Author: Steph (ILUVNYYANK@aol.com)
Category: Humor
Pairings: Josh/Donna friendship, Josh/Sam friendship, Josh/Fluffy
interaction.
POV: Josh
Summary: While caring for Donna's cat, Josh accidentally kills it.
Rating: PG
Archive: Sure, just let me know where.
Spoilers: Nope.
Disclaimer: The West Wing and its characters do not belong to me.
They
belong to Aaron Sorkin, NBC, et al. I do this out of a love for the show
and
no infringement is intended.
Note: No cats were harmed in the writing of this fanfic :)
* * * The Demise of Fluffy* * *
Okay, this isn't happening. I am denying the
existence of this
occurrence.
I killed Donna's cat.
Oh damn, don't give me that look! If *you*
give me *that* look, what
the hell can I expect from Donna?
It was an accident. A total accident.
It could've happened to anyone. It could've happened
to you, so you
can wipe that self-righteous expression off your face.
It all started at 10:00 pm on Friday.
* * * Flashback: 36 hours ago * * *
Ding dong.
Oh, who the hell is that? Give me a break. I
haven't gotten home from
work before 10:00 pm in...wow...in I can't even remember how long.
Until now, I was sitting in my boxers and ripped
Yale t-shirt,
enjoying an ice cold beer. I have been engaging in what is commonly
referred
to as 'channel surfing' for quite some time. 200 freakin' channels and
there
isn't a damn thing on. I mean, I am seriously considering watching my
public
access channel.
Public access, people.
Have you ever stopped and actually watched one of the
programs on those
stations? To say they are sad is a gross understatement.
I have seen the following on my public access
channel: a meeting of
some sort of witches' coven, a call-in talk show about wrestling with
pimple-faced teenagers as the hosts, a sock puppet performance of 'Romeo and
Juliet' and, my personal favorite, a rendition of 'Who Let the Dogs Out'
performed by two poodles.
Is it sad that these shows are on and that there are
people in this
world who have worked hard to produce them? Yes, it is.
Is it sadder that I have actually seen these shows
and comprise half
of their audience of about two? Yes...Yes, it is.
For the record, their other viewer is probably some
guy living in his
parents' basement and those were his socks performing.
My social life sucks. I don't know why I am so
surprised. When you
spend practically every waking moment working, it's hard to meet anyone.
And, when I do have time to actually go make a social life, I am way too
exhausted to even try.
I am going to die a lonely man watching crappy
television programs.
So, that's the frame of mind I am in as my doorbell
rings. I am feeling
grumpy.
I ease myself out of my recliner and make my way to the
door. I fling
the door open to reveal my assistant.
My eyebrows raise in surprise, but I manage a
grin. "A half an hour
without me too much to bear, huh?"
She rolls her eyes in response and shoves what seems
to be a cat
carrier into my arms. "I have to fly to Wisconsin. My
Great-aunt Hilda
died."
"Oh, I'm sorry."
"Don't be. She was a bitch. I'm
only going because I'm afraid she'll
put a curse on me from beyond the grave if I don't."
"A curse?"
"Yes. She cursed my cousin, Jackie, at age
five, because she said that
Aunt Hilda was fat. Jackie now lacks self-esteem and dates
deadbeats."
I smirk, "Are you sure your aunt hasn't already
cursed you?"
I am rewarded with a good-natured slap on the
arm. I smile and look
down at the cat carrier. "So, what's this?"
"I am going to be gone all weekend, Josh.
I need you to take care of
Fluffy."
I am shaking my head. "Uh, no. I
don't do cats."
Okay, that sounded weird and creepy.
"You don't do any animals, Josh."
That sounded even weirder and creepier.
She continues with a grin, "You can't care for living
things very well,
Josh. As a child, three turtles, two hamsters, an iguana and a pet rock
met
their demise while in your care."
I smile, "The passing of the pet rock was
especially tragic."
"You seem to have an inability and
unwillingness to care for living
things."
"That's right," I reply. "I
care for only one living thing: myself."
"Yes, I've noticed. And you're not even
good at that," she pauses,
"Look, if I had time to find someone else, believe me, I would. But
I don't,
so you're it."
"What about your roommate?"
"Moved out last week. Took the other cat,
Flopsy, with her."
I smile. "Good, I hated Flopsy. She
always gave me very sinister
looks."
Donna scoffs, "Not that I believe that cats can
give looks of any
kind, Josh, but that was Fluffy."
My face falls. "It's this one?"
