Gidget and the Chain Gang

Here is another installment from my short story collection entitled:

Tales Unleashed:

A Nearly True Collection of Stories from my Life as a

Pet Sitter

I sat in my car after tending to my last client and studied my cell phone, trying to refresh my memory as to the location of my new cat client. Actually, this family had five cats but it seemed a rather straight-forward job. Fresh food and water and clean the cat boxes. Just like that, nothing weird or difficult. Those kind of jobs are always nice and a wonderful break from the more difficult and stressful ones. Problem was, I had forgotten to key in the directions to the house and now I was laboring mightily to pull it up from the memory bank housed between my ears. I thought I had a kind of general idea about where they lived so I started off in that direction, hoping that a landmark or something would trigger my memory. Forty minutes later, I pulled into the driveway, wishing I had that fancy OnStar system which would have told me that I had been just around the corner from the house at the starting point!
 

     I stuck the key into the lock and opened the door just a smidge, remembering the words of the owner, “These cats think they are prisoners of war and will do anything to escape. Please enter cautiously!” I saw no whiskers testing the air, so I prepared to open the door wider to allow one leg to block the opening. As I pushed the door open, I met total resistance in the form of a chain lock. I stood back and looked at the door, puzzled. Perhaps I had forgotten to note that I was to go around and let myself in by way of one of the back doors. I walked around to the back of the house through tall weeds and grass which had not been mowed in many weeks. I felt the hot sun on my back and heard the insects buzzing annoyingly in my ears, searching for moisture. Trying the key in each door, I was not rewarded with that satisfying click of the lock mechanism responding to the key. The windows of the French doors allowed me to see the cats – and the cats to see me. I saw them looking at me wickedly, and for a brief moment I envisioned them climbing atop each other’s shoulders and sliding the chain lock across to bar my entrance, chuckling and high five-ing each other. But then who would feed them, I reasoned to myself. Of course, what a silly notion! Still…cats can be eerily secretive and sneaky sometimes, especially in groups.
 

     I walked back around to my car, feeling irritated and hot. Cell phone in hand, I scrolled down my list of contacts and found the client and their number. A female voice answered immediately, “Hello, you have reached the voice mailbox of Bridget Sullivan. I am away from my phone right now but your message is important to me. At the tone, please leave…” blah, blah, blah. I imagined good, old Bridget stretched out by the pool on a cruise ship, sipping an icy cold, Bahama Mama from a tall, glass, embellished with a slice of pineapple and a tiny umbrella. And here I stood in the blazing heat, getting the evil eye from her cats. I left a message in the hopes that maybe she had not departed yet and would still be able to receive my call. Knowing the cats would be fine for a little while longer, after all, I was certain Bridget would have left them with plenty of food and water; I headed on home to see my own dog, Harley.
 

As I drove, I considered all my possibilities. I could, of course, call a locksmith, but that wasn’t my first choice. My contract with each client states that I am authorized to employ the use of a locksmith in events such as this, but I would have to bear the burden of the expense. This situation was clearly the fault of the homeowner and she would be required to reimburse me, but I still preferred to find another solution. Some locksmiths questioned my right to be on the premises and I had even experienced one who called the police. Though I carried the signed contract with me, I was often viewed as a highly suspicious character with my wad of keys jangling from my pink, springy wristband like a maintenance supervisor in a New York City apartment building. I’d already experienced being placed in the back of a police car while a cop called a client to verify that I was, indeed, permitted to be inside their home. Oh, yeah, that was fun!
 

Let’s see, what else could I do? I could break one of the window panes of those French doors in the back. That, for obvious reasons, was probably not the best idea.
 

Hmmmm. I could find a person with a very skinny arm and persuade them somehow to reach inside this stranger’s house and try to slide the chain and release it.
 

Hey, wait a minute! Maybe I could get a pet psychic to communicate with one of those cats and get it to use its claw to slide the chain…oh, brother, I’m losing it for sure now.
 

Okay, I’ve got it! I’ll get a pair of chain cutter’s and…my creative juices were just beginning to flow when they were interrupted by my cell phone.
 

“Hello? Linda? It’s Bridget Sullivan. Oh, my, gosh, I can’t believe the chain got put on the front door!”
 

