An Unusual Pet

 

An Unusual Pet

His mouth did it. It was so sensuous that I couldn’t say no to his invitation, but you have to understand that getting picked up by men in bars is not something I allow to happen. I have to admit his approach was intriguing though.

“What is the most unusual animal you have ever encountered?” He asked, as he sat down at my table.

“Pardon?”

“Unusual creatures, name one you have seen.”

I was going to tell him to get lost, but his mouth caught me. It reminded me of Julia Roberts, a little large, with well-shaped sensuous lips, and a really pleasant smile that lit up his grey eyes. It almost made me forget his question.

“I suppose it was a hedgehog,” I finally said. “A friend of mine at University had one as a pet. What is yours?” In for a penny, in for a loonie.

“Mine is my pet cat,” he told me, and his eyes sparkled with mirth.

“A cat is not unusual, unless it is one of the hairless breed. I would love to see one of those.” Yes, I realize that was an opening on my part. “Tell me you have a sphyns, a bambino, a donskoy, a peterbald, or one of the other three.”

“Ooh, no. I would never have one of those things. A cat has to be able to sit on your lap while you pet it. I can rub my own belly if I want to feel skin.”

His physical appearance, viewed as he approached my table, suggested that the word ‘belly’ should be replaced with ‘abs’--firm sculpted abs at that.

“Long hair, short hair?”

“On my belly?” He actually looked puzzled. I had to laugh.

“No. On your cat.”

“It is a long haired tabby.”

“It sounds pretty, but not really unusual.”

“There is something special about it—trust me.”

I gave him my untrusting look.

“Would you like another drink?”

I said, yes. It destroyed my untrusting expression, but I was having fun for the first time in some time. Drinks came. We talked while getting to know each other. He was a professional like me. We compared student loans, universities, home towns, and a bunch more easy topics. He was funny, quick, and a pleasure to talk with. After a few hours I think we were both feeling amicable, and perhaps a little amorous.

“Would you like to see my cat?” He asked. His eyes were sparkling again. I think mine were too, so I didn’t pick up on the ‘see my cat’ thing. Most cat people would ask if you wanted to meet their cat.

He lived in a condo unit about eight blocks from the bar. It was a warm, spring, evening, so the weather, and the company made for a pleasant walk. By the time we closed his door behind us, I didn’t care if he had a cat or not, but there it was sitting, cat like, on the windowsill. He put on soft music, and made herbal tea which was good because my quota for alcohol had been reached. I sat on the couch and admired the room—nice furniture, well decorated, and reasonable messy. The cat didn’t move, didn’t even open an eye like cats normally do. When he brought in the mugs I mentioned it.

“Your cat hasn’t moved. Does it always sleep that deeply? Is that what makes it unusual?”

“He never moves. He’s dead.”

I spit out a little tea, and had to wipe my chin off. “You have a dead cat!”

“Well, I had it stuffed by a taxidermist. It’s not just dead-dead, and it makes a perfect pet. Doesn’t require feeding, doesn’t make a mess, no cat odour, but it still feels good to sit it on my lap and stroke it. Unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

 The End

© Dave Skinner 2021