"Yup."
I try to hand her the carrier. "Sorry, no
can do."
She pushes the carrier back into my chest, "You
have to do this for
me, Josh. How many times have I bailed you out?"
"Well, you are my assistant. Any bailing
out has fallen under your
assistant duties."
"Picking my drunken boss, who has panties
around his neck, up off the
floor, is not a part of my job description."
"I hate this cat," I declare. Okay,
so it was probably more of a
whine, but it was definitely warranted. "He's creepy."
"He's a cat."
"A cat with less than pure motives."
"Yeah, Josh, I'm sure he's planning to rob you blind
in the middle of
the night."
"I'm just saying I don't trust him."
She sighs. I think her patience has worn
thin. "All you have to do
is feed him, give him fresh water and clean his litter box everyday."
She hands me a large bag containing all that I
need.
"What about your neighbors? That lady across the hall
from you seems
very capable."
"She's ninety-five, blind, deaf and confined to
bed, Josh."
"Picky, picky." I pause and then ask,
"And your other neighbors?"
She shakes her head, "It's 10:00 pm on a
Friday. Unlike you and I,
they actually have lives."
I groan, as Donna smiles and gives me what can only be termed
a
condescending pat on the head. "All you have to do is feed him, give him
water and clean his litterbox everyday," she repeats and then adds
jokingly,
"Oh, and try not to kill him."
* * * Present Day * * *
Oops.
Let me just say in my defense that the first three
things I did very
well.
The cat was given food and water everyday whenever he
wanted them.
His litterbox was so much cleaner than my bathroom that I
considered
using it instead.
True, the fourth thing proved to be a bit of a
challenge. Okay, not so
much a challenge as a total, utter failure.
Who knew it would be so hard to keep a cat alive for
a whole weekend?
* * * Flashback: 35 hours and 51 minutes ago* * *
I enter my apartment and place the cat carrier down
on the floor. I
proceed to empty the bag Donna gave me. It includes five cans of
soft cat
food (three of tuna and two of chicken medley), a bag of dry food, three
bowls (one for soft food, one for dry food, and one for water), a small
litter box, a bag of litter, two squeezie toys (a mouse and a mangled bird),
and two old socks filled with catnip.
I smile at the catnip.
Marijuana for cats.
Give a cat something with catnip in it and they'll keep
themselves
occupied for hours. They go crazy for the stuff. Cats get high off
catnip.
I once witnessed Flopsy run around in circles for thirty minutes straight and
then collapse in exhaustion after being exposed to it.
My question is why isn't catnip illegal? Why
don't cats have to
conform to the same standards as humans do?
Can you just picture catnip being illegal: There
would be all of these
good, domesticated cats sneaking out at night and prowling the streets
looking for their dealer. They'd walk down an alley, find their dealer
and
exchange their rhinestone collars for catnip.
I finish pondering the catnip and then walk over to
the cat carrier.
I crouch down and look at the cat through the plastic bars.
He hisses at me.
I hiss back.
I loathe this cat. And it's not even entirely
due to the sinister
looks he always gives me. He has scratched me, bitten me, peed on my leg,
and I swear one of his hisses sounded like 'Josh will die' once.
I sigh, as I undo the latch. He immediately
runs out and through my
legs. He proceeds to run amok.
Fluffy jumps from the couch to the recliner, then to the
coffee table.
My eyes widen in horror, as he knocks my glass of ice cold beer over.
I am not ashamed to admit that a tear comes to my eye as
the beer lands
on my rug. I cry not for the rug, but for the beer. I can't stand
to see
alcohol wasted.
Fluffy then runs into the kitchen and jumps up on
the counter. I can
hear a plate crash to the floor. I run into the kitchen to capture the
mongrel, but he eludes me. He scampers down the hall and into the
bathroom.
I follow after him and then slam the door closed behind him.
Ha! Now he's my prisoner.
I talk to him through the door, "I'll let you
out when you think you
can behave."
Yeah, I'm sure he's considering his actions right
now.
I walk to the kitchen and fill one bowl with water
and one with dry
food. I return to the door and get down on my knees. After three
attempts
at pushing the bowls under the door, I give up. I slowly turn the
doorknob
and open up the door only enough to fit the bowls through.
I notice something, however, as I listen carefully
and look around.
He's nowhere in sight and it's very quiet.
Too quiet.
I'm just about to enter the bathroom, when I see an
airborne cat
hurling himself at my head. Apparently, he had perched himself on my
counter, at a spot where I couldn't see him, and had waited until the perfect
moment. Then he pounced.
