Ed N. White
I was speechless. Jerry’s cat, Bob, sang three verses of “The Old Strawberry Roan,” drawing out the “ooooooan” like old-time country singer Marty Robbins in his prime.
“Whatcha think?” Jerry inquired, “Good enough for AGT?”
“Not bad. A little pitchy, but workable.”
“So, will you work with him?”
I’m a professional musician, but I’ve never taught a cat. I hesitated, unsure if it would damage my reputation.
Jerry upped the ante. “When you go on stage, you can use my Guild 12-string. The one Willie Nelson autographed at Farm-Aid.”
“What else?”
“C’mon, man, he’ll win AGT—Golden Buzzer guaranteed.”
Jerry’s enthusiasm was contagious. “Okay, fifty bucks and twenty percent of his winnings.”
“Ten.”
“Fifteen.”
“Deal.”
We sealed Bob’s future with a handshake, and I told Jerry we would use his shower stall as a sound studio. I went home with visions of golden buzzer success on the big stage, unaware of the consequences we would face.
Bob is a mid-sized, arrogant Russian Blue I never liked. As partners on the big stage, we should strive to get along. “Hi, Bob, wazz up?” Nothing. “Hey, Bob, how ‘bout them Red Sox?” Not a baseball fan. This was trickier than I expected.
Finally, I said, “What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?”
He jumped on Jerry’s desk and tapped the keyboard with both paws, printing a message he dropped at my feet. I SING. I DON’T TALK!!!
I would explain to the judges that Bob saved his delicate voice for his musical performance.
***
On Monday, we crammed together in the shower stall with the slider shut until Bob passed gas after eating his tuna snack, breaking off our first session. At the end of three weeks sans snacks, I still thought he sounded pitchy, but he sang the lyrics flawlessly. I suggested he practice “The Streets of Laredo” for an encore.
***
We flew to Pasadena on a red-eye from Logan, checked into a cheap motel, and arrived early at the Civic Auditorium, eager to scope things out. I replaced the twelve strings on the guitar with new ones and put a little yellow Paisley necktie on Bob, but I pocketed his knock-off Ray-Ban Aviators, which kept slipping down his nose.
Tension consumed Bob. His nose quivered, and his tail twitched. I put down the guitar case, and Bob began circling it. Before I could figure that out, we were called onto the stage.
Everything ran together in one frightening, kaleidoscopic image as we stood center stage before the microphone. Stage lights glared at us like headlights on a Mad Max dune runner.
“So,” Simon Cowell scratched his shadowy beard, “Which one is Bob?”
I said, “He’s Bob, the one with the talent.” The words rasped out of my dry mouth, bringing crickets from the panel and spots before my eyes.
Howie scrunched a face and stared blankly.
Simon was about to snark, but fortunately, Heidi intervened.
She smiled and said, “Bob seems distracted. Is he, perhaps, having stage fright?”
I panicked, quickly unsnapped the guitar case, and removed the Guild Jumbo with the twelve new catgut strings. Bob leaped at it, clutching the neck with both paws, and wailed, “Motherrr.” There was initial silence from the stunned audience, then they erupted with boos and shouted comments I first thought they directed at Bob. Then I heard, “Cat killer!” and a chant of “PETA, PETA, PETA!”
***
I left the auditorium racked with bitter disappointment. However, Bob seemed oblivious and strutted beside me, again wearing his sunglasses. He loved his fifteen minutes of fame and broke into song, parodying another old-time Hank Williams hit, “I’m so hungry, I could cryyyy.”
“Okay, wiseguy, I suppose you have a place in mind?”
He didn’t respond but sat and pointed his snooty chin toward a sign across the street advertising a hamburger joint: Bobby’s Place.
As Bob leaped off the curb, his sunglasses slipped down his nose. Momentarily blinded, he failed to see the black Tesla silently bearing down on him. His tiny body pinwheeled through the air, landing with a squelch in the gutter. With tears burning and my head buzzing, I ran to him, dropping to my knees beside the crumpled fur ball, lifted his broken body, and screamed, “Help! He needs a doctor.”
A beautiful red-haired woman, the only kind they have in Pasadena, stepped out of the crowd.
“I’m an EMT.” She took Bob from me, brought his face to her lips, and started mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. Bob’s eyes fluttered, and my heart raced with hope; then his eyes closed, and my heart died. Then he fluttered again, and the EMT looked at me and smiled. “I think he’ll live.” She handed me Bob, and I helped her to her feet. But before I could get her number, Bob blinked and licked his lips. He assessed the crowd and launched “The Streets of Laredo.” When he sang the refrain about the slow drums and low fife, there wasn’t a dry eye in the crowd.
***
We returned to the motel, and I ordered hamburgers and extra crispy fries from Bobby’s Place. I filled a sock with ice and placed it on Bob’s head as he lay on the bed with the sheet pulled to his chin. While he dozed, I called Jerry to give him the good, the bad, and the ugly news.
“You won’t believe this. He wouldn’t sing…. Yeah, the gut strings distracted him… I know they’re made from sheep intestines, but Bob wouldn’t believe me. The audience went wild, calling me a cat killer…. Yeah, I know, but we got good press with the accident. Fortunately, an EMT revived him, and we’re back at the motel. He’s resting with an ice pack…. Yeah, he’s okay, he’ll live. But there’s another thing. His injuries weren’t limited to his head…. right, yeah, he can still sing, but tragically, now he sounds more like Tiny Tim than Marty or Hank.”
Ed N. White is the creator of the Miss Demeanor middle-grade mystery series pseudonymously authored by Celia J., also Taking Care, a “found-family” romance — all published by Histria Books. His short stories and flash fiction are found in many national and international journals, e.g., Wordgathering, The Scarlet Leaf Review, Close to the Bone, Flash International, Witcraft.org and literallystories2014.com. Find him on Amazon at amazon.com/author/ednwhite-books. He copes in southwest Florida.
Featured photo by belen capello (Pexels)
