A Cat Called Cupid: A Romantic Comedy Novella Read Online Free

myself and giving the game away.
    “Hello,” I heard Craig say. “Are you Ann? I’m terribly sorry, but I think I just ran over your cat.” 

Chapter Three
     
    The vet said it was a miracle. Right after “the accident,” I’d taken the precaution of refusing to get up. Of course, I made a show of trying. I’d struggle to get on my feet, and I’d manage to get up on my front legs for a second before sinking back to the ground. From time to time I’d give out another piteous moan, as if I were, even at that very second, being interviewed by St. Peter at the pearly gates. Cats go to heaven, you know. I’m sure felinekind will be much more highly represented in the green fields of paradise than, say, Senators or Boston Terriers.
    My ruse worked. Beautifully. In response to Craig’s frantic phone call, Ann came rushing down to the parking lot. There were hurried introductions. Craig was beside himself with remorse for running over me, a completely sincere show of contrition which was sure to win him points later on when I turned out not to be mortally wounded after all. Ann stayed beside me while Craig went to get a box lined with a clean towel. On his return, Craig lifted me into the box, and we all got into Craig’s car and made a long silent journey to the animal hospital. I had hoped for more in the way of chitchat, but I suppose the presence of my broken and possibly expiring body in the backseat put a damper on things.
    The vet did a very thorough exam. It’s my understanding that the human male fears undergoing prostate exams. Getting one’s temperature taken the old-fashioned way is much the same. After a check of my vital signs had been dispensed with, I was bundled off to the x-ray.
    “No broken bones,” said the vet. “It’s a miracle.”
    Ann was so relieved that she started to cry. Craig, who’d remained with us throughout, patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.
    “Normally,” the vet said, “I ’d suggest keeping him here overnight, but with no broken bones and no evidence of internal injuries—”
    “ I just don’t understand it,” said Ann. “There’s not a scratch on him.”
    “I ’m amazed too,” said the vet. “But animals often surprise us with their resilience.”
 
    T hey took me home. Craig accompanied us up the stairs, and, after Ann set my box down in a sunny spot on the living room floor, they exchanged phone numbers.
    “I can’t say how sorry I am,” said Craig. It was the fiftieth such of similar statements.
    What followed was a lot of back and forth about who should take responsibility for the vet bill. It seemed that Craig had already paid it, but Ann argued that he couldn’t be blamed. It was her fault for letting me wander free. If Cupid—referring to me, of course—didn’t know enough to stay out from under cars, then perhaps he—again, referring to me—should be an inside-only cat.
    I seeth ed with indignation. Inside-only cat, indeed! And after I’d risked life and limb for her future happiness. However, my wounded feelings were soothed considerably when—after Craig had departed—Ann opened a can of salmon and coaxed me to eat.
    I couldn’t wolf it down, of course. I certainly wanted to. I’d missed my breakfast , and the old tummy was putting up a hearty protest, but I restrained myself and took small feeble bites. No good could come of a premature recovery.
    I lazed around the apartment for another couple of days. I was hoping that if I waited long enough to agitate for a return to my former free-range lifestyle, My Lady would have forgotten that I was too stupid to be let out on my own. I wasn’t, of course—stupid, I mean—but there is always a price to pay for feigning ignorance.  
    It was during the third day of my confinement when Cat Hater came crawling back on hands and knees. Not literally, of course. That would have been too dignified. No, the groveling came in the form of a series of texts, each one more loathsome than the