The cat lands on my head, his claws digging into my
scalp. I shriek
(like a girl, I admit) and immediately jump to my feet. I then proceed to
run around in circles, while vigorously shaking my head back and forth.
Unfortunately, this cat's got a grip like
Hercules. Finally, after
what seems like hours of running, shrieking, hair (mine) flying every which
way, and a brief prayer to God that I will be an honest man if he ends this,
the cat apparently tires of torturing me and simply jumps off my head.
I collapse to the ground and begin to whimper.
(Note to God: I'm a politician, I lie a lot.)
After recovering from my ordeal and coming to terms with
the fact that
I now have considerably less hair than I did before, my eyes land on the cat.
I've decided to call him Satan's Minion. I
hope nobody has a problem
with that.
I follow Satan's Minion down the hall and watch as he stops
at my
bedroom door. He glances back at me, offers me a devilish (yeah,
that's
right) look and then enters my bedroom. I walk to my doorway and am just
about to enter the room, when the door slams in my face.
My eye widen in shock.
How the hell did he do that?
Ah yes, he's one of Satan's minions. He has
the help of the Dark One.
He has the strength of ten men.
Okay, so maybe that's a bit far-fetched, but I'm at
a loss. How does
a eight pound fleebag slam a solid oak door closed that was wide open?
I'm back to the Satan's minion explanation.
I drop my head and walk to the living room.
The truth is, and I am
ashamed to admit this, but I am now terrified of this cat. I fear
that he
will somehow open my bedroom door and scratch my eyes out as I sleep.
Therefore, I have done something drastic: I've locked
myself in my hall
closet and assumed the fetal position.
* * * *
It's morning by the time I venture out of my hall
closet. That wasn't
the best night's sleep I've ever had. It's a little crowded in
here. I'm
not the neatest person who's ever walked the planet.
I slept amidst hangers, clothes, shoes, and, curiously, a
banana and
bologna sandwich. I was hungry, so I examined the banana and
bologna
sandwich to determine if they were still edible. (Note: Still edible to
me
means less than two weeks old and no more than a quarter of it, if
applicable, covered with mold.) Half of the sandwich was covered in mold,
so
I opted for the banana. A strange smell also disrupted my beauty
rest. It
was combination of stinky shoes, bananas and a moldy bologna sandwich.
Anyway, I finally emerge from the closet this
morning. I tiptoe down
the hall towards my bedroom and am astonished to find the door wide open.
What the hell?!
Okay, this cat is seriously freaking me out. I mean,
now he can turn
doorknobs?
I run a hand through my hair and emit a loud
moan.
I walk to my bathroom to shower and then change.
A half an hour later, I'm in a much better
mood. I've decided that I
no longer care about the cat. I don't care where he is. I don't
care if he
eats or drinks. I don't care. I've left him food and water, I've
done my
job. Now, he can fend for himself. I cannot wait until Donna comes
home
tomorrow night.
I proceed to go about my day. I go into the
kitchen and fix myself a
proper breakfast. After eating, I call Sam up.
"Hey, buddy, you want to come over to my place
and watch my Mets kick
your Giants asses this afternoon?"
Sam smiles, "Sure, I'll be over at 1."
I hang up the phone and continue to go about my day,
without a care in
the world. Carefree. Free as a bird.
I fear not the cat, I care not about the cat.
I pass the time by 'tidying' my place. By
tidying I mean moving my
dirty clothes from the couch to the floor and putting the cap back on my
toothpaste.
The phone rings just as I'm about to go relax on the
couch and watch
some television. I pick up on the second ring.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Josh."
I narrow my eyes and say coldly,
"Donnatella."
She senses something is wrong, "What did you
do?"
"What did *I* do? Your cat has nearly
ruined my life."
Okay, so that was a little melodramatic
and...well...entirely untrue.
But I have to lay it on thick if I want any pity.
"Josh, stop being so dramatic. I am sure
the cat has been no trouble
at all."
"No trouble at all? He knocked over my
beer, Donna."
"Oh, heavens, how tragic."
"Fine, mock me. But there are men in this world
who have no beer.
Think about them."
"Yes, Josh, and for just 75 cents a day you can
sponsor a beerless man
and give him the alcohol he so desperately needs."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Okay, okay. Tell me what else he
did."