I heard her holler to someone who was with her, “Ralph, you idiot, why in the world would you put the chain on the front door? How in the hell is Linda supposed to get in there and take care of my precious kitty cats?”
 

Softening her voice to a kinder, gentler tone, she said to me, “What do you think we should do? My poor kitties have to eat!” she exclaimed almost hysterically.

“Don’t worry, Bridget, we’ll figure something out,” I said soothingly. After all, my job entailed creating a sense of peace of mind for my pet owners so that they could vacation with no worries about their animals.
 

I ran through a couple of options, the less invasive, more sensible ones, and she decided that the chain cutter was probably the best. I assured her everything would be fine and to just kick back and enjoy her vacation. She thanked me profusely and then hung up, probably to go back to sipping that Bahama Mama.
 

I had to get to a hardware store to pick up a chain cutter.

I ran into a family-owned, hardware store just as they were readying to lock the doors for the evening. The cashier wearing a name badge which said her name was Kelsey, smiled at me shyly and motioned that I hurry. I asked one of the guys on the floor where I would find chain cutters and he irritably showed me to the correct aisle but then abandoned me. An enormous and confusing array of cutters hung in front of me. I had no idea which ones I needed so I grabbed the least expensive. As I paid for my purchase, the employees glared at me as they stood by the door, ready to usher me out. I decided to torture them a tad longer. With deliberate slowness, I sauntered over to the cooler and considered each drink carefully, as if I were choosing an instrument to perform brain surgery. I felt their annoyance like a hot coals on my back as I returned to the cashier who seemed to be enjoying this little show of defiance. As I turned to leave, I winked to her. Her brown eyes twinkled as she winked in return. The store lights were turned off before I even made it inside my car. Pulling away, I hoped I had purchased the right cutters.
 

     As I found my way back Bridget Sullivan’s house, I expected to be maneuvering the unfamiliar tool in total darkness. I was pleasantly surprised to find the house well-illuminated with flood lights and other outdoor lighting which was triggered by motion. I stood at the front door and struggled to free the cutter from the packaging. Several of the cats now stood at the window near the door, watching me. All five of them were various shades and patterns of grey. Solids, stripes, and spots. One was missing a tail and another was missing an eye. What in the world? Did they use to be on a chain gang at the state penitentiary? I could see their mouths opening and closing as they meowed but because I couldn’t hear them, I found it a bit bizarre, as if I were watching a silent film. I imagined them saying, “Hey, stupid human, open the door and feed us, we’re starvin’ in here. Look, Gertie, they left us with a real winner this time, she can’t even open the door. Hide the booze, Fred, the pet sitter is here!” Soon all five of them were watching me in apparent amusement.
 

     I finally freed the tool from packaging that seemed designed to withstand the blast of a nuclear bomb. I opened the door with the key, revealing the chain. Tentatively, I opened the jaws of the cutter and attempted to clip the chain, expecting it to cut as a knife through butter. Nothing happened; it just clinked against the metal. Hmmm, maybe I better try to slip the blade between the links. No luck, the links were too small. I became more aggressive with the tool, pressing hard here and there, trying to find the right spot to pop it. Finally, sweating profusely from the effort, I leaned against the door and in frustration gave it a hard bump with my hip. Suddenly and unbelievably, the chain gave way and in I fell, right onto the floor. But in the same moment that I felt elation at my success, I felt horror as one of the cats escaped into the night.
 

     Crap! Quickly I kicked the door closed so no one else could escape. After I put myself back on my feet and found my way into the kitchen, I found photos of all five of the cats with their names lettered neatly underneath each picture. A note informing me that Gidget, the one who got away, would most likely return in the morning for breakfast, if she happened to get outside. Apparently, she was a street walker and the call of the wild was just too much for her to resist. The other cats showed little gratitude for the effort I had bestowed on them and looked longingly out the window into the blackness where lucky Gidget had made her getaway.

     The next morning when I walked to the front door, there sat Gidget, greeting me with a sour expression and very loud complaining, as if I had locked her out. Some cats are so ungrateful! Still, she allowed me to pick her up and reunite her with her other, equally snobby sisters.