Page 9 of Home to the Hollow

I’m being attacked by two gorgeous, full grown serval cats.

Where in the hell did these beasts come from?

These things cost afortune, and usually, owners keep them close for fear of them terrorizing local wildlife. The one on top of me leans down and licks my face from top to bottom and the one above me makes another yowling sound. I reach up carefully—theyarewild animals, even if someone is keeping them as pets—and scritch the heavy chest smasher behind the ears.

“Who do you belong to, buddy? You’re too pretty to be roaming my house like a lost kitten.”

The cats yowl in response, which tells me they’re definitely used to humans. Cats only meow to humans, and these guys are much more feral than a house cat. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help me puzzle out who they belong to. Neither have collars nor obvious chip bumps I can see.

Whistler’s Hollow is a weird fucking town.

After a few more minutes, I finally move, adjusting the perched cat to the floor so I can get up. When I stand, they both look at me as if waiting for a command. I wrinkle my nose, unsure of what to do. We never had pets growing up and hell if I know what I’m supposed to do when someone’s wild animals break into my house. Giving them a stern look, I point at one and then the other. “Go home!”

They look at me, then each other, and trot over to the ugly, floral couch my mother loved so much. In a second, they’re perched on it, sprawled out like a Nat Geo photo shoot.

What the goddamned hell? This isnottheir home. Do they not know that command? Maybe they only know commands in another language? I knew several Yard boys in England whose K9s responded to orders in German. Could that be why they got confused?

“Okay, fine, guys. You can stay there. I’m going to put that ugly thing in storage for the estate sale, anyway. I don’t have time to figure out if you only know Cajun French or whatever. Hang out if you want—I have to go to the truck to bring in the stuff for the laundry room.”

The beautiful cats simply blink at me, content to lounge where they are.

Jesus H. Tap Dancing Christ.

* * *

Lookingout the window at the setting sun, I sigh.

Despite the rough start to the day, I set up the laundry room, clean out the formal living room and start the process of turning it into an office, and bring in most of the boxes for what will be my actual media room.

It’s interesting to see how the Boomer generation (my parents) built their houses to have several rooms that only get minimal use on special occasions as if that meant middle class folks were as fancy as rich ones. I have no use for a living room full of uncomfortable ‘receiving’ furniture that only gets used during holidays or events. I also don’t care to have a fancy looking ‘living room’ that isn’t a dual use room for vegging out and watching Netflix with a tub of ice cream.

My mother would be horrified, I’m sure.

I’m converting the formal dining room into a mini-studio tomorrow—it has excellent light and enough space to allow me to set up my desk, easels, and storage cabinets with room to spare. I have no intention of throwing fancy dinner parties here, and the kitchen table and bar are good enough for me.

Niecy is sending her grandsons tomorrow to help move the outdated furniture to the truck and bring my more functional, comfortable pieces inside. They’ll also help me arrange the upstairs once I get that far, and transport all the excess to the storage unit she arranged before I arrived.

Perhaps I can ask them who the hell my houseguests belong to. As if they can hear my thoughts, the cats yowl from the other room.

They’re probably hungry—I sure as hell am.

Walking into the room, I see the terror twins batting a fluff ball back and forth and a smile rises to my lips. They’re pretty cute when they act like real pets, I suppose. I put my hands on my hips and clear my throat. The cats turn, immediately sitting at attention with their eyes on me.

That’s kind of spooky, right? Aren’t cats billed as the ‘fuck you, human’ of pets?

“Okay… uh…” I fumble for a moment, squatting to see if I can verify their genders before I nickname them for my convenience. Shit, I can’t tell—my version of gender neutral it is. “Okay, Jekyll and Hyde, are you hungry?”

Jekyll stands on its hind paws, stretching up like a meerkat and bats at me. Is that a ‘yes’? Hyde does the same, and I tilt my head. They tilt theirs in the exact same direction. I raise the hand opposite of the paw they’re using; they change paws.

I keep saying it, but what in the actual fuck?

“Fine. Should we use DoorDash or go on a hunt in town?”

Jekyll yowls a response and bounds towards the door with Hyde in tow. Guess that means we’re going out on the town.

I may be losing my ever-loving mind, folks.

* * *

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