"He broke one of my plates. He attacked
me. I'm talking, a scene from
"The Birds", only with a cat. He then slammed my door
shut! A cat slammed
my door shut! What the hell do you feed that thing? Or, as I
suspect, is he
one of Satan's minions?"
I can hear Donna burst into laughter. She
doesn't even attempt to
disguise it. That's a tad insulting.
"Donna!" I yell.
She finally recovers long enough to say, "I'm
sorry, Josh, but you act
like you're being terrorized by a cat. This isn't some really bad horror
movie."
"Fine, don't believe me. Just pick
Beelzebub up promptly at 8:00 pm
tomorrow night."
"Ah, he's been promoted from one of Satan's
minions to the devil
himself. Impressive."
"Good-bye," I grumble into the phone and
slam it down.
I continue to mutter beneath my breath as I go over to the
couch and
flop down on it.
I spend the rest of the time until Sam arrives watching the
public
access channel. What can I say? Some habits are hard to
break.
At precisely 1:00 pm my doorbell rings. I walk
to the door and shake
my head at my best friend. "Annoyingly prompt as always, Sam."
Sam smiles, as he walks past me and surveys my
apartment,
"Disgustingly sloppy as always, Josh."
"Welcome to my humble abode," I say with a
flourish of my hand, as I
close the door.
Sam makes himself comfortable on the couch, as I
head to kitchen.
"Beer?"
"Yeah, thanks."
I go over to the refrigerator and remove two beers
from it. I enter
back into the living room and hand Sam his beer.
He points to the cat carrier, as I settle into my
recliner. "What's
that about?"
I roll my eyes. "I'm taking care of
Donna's cat this weekend. She
had to go to her Great-aunt's funeral in Wisconsin."
"And she asked *you* to take care of him?"
I feign a smile, "Yes, me. I am perfectly
capable of taking care of a
cat for a couple of days, Sam."
"You killed a pet rock, Josh. I didn't
even think that was possible."
"It was smashed to pieces. I don't see
how that could be my fault."
"You hit it with a hammer!"
I smile and then shrug, as I lean back and pull the
handle on the side
of the recliner so that the leg rest pops up. "Well, I have nothing
to do
with the cat now. He's on his own. I don't care about him. I
haven't even
seen him all day."
Sam nods and then says, "Got any chips?"
I bob my head and use my feet to slam the leg rest
back in place.
Strange. That seemed a bit harder to do than
usual.
And what was that little shriek I heard?
I look over at Sam, whose face has gone white.
Oh. My. God.
This is not happening.
I shake my head at him, "It wasn't-..."
He interrupts me by nodding furiously and pointing to a
little bit of
white fur sticking out from under the recliner. "It was."
I jump up from the recliner and begin to
panic. This can't be
happening. No God could be this cruel! Please, don't let this
be happening.
I look over at Sam, "Do you think he's
dead?"
He shrugs, "I don't know."
"Go check."
"Me?! Why do I have to do it?"
"Because I may have just killed my assistant's
cat! I'm in a fragile
place right now!"
"I'm not doing it," Sam says with a firm
shake of his head.
I study Sam for a moment, realizing that I need to
appeal to his
weakness: the fact that he is one of the nicest, most sensitive men you
could ever meet.
"Sam, if he's not dead then we have to bring
him to the vet. He needs
help. If he is dead, than he deserves a proper burial."
Sam looks at me with a certain amount of contempt
and then mutters
softly, "Damn". He pauses and then adds, "That was cheap,
Josh. That was
cheap even for you."
I shrug. A man's got to do what a man's got to
do.
Sam walks over to the recliner and carefully lifts
the leg rest up.
He looks quickly and then slams it closed again. He looks at me solemnly,
"He's dead."
I run a hand through my hair and shake my
head.
I am so incredibly screwed right now.
* * * Present Day * * *
And that's where you guys came in.
A half an hour after the death, the animal hospital came
to remove the
body of the cat and I gave them my permission to bury it in their pet
cemetery.
I spent the rest of that day denying that anything had
happened. Sam
stayed with me, repeatedly reminding me of the incident.
It is now 10:00 am on Sunday and Donna is expected here in
10 hours. I
have now accepted the fact that I killed Donna's cat and decided that I need
a plan.
First, Sam helps me carry my recliner outside and place it
on the curb.
That object, which once held so many happy memories, only reminds me of how
incredibly screwed I am right now.
Don't get me wrong, I am not entirely selfish. I
feel really bad about
Fluffy dying.
But I must carry on and try to save my own ass.
I look at Sam, "We have to go to the pet store."
