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“It fucking sucks to be you, then.”
I dropped my chin to my chest.
That’s it. I was applying parental controls to her Internet.
That’s something I never thought I’d have to do to my grandmother.
“It’s just a cat, Max. Cats get out—even house cats stage an escape here and there.” She adjusted the pool noodles on Goatzart’s horns, then stood back to survey her handiwork.
I’d never seen a goat look so stupid in all my life.
“That’s not the point, Grandma. We have rare birds here.”
“And they are not daft enough to go near a cat. The farm cats wander about all the time!”
“They never go near the lake.”
“Of course not. Cats hate water.”
“The birds are on the lake, and that’s where her cat is.”
“Where did you find the cat? Was he sunning himself on the deck? Swimming with the ducks? That’s what I’d do if I were a cat.” She held out another pool noodle, and I cut it in two. “I think you’re being dramatic.”
“He was in the goat barn.”
She barked out a laugh. “Even more reason for you to calm down, dear. What’s he going to do in here? Look at these horns.” She punctuated that by sliding a pool noodle down onto Leonardo DiCaprigoat’s left horn.
“Not going to lie,” I said slowly, watching her do the same to the other one. “They’re rather less threatening with bright pink pool noodle accessories.”
She sniffed. “Yes, well, they keep fighting. If they can’t behave, they can be drag queen goats instead.”
“I…” I literally had no response to that.
The woman had lost her mind.
“That cat of Ellie’s won’t do anything to my goats,” she continued, holding out yet another noodle for me.
“This is the last one,” I warned, cutting it in two.
“Yes, yes,” she replied, brushing me off. “I don’t mind if Winston goes on a wander.”
“Well, I do mind.”
“You’re miserable, Max.”
“I’m not miserable. She agreed she’d keep him inside. It’s been a matter of days and she’s already broken that promise. She didn’t even realise he’d escaped.”
“Of course she didn’t. He’s her cat, not a fire engine. You just don’t like cats.”
“I like cats,” I replied warily. “I get along with Rosie, don’t I?”
“You get along with Rosie because she catches the rats.” Grandma gave me a pointed look. “Winston is a Maine Coon, isn’t he?”
I shrugged. “He’s a cat.”
“Maine Coons are excellent mousers. You should be glad of an extra pair of paws for a few weeks.”
“I think you’re being awfully lenient on her. If she were anyone other than your favourite author, you’d be hopping bloody mad about this.”
