Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Once I’ve fed Prince Francis—he has special plates of his own—I go in search of the litter box. I don’t find it anywhere on the main floor, so I go upstairs. The ascent brings with it a spike of anxiety, along with old, painful memories I try not to let float to the surface. Not entirely rational, but I take a deep breath and remind myself that this house is empty apart from me and Prince Francis. All I find are a few knocked-over items in what appears to be the master bedroom.
I head back to the main floor, stumped, until I spot the cat door leading to the basement. Once I open it, I can smell that I’ve hit the jackpot. And not in a good way. I use my cardigan as a barrier between me and the horrible odor that grows progressively worse the closer I get to the bottom of the stairs.
“Well, this might explain some of the destruction,” I mutter, then gag, because I’m breathing in not just the smell of ammonia, but also a lot of cat doody. Prince Francis has taken a stand, his irritation with his inadequate bathroom facilities dotting the floor in little piles.
He appears beside me and plunks his butt down on my foot with a squeak.
“It’s pretty gross down here, isn’t it?” I ask.
He licks his paw.
I cringe, because I’m standing on litter.
I take a photo of the situation and send it to Miles, irked once again that he didn’t take care of this before he left. I’m not entirely confident I’ll know where to find the extra litter, and I can’t see any through the tears, my eyes are watering so badly.
It’s neglectful to leave it like this, but I’m also at risk of passing out from the fumes, so I climb the stairs and head for the back porch, gulping down fresh air.
I’m so busy trying to breathe and shake the stinging in my nose that I accidentally send a picture of my nostrils to Miles.
chapter six
A LITTLE BIT FASCINATED
Miles
I’m sitting next to Josh, eating breakfast with the team, when my phone pings. It’s in my bag beside my foot, and every time I get a new message it sends a buzz up my legs.
Another buzz.
“Is that your phone?” Josh asks and then shovels a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“Yeah. Kitty is supposed to check on my mother’s cat this morning.” I reach into my bag to see if it’s her texting me. I hope that happens soon, because the messages from my mom have been relentless, and apparently she requires photographic evidence of PF’s well-being before she’s satisfied. I get it, sort of. My neighbors who are watching Wilfred while I’m away have already sent a whole slew of photos, and I can’t say I don’t appreciate it.
“I still have a hard time believing that her company is called the Kitty Whisperer and her name is also actually Kitty. I still think it’s a gimmick,” Josh says.
I shrug. “If it is, it’s a pretty good one.”
Parker, who’s sitting across the table, leans in. “Are you guys talking about that woman who trains cats? She’s got a solid social media following. Kitty the Kitty Whisperer?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. What do you know about her?” Josh answers for me.
“She takes care of my great-grandad’s cat. He’s got real bad vision, and even with cataract surgery, it’s not getting any better. But he loves that freaking cat, so I hired her a few months back to help him out, and now she’s trained Bumbles to talk.” He shoves an entire strip of bacon into his mouth, accordion style.
“Wait. What? Do you mean he meows and sounds like he’s saying I love you or whatever?” I ask.
Parker shakes his head and holds up a finger, swallowing the bacon before he continues. “There’s this dog on social media who uses all kinds of buttons to communicate. I know this because my sister follows animal accounts and sends me the reels all the time. Anyway, I guess this Kitty woman figured she could apply the same principle to cats, and now Bumbles has three.” He grabs his phone and pulls up a video of a very round cat hitting a button that says “treat” repeatedly in a digital voice. “Here’s the video she posted last week. She’s pretty cool. Kinda hot, too.”
“Have you met her?” I don’t know why that idea irks me. Maybe because Parker is a walking hormone, and the fame of making the NHL, coupled with the attention on social media—particularly from women—is inflating his ego a little too quickly.
Parker sets his phone back on the table and shakes his head. “Nah, but I watch her videos sometimes. Have you?” His brow quirks up.
“Yeah, yesterday. She’s watching my mother’s cat while I’m away.” I cringe as the image of tackling her to the floor pops into my head. I really wish I could undo that event. I also wish my body would stop having inappropriate reactions to that memory. It’s very conflicting to have a semi over tackling an odd but attractive woman to the floor. Over a water gun.