Cats In Clover

  ***

  After a trip to Mora Bay to explore a couple of small craft galleries, the others had a quick swim and then joined me for a cocktail beside the pool. A cool breeze came up and sent us inside for a second drink and plates of crackers and provolone cheese.

  His Royal Highness could scent cheese the way Ben could scent trouble in a new government budget and he was soon on my lap, trying to get at the piece I had hidden in my hand. I popped it into my mouth. He stood up on his hind legs and gently patted my lips with one paw.

  "Look at him!" Sue poked Gareth in the ribs. "I'd never have believed that if I hadn't seen it."

  I put George on the floor and crumbled some cheese for him. Soon we moved into the dining room for Ben's birthday dinner of baked chicken. This was George's favorite meal and he wanted it handed to him bite by bite off the Houseboy's dinner plate. Ben rationed it carefully, afraid George would eat too much and upchuck.

  When George had had six or seven small bites, Ben said, "That's all there is, George."

  The King knew that was a bald-faced lie. He paced around the Houseboy's chair, complaining. Ben gave him a small piece of broccoli.

  George bit into it, spat it out and marched away, ears back and tail quivering with indignation.

  "I feel terrible doing that to him," the Houseboy said.

  "Would you prefer scrubbing the carpet?"

  Ben's face cleared and he tucked into what was left of his chicken, with a couple of muttered remarks about dogs he had known and how easy they were to feed.

  After dinner, the four of us sprawled around the living room, gossiping, while Beanbag slept under the coffee table.

  "Have you thought of a name for the farm yet?" Gareth asked."

  "Yes," I said, "Holly's Folly."

  "You don't mean that," Ben said, a hopeful expression on his face. "You love it here."

  "You wish."

  Ben sighed.

  A stealthy movement caught my attention. George, belly to the floor, was creeping up on the dog.

  Corgis may not stand tall or look graceful but they are hunting dogs, very fast. Beanbag seemed to fear cats, but I didn't trust his reaction to claws waking him out of a sound sleep. I grabbed His Magnificence just as he was about to launch himself, removed him to the safety of my studio and shut the door.

  "What was that all about?" Sue asked.

  "George thought he was going to have Beanbag for a midnight snack."

  "That cat is crazy."

  "Not so loud!" I warned. "He's into big game hunting now. If he hears you bad-mouthing him, you could be next."

  "I think you should call the farm 'Animal Crackers'."

  "We're the ones who are crazy," Ben said. "George knows exactly what he's doing."

  When Gareth and Sue headed upstairs to their bedroom, I said, "If you use the bathroom during the night, leave the door open when you come out. George's drinking water is in there."

  "Why?"

  "His Highness is as finicky about where he drinks water as he is about what kind of food he'll eat."

  Drinking water had never been a problem with other cats I'd known. Water is water is water, as Gertrude Stein might have said. But not to George. His water dish, cleaned and refilled daily, sat next to the waste paper basket in the bathroom because he simply would not drink out of it anywhere else.

  "We'll take Beanbag in our room, just in case your mad king decides to attack him again," Gareth said.

  About three a.m. I made a trip to the bathroom, blinking in the bright moonlight that bathed the hallway. There sat George, head forward, ears perked. Two feet from him was a garter snake, coiled upward in rattler fashion, staring back at him. In spite of my large size and clumsy feet, neither paid me any attention.

  I could think of only one solution. I tiptoed down to the kitchen, got a heavy saucepan lid, brought it back upstairs, and placed it over the snake. Then I went to the bathroom. When I got back into bed, I poked the Houseboy.

  "There's a snake in the hall."

  VI - Big Game Hunting

  "That rooster woke me up at five this morning," Gareth complained, as he and Sue joined Ben and me at the kitchen table. "I thought country living was supposed to be peaceful and serene."

  "That's what Ben said when he was trying to talk me into moving here," I said.

  "Mr. Mighty wants everyone to get up and admire the new day. And himself, of course." Ben poured the coffee, smiling and no doubt congratulating himself on his agility in changing subjects.

  "George is a night bird, too." Sue rubbed her thigh. "When I went to the bathroom at two this morning, he pushed the door open and came in for some water. Then he jumped on my lap and kneaded my bare thighs. My skin feels like a lace table cloth."

  Gareth smiled. "When I went in, George sat and stared at me the whole time. It was almost embarrassing."

  The phone rang and I handed Ben the spatula. "The bacon's almost ready to come out. And one of these days we have to get a phone in the kitchen."

  I came back from the hall, elated, and said to Gareth and Sue, "That was my sister, Ginna, in Dawson Creek." I turned to Ben. "Tom's been transferred to Calgary and they're getting a month's holiday before they go. They want to come and spend it with us."

  "What will they do here for a whole month?" Ben asked.

  "Tom loves building things." I stirred sugar into my coffee. "He says he wants to help renovate the downstairs."

  "I think it's a great idea," Gareth said. "Maybe I can come over for a couple of weekends and help out, too."

  "I'd be crazy to say no." Ben gave me the spatula. "Bring on breakfast, Holly; we have to build some muscle."

  A surprised and strangled "Caw!" sounded from the veranda.

  A crow. Even with a quiet morning and the front door open, it sounded much closer than usual.

  Another "Caw!" from the living room.

  Ben and I raced for the doorway and collided as we tried to get through it at the same time.

  There was George the Magnificent, lean and mean, his teeth clamped on the neck of a crow as big as himself, dragging the bird across the floor to his killing ground behind the couch.

  Ben yelled and George let go of the crow. The terrified bird flapped around the living room, defecating with every wing stroke. George raced back and forth below and Beanbag stood in the doorway, barking furiously.

  We used a broom to chase the crow out the front door, George running after it and cursing us for losing yet another of his trophies.

  "If this was ancient Rome," Ben said, "the senators would grant George a triumph."

  "What does that mean?" Sue asked.

  "George would wear a special purple toga and parade around the yard in a chariot with the crow in chains walking behind him." Ben nodded at me. "His head slave would walk beside him, holding a laurel wreath over his head and reminding him every so often that he's mortal, like everyone else, therefore he shouldn't get a big head."

  I reached for the rug cleaner. "I remind him every day that he's merely a cat with too much attitude, but it doesn't do any good."

  After breakfast, Ben opened the French doors and looked out. "There's not a crow in sight. If we taught George to catch one every day, that might keep them away permanently."

  "You must believe in miracles," Gareth said. "Besides, I don't think you're teaching George anything; he's teaching you."

  Ben frowned, remembering all the things George had taught him. "But we could encourage him. Then, if we kept the doors shut and blocked the cat flap, he couldn't bring them in."

  "I bet you believe in the tooth fairy, too," I said, patting his arm.