You Promised (That It Was Only For One Night)

Starsky gives Hutch a kitten and regrets it instantly.

For Molo.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2008 zine.

Hutch was on the floor on his hands and knees, ass end in the air.

I was looking at the view and thinking about riding the boy into serious surrender. He turned his head, looked at me over his shoulder and said, “Have you seen Squishy Mouse?”

“It’s right beside you.”

“No, that’s Crinkle Mouse. Squishy Mouse doesn’t make any noise.”

“What about this thing?” I grabbed a rodent-like object and threw it. Bulls eye!

Right in the middle of his ass crack.

“Ow.” He picked it up. “No, that’s Ralphie Rat. She wants her Squishy Mouse.”

“How the hell do you know?”

“What do you mean?” He asked as he grubbed around under the entertainment center looking for Mr. Goodbar.

“Ralphie-Smalphie-Crinkle-Dinkle! What the hell’s the difference?” I said confronting his best side.

“It’s not there.” He got up off the floor and became vertical. “I found Billy the Bluebird, though.” He said happily. “She goes for that.”

“Terrific.” I picked up my Sports Illustrated. “What’s for lunch?”

“Toasted cheese, pickled herring, and a glass of milk.”

“I mean for my lunch?”

“That is your lunch.”

“That’s cat food.”

“That’s lunch.”

“Look,” I tried to explain, “Pizza is lunch. Hamburger and fries is lunch. A baloney sandwich is lunch.”

“Then, make your own lunch.”

“I will.”

“Fine.”

“You’re jealous.” He said giving me the famous Hutchinson finger.

“You’re a cat-fag.”

“A what!” I got raised eyebrows with that, a wide blue-eyed stare and an open mouth.

“You heard me. You’re another Jeffrey Jeffers.” I could have used that open mouth for loving, but it was too late. The think wrink appeared on his forehead and he looked at me like I was Davey the Dead Rat. “Ow!” Billy the Bluebird hit me in the back of the head as he left the room.

*************

Maybe I went too far comparing him to JJ, the cat man.

We met him, when we were working together as cops. We had a warrant for him to appear in court for Public Indecency. We went to his place to arrest him. While we were still outside his front door, a powerful smell hit us. It was really really strong and really really bad. It was somewhere between a hot day at the zoo and say about 50 cats pissing wherever they wanted to.

There are smells and there are smells, but a four room bungalow filled with cats, cat boxes, open cans of cat food, and cat pee is a smell to behold, let me tell you. And, all those cats’ eyes just looking at you. Cats everywhere. Cats on the floor. Cats on the furniture. Cats rubbing against you. Cats hissing at you.

And Jeffrey Jeffers in his housedress, hair rollers and high heels crying about who was going to take care of his kitties, if we arrested him. He was all they had. Who would feed them and love them?

He’s crying his eyes out on Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch is comforting him and trying to calm him down while I’m getting sized up as cat chow by the herd of cats. JJ is using my partner’s shoulder like it’s a box of Kleenex. I’m giving Hutch the quick jerk of my head that means let’s contain this situation. He reads me.

“Starsk, get Mr. Jeffers a glass of water, okay? Mr. Jeffers, let’s sit down, so you can relax a minute, would that be alright with you?”

“Yes,” sniffed JJ as he tried to sit down on the cat-filled sofa. “Don’t hurt Charles. He’s my best cat.”

“No, of course not, Mr. Jeffers. We would never hurt Charles.” Hutch crooned sweet nothings to the nutcase on the sofa while I went for the liquid refreshment.

I felt guilty leaving Hutch with Catman and a shirt full of snoot. But, I was glad to get out of there for a minute.

I headed for the kitchen. It was dark back there. When I turned on the light switch, all I saw was a tail. The tail was attached to a tiger. The tiger was attached to a leash. And, the leash was attached to the handle on the refrigerator. The handle on the refrigerator was sort of hanging by a thread.

Charles looked at me. He seemed to smile. “Nice kitty,” I said as I backed out of the doorway. “Nice kitty. Kitty doesn’t eat kosher, right? Nice kitty.” He rumbled as I turned off the light. I didn’t know if it was a purr or his stomach, but I decided not to stick around and find out.

“Where’s the water?” Hutch asked. “Are you okay?” He must have noticed I was white as a sheet.