"Josh, no."
"Sam, I am not telling Donna that I killed her cat in
a freak recliner
accident."
"Why? That's what happened. I witnessed
it."
"I know, but she'll never believe that. I just
finished telling her
how much I hate the thing."
"So, maybe you subconsciously-..."
"Sam!"
"I'm just saying-..."
"Don't just say. That's the kind of help that's
going to do me in."
"Do me in? When did this turn into a Western
movie?"
I ignore him and begin to walk down the street.
"I'm going to the pet
store. Come, don't come, it's entirely up to you."
I can hear him sigh in defeat and then break into a jog to
catch up
with me. He joins me at my side. "Fine, I'll go with
you. But I'd just
like to say that I am totally opposed to this. It goes against all of my
morals and values. It violates the common decency that we, as a society,
should-..."
I roll my eyes, cutting him off, "Yeah, yeah, I get
it. You're not for
it."
Sam snaps his mouth shut and remains silent the rest of
the way to the
store.
We enter the store and head towards the cat section.
To my dismay,
there are only two cats left. One is a humongous orange and white striped
cat. It could never pass as Fluffy. He had long white hair and
weighed
about half as much.
The other was a black cat who looked to be about the same
size as
Fluffy.
Sam looks at me, "Well, let's go. None of these cats
could pass for
Fluffy."
I shake my head, "Not so fast. That black one
could work."
Sam's eyes widen. "I know you're not the most
observant guy in the
world, Josh, but Fluffy was white."
"I know."
"So?"
"Have you ever seen the movie 'Meet the Parents',
Sam?"
"No."
"Well, you should, it's really very good.
Anyway, in that movie Ben
Stiller's character loses his fiancees' family cat. He finds a cat that
is
identical except for a slightly different tail. So, he sprays the cat's
tail
to resemble that of the lost one."
Sam's eyes nearly fall out of his head. "You're
not suggesting that
we...Josh, this cat is entirely black. We couldn't possibly spray paint a
cat all white."
Josh nods, "No, of course not."
"Oh, thank God."
"I'm going to pour flour all over it."
"What?!"
"Flour. You know, used in the making of bread
and-..."
"I know what flour is!"
"So then why did you ask?"
"I was expressing shock at the fact that you plan to
flour a cat. It
won't work, Josh."
"Well, we're going to find out. This cat's got
long hair, Sam. It
should hold the flour well."
At this point, Sam grabs me by the shoulders and looks me
straight in
the eye. "Josh, you've lost it. I can't allow you to do this."
I drop my head. He's right. I've gone insane.
How could I have
thought that would work?"
"You're right," I agree.
He sighs in relief, "Thank God. Now let's go
home and prepare a speech
for you to give Donna as an explanation."
"No, we're going to another pet store."
"Josh!" I hear him exclaim, as I walk past
him and head out the door.
The next store is only a few blocks away and I make it
there in record
time. Sam catches up to me, huffing and puffing.
"You can't do this."
"I can and I will."
"Why can't you just tell Donna the truth?"
"Because she will hate me forever, Sam!
I'll lose my assistant and
friend."
"She'll understand."
I shake my head and step towards the door, but Sam moves
to block my
path.
"I kindly ask that you step aside, Sam."
"I won't let you do this."
I sigh and then smile as an idea hits me. I turn to
my right and point
down the block, "Hey, is Tootie from 'The Facts of Life'?"
"Where?" Sam says excitedly, as he steps
forward and whips his head in
that direction.
I take this opportunity to maneuver past him and enter the
store. I
hear him scream, "Damn!", before he follows me inside.
I hurry to the cat section at the back of the store and
survey my
options.
Aha! They have one that looks like Fluffy!
He's about the same size
and color.
I gesture to one of the employees, as Sam shoots me
disapproving looks.
"I'll take that one."
"Yes, sir," she says.
She removes the cat from his cage and proceeds to prepare
it to go. I
pay the cashier and then receive instructions on proper care and
recommendations for food, litter and health care.
I nod, as we leave the store with the cat.
Sam is silent for quite some time, until he finally says,
"You're going
to hell for this, you know."
"Sam, if this is the worst thing I do in the course
of my life, then
I'll consider myself a pretty decent human being."
"Satan's playground. That's where you're
going."
* * * *
It's been 26 hours since Fluffy met his
demise.
Fluffy Part Deux, as I've taken to calling her, is doing
just fine.
We've known each other for a few hours now and we're getting along well.
And
she's a much better roommate.
