delivered with a sad hiccuping sound, and either the sound or the sharing itself elicited a minute look of disapproval from Anthony ( and in the same instant, a look of understanding and pity from Dorothy, which got the clever bits in the back of my head working on things ).
“Anthony, please fetch the cooler you’ll find in the pantry for Mr. Cunningham, and then leave us. Dorothy, my dear, it is splendid to see you a gain, and I so appreciate you arranging this meeting, as well as the next. Were you able to take care of the other thing we had talked about?” She spoke to Anthony and Dorothy as valued underlings, a not unfriendly tone that she seemed well-accustomed to.
Dorothy nodded, and gave her a quiet, “Yes Ma'am.” and seemed to give a slight curtsy, which is very un-Dorothy, but seemed in keeping with my summoner.
“Then if you would be so kind as to do me the favor of taking our other guest down to the lake for a swim and a walk, I would very much like to receive you both in twenty-five minutes. The smell of a wet dog, and the feel of a cold nose will do me some good, and twenty-five minutes should still be well before my family and nurse return; they would be shocked at the thought of a dog in this ‘ward’ in which I find myself.” Dorothy nodded and smiled as the old woman spoke, then turned and left, to get Cheeko, I assumed. Cheeko is the star pupil of a new program that Dorothy has been working on at the TLAS, therapy and hospice dog training for the homeless cats and dogs living in the shelter that she runs. Her hope is to help people in the Tri-Lakes, raise awareness and support for non-purebreds ( and non-dogs ) as therapy and hospice animals. As a sideline/hobby, it’s better work than most people do their entire lives ( certainly better than what I’m doing with my time ).
Dorothy gave my hand a squeeze on the way out, and Anthony came back in with an elderly metal cooler, which turned out to be stuffed with salted ice and Cokes ( I wondered briefly if the old woman was psychic, before settling on Dorothy as a more likely medium of information transfer ). He bent down to whisper in the old woman’s ear, and the briefest storm crossed her face before she shook her head and told him that she was fine, and that he could go. He did.
“My name is Catherine Crocker, Mr. Cunningham, and my friends, as I count dear Dorothy, and hope to soon count you as well, call me Kitty. A silly nickname, but I’ve worn it almost one hundred years, and will wear it around the final turn.” She didn’t offer to shake hands, and I didn’t move forward; the wasted claws on her lap looked as though they might snap or crumble if washed with strong soap.
“Please call me Tyler, Kitty. Dorothy said that you had a problem, and that I might be able to help you with it.” I stopped there, having nothing more, at the moment, to say.
“Straight to the point, I like that. Everyone in my world is careful and circumspect when speaking with me, and I simply haven’t the time for it any longer; a simple and direct conversation is to my liking. But before we get to that, Dorothy mentioned, when we spoke the other day, that you are partial to very cold Coca-Cola, from Canada; I had my Anthony run up and get some the other day, and it’s been cooling as she directed since Gwen, the cook, got going this morning on the day’s food. Why not have one while we talk, and I’ll see if I can explain my ‘problem’ as succinctly as you offered to help me with it a minute ago.”
I bent down, opened the cooler, and grabbed a can. I could tell by the label that Anthony had, in fact, driven all the way up to Canada ( probably 3 hours in a round trip, if there was no wait at the border ). I could tell by the way the can felt to my fingertips that it would be chilled nearly to the point of ice-crystals forming, so I opened it gently to avoid nucleation of the supercooled soda until it was in my mouth; the first sip was a