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Thankfully, the front door swings open. “I couldn’t find my pants!” Mr. O’Toole shouts. “Or my right hearing aid!”
Even though I try to keep my gaze fixed on the bald spot on top of his head, my gaze dips. The screen door separates us, creating a haze and semi-barrier between me and Mr. O’Toole, but I can very clearly see that the pants situation is still a problem. He’s wearing a long gray button-down that was probably once white but got mixed in with something dark and a tweed jacket, as is customary for Mr. O’Toole. His boxer shorts are navy. One of his white socks stops just under his knee, and the other one slouches around his ankle. He’s wearing gray slippers.
“Shall I help you find them?” This isn’t a first.
“That would be great, Miss Kitty. One second they were in my hand, and the next they were gone. It’s like a ghost up and stole them.” He throws his hands in the air, his bushy eyebrows shooting up and then pulling together, resembling two caterpillars dancing on his forehead.
He opens the screen door and shuffles back a few steps to let me in. The house smells like a combination of mothballs, cat litter, and cooked onions. Not the most appealing, but it certainly could be worse.
Bumbles, his striped tabby, comes lumbering through the kitchen, meowing loudly. Much like his owner, he’s ancient, and also not a fast mover. But he tries his hardest to run, despite being almost as round as he is tall. I’ve tried to explain to Mr. O’Toole that he shouldn’t feed Bumbles people food, but he says it’s one of the only good things left in life, so why should either of them suffer.
He has a point.
“How is my favorite striped tabby?” I crouch and hold out a hand. Bumbles rubs his face on my hand, gives me a little nip—that’s his surly side coming out—then bumps against my knee and headbutts my thigh on his way to my pocket. He does an about-face and rush-bumbles back to the kitchen. A digital British accent calls out “Treat” several times in a row.
To help Mr. O’Toole, I’ve been teaching Bumbles to use communication buttons. So far we have treats, outside, and pets. The treat button is unsurprisingly his favorite.
“Good boy, Bumbles!” I call out.
He trots back to where we’re still standing in the front hall, meowing with zeal. I pluck a treat from my pocket, and he gobbles it up, then heads for the kitchen again.
“We’ll figure out the pants situation before we deal with Bumbles, shall we?”
“He’s been hitting buttons all morning. I ran right out of treats,” Mr. O’Toole grumbles.
It doesn’t take me long to find his pants. They’re slung over the railing on the staircase.
Mr. O’Toole disappears down the hall to his bedroom to finish getting dressed, and I feed Bumbles and clean his litter box.
When I return, I find Mr. O’Toole in the kitchen with his pants on. One of his shirttails hangs out from the back, and his fly is down, but it’s an upgrade from being pantsless.
I agree to a cup of tea, although I won’t be drinking it, since Mr. O’Toole is a frugal man and reuses the same tea bag at least four or five times before he throws it out. Regardless, I sit with him on the front porch, and we chat while I brush Bumbles to help cut down on his hairball problem.
“What about a boyfriend, Miss Kitty? Any young men looking to court you?”
I smile at his phrasing. Mr. O’Toole grew up during the Second World War and married his high school sweetheart. She passed away a decade ago, and just last year he started “courting” one of the other ladies in the neighborhood, who he calls a “spring chicken” compared to him. She’s eighty-two.
“No boyfriend. Work keeps me busy.”
“You’re too young to be working this hard. Have I mentioned that I have a great-grandson in the NHL? He’s a bit young for you yet, but give him a few years to catch up.”
“You have mentioned your great-grandson. He just graduated from high school last year, didn’t he?” Mr. O’Toole tells me about his great-grandson every time I visit.
“That he did. Got snapped up by the league just like that.” He snaps his fingers and startles Bumbles. “He’s sowing his oats right now, but eventually he’ll be ready to settle down with a nice girl like you. But by the time that happens you’ll probably have found yourself a husband.”
“Only time will tell, I suppose.” I chuckle and change the subject. “Oh! I took on a new client this week. Prince Francis is a sphynx cat.”
“A sphynx cat, you say. Those are the naked ones, aren’t they?”
I chuckle. “That’s right, he’s hairless.”
“Can’t say I’d love wandering around in my birthday suit all the time, but I guess he’s a lot less likely to be coughing up hairballs.” He slurps his tea noisily.
