Tails of Transmigration
Five months after Stephâs mum kicked the bucket, we adopted a cat. A calico cutie with green eyes, it twined itself around Meggieâs legs and into our lives.
âHer nameâs Abigail,â Meggie announced on the drive home. Abigail was too close to my deceased mother-in-lawâs name, Annabelle, for my liking. But Meggie was twelveâthat fragile time between child and adult where everyone sits on tenterhooksâso Abigail it was.
That kittyâsweetly purring the entire ride homeâdecimated the living room curtains and rendered the area rug unusable within ten minutes of being in the house.
âI think that catâs in cahoots with your mother,â I joked to Steph that evening over our third glass of red. âShe never liked those curtains or that rug.â
Steph snorted. âYou have to admit, they were kind of fugly. You donât have a flair for interior design, dahlink.â We laughed, but the memory of my mother-in-law left me vexed.
In the first week, the catâI couldnât bring myself to call that grimalkin Abigailâunpotted all my herbs, dragged its backside across my pillow and ripped the pages of my favorite bookâa first edition, signed copy of Stephen Kingâs âCujo.â
âWeird,â I said to Steph after we wrangled the cat into the laundry room and bolted the door. âHow many times do you think your mother knocked my herbs out of those pots?â
âWhat are you saying?â Steph eyed me across the amber liquid in her glass.
âAnd she thought I was psychotic for loving horror stories.â
âShe wasnât wrong.â She took a gulp of whiskey. âJeez, Iâm just kidding,â she scoffed, noting my scowl.
I didnât mean to leave the door open, it was just bad luck it was the car door twenty miles from home.
Steph must have left Abigailâs carrier on the backseat and that ball of fluff and needles found its way in. Hell-cat was yowling so loudly I had to let it out. Unfortunate that it ran into the woodsâit looked like a demented, multi-colored crab as it skittered sideways, puffing its fur into a corona of hellish proportions.
âRun âAnnabelle,â run as far as you can. Thatâs right, I know who you are. Run!â
âBut where could she have gone?â Meggie wailed.
âGotta look for the silver lining, Meggie,â I said.
Steph quirked her eyebrows at me. âAnd what silver lining would that be?â
âHellca… Abigailâs probably much happier in the wild.â I raised my beer, attempting to hide my smile.
The dog showed up the next day. An enormous Saint Bernard, caked in mud with goopy eyes, lumbered through Stephâs gardens and sat, expectantly, outside the patio doors.
âHe looks just like Grandpa Stuart,â Meggie said. I had to admit there was a strong resemblance to my dear old dad, gone for two years. The droopy jowls, the red-rimmed eyes.
I sipped my tea and glanced at Steph, who was frowning on the couch.
âCan we let him in, Dad?â Meggie was already sliding the door open.
âSure,â I said. âLetâs call him Stewie.â