

Armed with this new information, Garrison put on his particle mask again and went down to the kitchen to feed the cats. Naturally, it wasn't as easy as he thought it should be, but eventually he got the cats figured out and situated and fed. By the time he finished up it was nearly five-and he felt exhausted.

Not only that, but his nose was starting to run and his eyes were watering and by the time he made it to his room, he was starting to sneeze again. How could caring for five felines be this difficult? And, seriously, if he couldn't manage a few silly old cats, how did he ever think he could run a halfway house for recovering addicts?

4.

I think what you're saying is that Lilly created some kind of endowment fund for her beloved kitties," Ruby said as she gave him a second helping of chicken pot pie.