A Small Town Christmas Part 76

"I can't help it," he said. He was no dummy. He'd traded days with Julio, effectively making himself unavailable on both big family disaster days. "Lots of fires over the holidays. People burning candles where they shouldn't, starting grease fires in the kitchen. You wouldn't want all of Angel Falls to go up in smoke because your son wasn't doing his duty."

"I'm just thinking someone else's son could do his duty this year so I can spend Christmas with mine."

"Sorry," was all he could think to say. At least all he could think to say that was civilized.

"Could you at least stop by the day before you start your shift? I have something for you."

Probably a gift card. "I'll try."

"Great," she said, as if he'd just given her a firm confirmation.

Zach ended the call with a sigh and tossed his cell phone on the couch. "Be glad you're a cat," he told Tom, who was perched on the back of the couch. "You've got it good."

The cat blinked and flicked his tail.

Zach decided to make dinner easy: Chinese takeout. "Food of the G.o.ds," he told Tom as he dished up some canned cat food. "And I've got your fav, here, too, dude."

But Tom didn't trot up to his food bowl and start chowing down. Instead, he turned and walked away.

"Hey, since when aren't you hungry?" Zach called after him.

Tom kept walking.

"Fine. Suit yourself," Zach muttered, and grabbed his carton of General Tso's chicken.

He didn't give another thought to Tom's lack of appet.i.te until the next morning when he went to set out some more food for the little guy before heading out the door to the station and found the bowl still full. The canned cat food had dried out to a smelly, crusty, unappetizing lump. What was wrong with Tom? He always snarfed down his meals the minute Zach put them in the bowl. Zach dumped out the food and dished up a fresh helping. He also put out some dried food. Something there should tempt Tom while he was gone.

He had just finished when, Tom wandered out into the kitchen. "Breakfast, bud," said Zach.

Tom walked over to the dish, sniffed at it, and then walked away again.

"This isn't a freakin' restaurant," Zach called after him. "You eat this or you starve."

Of course Tom didn't pay any attention to Zach's threat. Zach watched him go and frowned. How many days could a cat go without food? Would old Tom be okay while he was gone?

Ambrose sat in the window and watched Zach drive away. He hoped Zach was going to Pet Palace to get advice from Merilee. Maybe he'd even bring her home. Then Tom could end this hunger strike.

But what if Zach was going to work? Ambrose would be on his own for a long time. This place didn't have a problem with rats or mice like some houses he had lived in, which meant he'd be reduced to living off the occasional bird landing in the yard to forage for berries. And he'd have to use that horrible cat door even more. Ugh. The mere thought made his tail twitch.

Hunger. Ambrose still remembered the miserable gnawing he felt in his gut on a regular basis when he lived his third life as an alley cat. He didn't relish the prospect of experiencing it again. But feigning disinterest in his food was the only thing he could think to do to drive Zach back to Merilee.

He jumped down and trotted to the kitchen, the aroma of Tuna Surprise beckoning him. He crouched in front of the bowl and sniffed. Ah, just one lick. What would it hurt?

No, no. If he so much as took a lick he'd devour the entire bowl. Willpower, Ambrose. You have survived on little before. You can do it again.

At least he hoped he could. He'd grown accustomed to eating on a regular basis.

He eyed the cat door with reluctance. Oh, the things a guy had to do to help his human.

SEVEN.

Zach returned home from the station to find Tom's food bowl untouched. Okay, what was that about? He dumped the untouched food and tried again but Tom just sniffed at the fresh serving and then opted for winding around Zach's legs instead.

"What's wrong, guy?" he asked, picking up the cat. Had he lost weight since Zach was gone or was Zach imagining it? "You know, tuna's your favorite." The little guy just sat docilely in his arms. This wasn't good. "Okay, bud, something's not right. We'd better go see the vet."

At the word vet, Tom leaped out of his arms and left the kitchen at a fast trot. Okay, that was obviously not the magic word.

"I don't care," Zach called after him. "You're going. You should probably have a checkup anyway."

Informing a cat he's going to the vet and getting him to the vet are two different things, as Zach discovered once he'd made an appointment. First he had to find the cat. Tom wasn't under the couch or the bed, or any other chair. He was getting sneaky.

And Zach was getting irritated. "I know you're in here somewhere." Unless he'd run outside.

Except he still hated his cat door and used it as little as possible. Besides, there was a light snowfall on the ground and Tom was not fond of snow. Zach kept searching.

He finally found his quarry crouched in the far corner of the bedroom closet, his head barely visible behind Zach's bowling ball.

Zach shoved aside his shoes and a pile of dirty underwear and crawled in. "Okay, now you're just being a wuss. We have to find out what's wrong with you."

Tom backed up and growled. Who knew cats could growl?

"I'm bigger than you," Zach informed him. "That means I will win this fight, so you might as well surrender now." He leaned in and reached out and Tom hissed and took a swipe at him, scratching the side of his hand. Zach pulled it back in shock and Tom bolted. "Oh, not cool."

He wiped off the blood with the closest T-shirt and ran down the stairs after the cat. This time old Tom wasn't so smart and Zach found him under the couch and hauled him out, getting another scratch in the process.

"You really are p.i.s.sing me off," he snapped, stuffing Tom in his cat carrier. "You'd d.a.m.n well better have something wrong with you."

However, after listening to the animal's pitiful yowls all the way to Dr. Burnside, Zach's anger dissipated, and by the time he took the cat carrier out of the back of his Land Rover he was feeling sorry for Tom. "The doc will make you all better," he promised.

But then they entered the clinic and Zach saw the Great Dane. Oh, boy.

Tom hissed.

"He can't get you, I promise," said Zach.