We've actually been bonding. We watched a production
of 'CATS' this
afternoon on PBS. We both agreed that the cats were not realistic
interpretations.
At 5:00 pm, the phone rings. I go to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Hi, Josh."
I swallow hard. "Hi, Donna. Um, how's it
going?"
"Everything's fine. I'm on my way home. I
should be there around 8:00
pm, just as you requested."
"Oh, no rush, take your time."
"What? Yesterday, you couldn't wait to get rid
of him. Now you're
completely content? What happened?"
"Uh...we...Uh...We reached an understanding. He
promised to stop
leaving the toilet seat up if I promised to stop licking myself."
"Very funny. Now try the truth."
"Nothing happened, Donna. We've been staying
out of each other's way,
that's all."
Wow, I've really become good at this lying thing. I almost
believe me.
There's still a hint of suspicion in her voice, as she
replies, "Okay,
fine. I'll see you in a little while."
"Okay."
"Oh and Josh?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
"Yeah," I say softly and then hang up.
Damn, why did she have to sound so appreciative. I'd
very nearly
suppressed all guilty feelings until then.
Oh well, that's okay. It's passed.
* * * *
3 hours later, my doorbell rings. I take a deep
breath and go to
answer it. Donna smiles back at me.
"Hi, Josh."
"Hi...Uh, come in."
She walks past me and immediately goes over to the couch
to pick up
Fluffy.
"How's my boy?" she says.
I stand across from her uncomfortably, as she cradles the
cat in her
arms.
My heart skips a beat, however, when she looks down at him
and says,
"Now what's this?"
Oh no. Oh God. Please, don't let her figure it
out.
I look over at her and am relieved to find that she is
admiring the
ribbon I tied around his neck. (What? Male cats can't look a
little fancy,
too?)
She looks up at me, "You put this on him?"
"Well, he has a date with a wild Persian down the
hall tonight. He
wanted to look his best."
Donna smiles and says softly, "That was sweet."
There it is again. That pang.
What is it called again?
Yes, that's right.
Guilt.
Donna begins to move around the room, gathering the cat's
belongings.
I help her and then walk her to the door.
She smiles again, "Thanks so much for doing this,
Josh. I know you
didn't want to. I really appreciate it."
"It was my pleasure. If you ever need someone
to take care of Fluffy
again feel free to...call someone else," I finish with a grin.
Donna laughs and nods. She then bids me good-bye and
disappears down
the hall.
I let out a sigh of relief, as a lean against my door.
I did it. I fooled her. She'll never
know. Everybody wins.
Donna is spared pain and I, in turn, am spared pain.
I am da man.
* * * Three weeks later * * *
There is a banging at my door. A loud, violent
banging.
It's 3:00 am and I have to force my eyes open. I try
to rub the sleep
out of them to no avail.
I slowly get out of bed and head to my door. I stop
dead in my tracks,
two feet away from the door.
"Open the door, Josh! I know you're in
there," Donna screams.
Oh no. Oh no. Oh no.
I freeze and try to remain perfectly still.
"Open up! I know what you did, Joshua!"
How could she possibly know?
Sam!
That dirty rat. Is a pinky swear no longer sacred?
"Did you think I wouldn't notice that my male cat is
now female?!"
My mouth drops open.
What?!
You've got to be kidding me.
"It was kind of a dead giveaway when she went into
labor two hours ago!"
Damn!
This keeps getting worse and worse. I knew it was
too good to be true.
"Open the damn door, Josh!"
Okay, so what I decided to do next probably wasn't the
best of choices,
but I panicked. "No habla ingles!"
I can hear her snicker and her voice drops to an eerily
calm tone,
"Fine, don't open the door. I'll just leave this gift outside your
door.
You know, as a thank you."
I raise my eyebrows at that. Hm, maybe she's come
around. Maybe she's
glad that she now has a whole littler of kittens to keep her company.
I wonder what she got me.
A Piazza jersey maybe? That DVD set of 'Clarissa
Explains It All?'
(Don't laugh. Clarissa was very wise. I learned a lot from her.)
Oh! Maybe
it's that combination radio/tv/cd player I saw a couple of months ago.
The suspense is killing me!
I throw the door open and drop my gaze to the floor.
Oh. My. God.
She wouldn't. She didn't.
Sitting at my feet in a basket, are six white
kittens.
She would. She did.
I am so totally screwed.
************************THE END************************
Hope you enjoyed it and please let me know what you thought. ~Steph
