I ran out of luck today.
My landlord cornered me in the laundry room. I evaded him for two weeks, but not today though. “Your fucking dog keeps yapping the whole goddamned night.” He spat on my sneakers. Mr Garbagegoblin, as I called him, was as pleasant as explosive diarrhea. I grabbed my wet shirts and stuffed them into the dryer. He stepped closer. The smell of his armpits hit me.”Shut it up! Or you’re out!” He barked into my face, breath wafting with rotten teeth and whiskey.
“But he hasn’t barked yet, because he’s a good dog. Even if he’s a cat.” I tried.
Indeed. Felix was a tremendous cat, the best pet ever, and my best friend.
“Don’t! Care!” He jabbed his fatty index into my shoulder. “Bitch!” He stormed out of the laundry room.
I punched the start button on the dryer and went upstairs too. In the living room Felix dozed on a sunny spot on the rug. Lifting his head just a tiny bit, he acknowledged my presence. “You have to be careful from now on. He heard you exercising.” I told Felix.
“It’s called conversing, Pat.” Felix lectured me in his usual manner. “Besides, you never know, when a foreign language comes handy.” Of course he was right. I knew it, and Felix knew that I knew it. Garbaegoblin made me irritable, and poor Felix had it coming.
“Boastful as ever, old friend.” He only rolled his golden eyes and twitched with his tail. I was annoying him, but I could do better. “Come here, and let me pet you. Please.”
“Oh hell, no!” He sat up alarmed, fur bristling. “No! No. Not. Ugh, Pat! I swear, the first thing, when we switch back, that I will borrow you to a daycare center for children. See what good it does to you!” I was already kneeling beside him and softly scratching him behind his ear.
“I know…” He stretched into my palm, bending a bit towards me so I caught the spot.
“Screw you.” Felix started purring. He was indeed a good cat
Author: Ramona Darabant
R. C. Darabant was born Romania and lives now near Vienna, where she works as a family physician. When she isn’t working, she writes poetry, flash fiction and short stories. She recharges her batteries during storms and night strolls. In her stories, there is a distinct lack of happy endings. It’s not pathological, rest assured, she had that checked.