The Great Dane barked and Tom pressed himself into the far corner of the cat carrier, arching his back and puffing out his fur. Zach kept himself between the two animals as he made his way to the reception desk, which lay across the vinyl floor and past the row of chairs where the dog sat at the feet of his owner (a senior woman half the animal's size).

"Hi," he said to the receptionist. "We've got an appointment with Dr. Burnside."

The doc was obviously a popular guy, judging from the long row of Christmas cards strung across the front of the reception desk. If people liked him this much he had to be good with animals.

The receptionist was a hot blonde with a nice rack. Normally she would have gotten Zach's attention, but he was too worried about Tom to care. "Name?" she asked.

"Zach Stone."

"No, I mean your pet."

"Oh, yeah. Uh, Tom."

The receptionist smiled at Tom and cooed a h.e.l.lo. "The doctor will have you feeling better in no time," she promised Tom, and Zach almost added, "See? I told you."

With Tom checked in there was nothing to do but sit and wait, and try to ignore the animal smells floating around the room. They took a seat as far as possible from the dog, which was straining at his leash to come over for a visit. The walls were painted hospital green, supposedly a calming color. Maybe that only worked for humans. The dog barked again and pawed at the vinyl, making Tom hiss.

"No, Tiny," said his owner firmly, and the dog sat back on its haunches, tongue lolling.

The nurse came out and called Tiny in. "There. He's gone now," Zach said to Tom.

Tom just growled.

Yeah, we're both having fun now.

Another ten minutes and Tiny and his owner trotted out the door and it was Tom's turn. He yowled as they went into the exam room.

"I know," said Zach, "I don't like going to the doctor either." In some ways it didn't look all that different from a regular doctor's exam room. Well, except for the fact that there were animal charts on the walls and the exam table was stainless steel.

Dr. Burnside entered shortly after them. He was about the age of Zach's father, with salt-and-pepper hair and a short muscular body, but with soft hands, an odd contradiction that made Zach vaguely uncomfortable. "So, what seems to be the problem with our boy," he asked, removing a now limp Tom from his cat carrier and setting him on the table.

"He's not eating," said Zach.

"Well, that's not good, is it?" the vet said to Tom, and petted him. "My, my. You're a dead ringer for another cat I've seen." The doctor opened Tom's mouth and checked his teeth. "And how long has this been going on?"

"A couple of days," said Zach, watching nervously.

"Has he been lethargic?"

Zach thought of their chase around the house and the fresh scratches on his hand. "No."

The doctor grabbed a rectal thermometer and lifted Tom's tail.

"Whoa, he's not going to like that," Zach predicted.

Sure enough. Tom let out the cat equivalent of a yelp and looked over his shoulder at Zach. Accusingly.

"Sorry, dude," Zach said. "It's for your own good." Geez. Now he sounded like his mom. How many times had she said that to him when he was a kid?

"Is our boy on any medication?" asked the vet.

"None that I know of."

One of the doctor's graying eyebrows rose. "You would know, wouldn't you? You are his owner?"

"Yeah, but only recently. I took him in. His owner died."

Out came the thermometer for inspection. "No fever. The owner died, you say?" Now the doctor was poking and prodding. Amazingly, Tom was tolerating the abuse quite well. "What was the owner's name?"

"I'm not sure," said Zach. "I talked to her daughter."

The doctor checked the tag. "Ambrose. Well, well. I saw that torn ear and wondered. So Adelaide is gone. She was a nice old lady. Good for you for taking in her cat."

Like he'd had a choice?

Dr. Burnside kept on with his examination. At last he said, "I see no broken bones, no evidence of injury. His heart is fine."

"Then what's wrong with him?"

"We'll do some blood work," said the vet, "but I suspect he's just anxious. Changes in environment can upset cats. He lost his owner recently, he's in a new home. It's understandable."

"Except he'd settled in okay and there was nothing wrong with his appet.i.te until a couple of days ago," Zach protested.

"Have you had any changes in your home?"

Breaking up with Blair probably didn't count since she and Tom hadn't exactly bonded. Other than that, Zach couldn't think of anything. He shook his head.

"Change in routine? Travel?"

Zach thought of their failed excursion to see Santa. "We went to Pet Palace. He didn't like it." Neither had Zach. "But that was Sat.u.r.day."

"Well," said Dr. Burnside. "I suspect he's simply upset. We don't want to let this go on too long but I'd like to wait another day before prescribing anti-anxiety medication. It's highly effective but it can have detrimental effects on your cat's personality and disposition."

After their tussle in the closet anything would be an improvement on Tom's disposition, if you asked Zach.

"You'll pull it together, old boy. Won't you?" The doctor slipped Tom in his carrier. "If he doesn't improve in the next twenty-four hours bring him back."

Yeah, that would be fun. Zach drove home wishing the vet had prescribed some anti-anxiety meds for him. "You know, you're stressing me out," he told Tom.

There was no reply from the carrier.

Zach frowned. He needed a cat whisperer.

And he knew just where to find one.

They did a detour by Pet Palace. "Don't worry, I'm not going to make you go in," Zach a.s.sured Tom.

He cracked the window for fresh air and then made his way across the slushy parking lot.

Not many people were inside shopping today. Hardly surprising, since the weatherman had predicted more snow and the sky was a sheet of bloated gray clouds, just waiting to dump. Zach looked toward the checkout stands. No sign of Merilee. He went to the cat section. No one. He walked around the whole store but saw no sign of her. It was a weekday. She should have been there somewhere.

At last he snagged a couple of cans of cat food and wandered up to a checkout where a plump girl with short black hair and a nose ring was busy gossiping with the woman at the stand behind her.

"It was so unfair to fire her for standing up to that beeatch," said Miss Nose Ring. "Just because her family owns the store. Poor Merilee. She left in tears."