“He must have met Charles,” giggled JJ. He had two cats in his lap, one on his shoulder and a hand on Hutch’s knee.

“Mr. Jeffers, please remove your hand, sir.” Hutch began to rise off the sofa.

“Don’t arrest me!” JJ shrieked. Cats scattered. A tiger roared.

I have to give my partner credit, I really do. Grace under fire. Calm within the storm. The guy’s not only got guts, he’s got poise. “How big is Charles, Mr. Jeffers?”

“Big,” he giggled.

“Real big,” I said.

“I see.”

“Is he caged, Mr. Jeffers?”

“I would never cage Charles! I only tether him.”

“I see.”

“That’s a beautiful tiger you have there, sir. And, only on a little leash, too.” I said with a smile on my face and panic in my heart.

“Mr. Jeffers, I think you are absolutely right about not wanting to leave your lovely cat family here,” said Hutch as he eased himself off the sofa. “My partner and I think that it would be detrimental to Charles and all your fine feline friends to take you away from them.” My partner stood up and started backing away towards me.

“You do?” JJ asked tearfully.

“Of course. They depend on you. They need your cover. Right, Starsk?”

“Absolutely,” I said. Picking up on his ‘cover me’ cue. I took a position in an angle that protected him and had the short hallway that led to the kitchen.

Hutch continued to back up slowly. “Do you know, sir,” he said charmingly without a quiver in his voice while I was shitting my pants and wondering if I heard the refrigerator door open. “Do you know,” he said keeping JJ calm, “that the Police Benevolence fund has a pet food donation sector? And that if you ever, ever need any food for your feline family all you have to do is ask?”

“Really?” Said JJ as he clutched three cats.

“As a matter of fact, I’ll put your name in when I get back to the station. What kind of food do the kitties like, sir?”

Yep. That was definitely the refrigerator door opening and something big getting up off the floor.

“Kitty Krunchies, Krispy Kibble, but not the tuna flavor, aren’t you going to write it down?” JJ asked.

“Of course,” Hutch pulled out his notebook and pen. “Just go back,” he said. We started inching back toward the front door. He pretended to write while JJ babbled about kibbles and krunchies and munchies and tender treats.

“Charles likes live chickens, when he can get them. Oh, and small dogs.”

“Small dogs? Yes, sir. I have that.”

“When will you send me the food?”

“Oh, I think you can expect a delivery very shortly.”

“I’ll be here. I probably should take these rollers out and powder my nose. You haven’t seen at my best, officer.” He blew Hutch a little kiss.

“That’s quite alright. You were upset. Are things fine now?”

“Yes.” Said JJ.

“Absolutely,” I said. “When one door closes, another opens.”

We got out of there in one piece and called for back up. BIG back up.

*************

Okay, so maybe the comparison to JJ was a bit harsh. But, you can understand why I might not be the biggest cat lover in the world, right?

And, I am not jealous. How can a grown man be jealous of a cat? Okay, kitten.

Whatever.

My partner has explained all the stages of a cat’s life to me. Why tabby cats are such great pets. Why her emerald eyes are so beautiful. Why the pattern of her markings is so unusual. But, tabby or tuna, kitten or cat, it’s all fur to me.

He told me about T.S. Idiot, Eliot, you know who I mean, and how this guy says cats have three names. Something like: the one you call them, the one they call themselves, and their secret name.

Like Moe, Curly and Larry, I asked. He was expounding on this while we were naked in the hot tub. He said, never mind and moved away from me. I scooched after him and said, no, I’m serious. Is it like all those names you call the cat? One day she’s Miss Kitty. The next day she’s Ooh-de-purty-kitty. Then, there’s munchkin and kitkat. What the hell is her name, anyway? Or, is it a secret? Because no matter what her name is and what you call her, she never comes.

I don’t know if you can really drown someone in a hot tub, but he seemed to want to try.

*************

It’s probably my fault. I brought her home. She was abandoned in the middle of the road. Someone had just dropped her between the two white lines and left her to fend for herself. And, she did.

She saved her own life by running as fast as she could in front of my car. I saw this streak of fur, screeched to a stop and was almost rear ended by the car behind me. I got a middle finger salute from the guy as he passed by. Then, I pulled into the library parking lot and found her in the bushes. I put her in my pocket and brought her home.

I’ve brought my partner pizzas, flowers, jewelry, and multiple orgasms, but nothing was like me bringing that damn cat home. Nothing.

And, nothing’s been the same since.

It’s cat toys all over the floor. All of them with different names and different sounds, but the same cat slobber all over them. It’s cat furniture in every room. You heard me, fur-niture. Emphasis on fur. There’s a kitty condo, kitty commode, kitty gym, and kitty corner thing that takes up half the living room.

I share a bathroom with a cat. I can’t shut the door all the way, when I need to crap because she likes to come in and crap with me. Why I don’t know. (And, hers smells way worse than mine.) I think she may be in competition with me. She gets it done way quicker.

And, the thing is. The thing is. I, at least, wipe before I leave the bathroom. It never fails. You’re sitting down to eat dinner and there she is in the kitchen with the leg over the head using her tongue for toilet paper. And, he lets her get close to his face?

Nose to nose?

And, wherever we are, she is. Or, wherever he is, she is. Mostly in his lap. I don’t know where she sits when he’s not around. Maybe she just stands all day until he sits down. But, once he’s sitting, there she is. Plop in his lap.

I’d say her skill set is: eat, poop, sleep. I have yet to see the charm. Or, why she’s in bed with us every night.

*************

“It will be for only one night, babe. I promise,” he said in blond, blue-eyed sincerity. “Please.”

Maybe it was his tone of voice. Maybe it was his naked body pressed against me. Maybe it was the four frickin’ hours of mewmewmew out in the hall. Whatever it was, I said yes. And, once you say yes, you can never say no.

After about a week, of sharing our bed with her, I went out and got the Ultimate Kitty Bed. It was this teeny weeny four poster bed with a pink canopy, a goose down mattress, angel kitty sheets, and a ruffled pillow with her breed of cat on it. It was to die for. That night I put it on the floor and put her in it. She jumped out and mewmewmewed to get in our bed.

“She doesn’t like it, Starsk.”

“She likes it. She likes it. She just needs to get used to it.” I said as I put her back in her new bed. She jumped out and started climbing up the brand new satin comforter trying to get to Hutch.

“She wants to sleep with us.”

“She wants to sleep in her new bed that just cost me a hundred and fifty bucks, don’t you, whatever you name is?”

“No, she doesn’t,” he sing-songed to me.

“Yes, she does,” I sang back. I detached her from the side of Mount Kingbed and put her in her little witty kitty frickin’ bed. She jumped out and ran under ours.

“Starsk, you’re scaring her. Here, kitty-kitty, what’s that mean man trying to do to you?” He hung naked over the bed undermining my discipline and giving me ideas about what my dick would like to do to his hole.

She popped out and started climbing Everest again. Making brand new snags on her way up and deflating my ego.

“Let me try just once more,” I said.

“She won’t sleep in it.”

“Can I just try?”

“Don’t scare her.”

“All I’m going to do is gently remove her toe by toe from the side of our damn bed which now has a comforter with kitty graffiti on it and place her gently in her new little…Ow! Son of a bitch. She bit me.”

“That’s my girl,” the proud papa said.

“Shit, I probably have rabies now.”

“No, you don’t. Oh, alright.” He got out of bed in response to my forlorn neediness and took me in the bathroom to clean my wound. He put a happy face band-aid on my finger. He put an even happier face on me with the Baby Magic hand job.

When we came out of the bathroom, she was on our bed sound asleep on the center pillow. The next morning I saw her response to her brand new bed. It was a turd smack dab in the middle of it.

Six months later, she’s still sleeping with us. She’s declared open warfare on my toes. She strategically places hairballs right where I can step in them. And, has perfected cascading puke that only hits my things and never his.

Hutch says, give it time, you haven’t bonded yet. He says that the bed incident set up early trauma that she associates with me. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I say I’ve got an expensive cat bed I can’t take back to Perfect Pets. I have to sleep with my head at the foot of the bed because whenever I roll over I get a mouth full of fur. I feel like I have to sneak to have sex with my partner because she might need him. And, I have tiny teeth marks and slashy scratches all over my hands from trying to play with her.

Then, it dawned on me. What she needed was a friend. All she had was her Hutch. And, since I wanted my Hutch back, what I needed to do was replace her Hutch with her very own kitten.

His name is Charles. He’s an orange tiger cat.

Now two cats sleep with us.

The End