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“Oh. Wow. That’s . . . you work for the NHL?”
“Yeah, behind the scenes, though, not a player.” Not that she needed the clarification. I’m not built like hockey players. Where they have legs like century-old tree trunks, mine are more like slightly mature saplings.
“So you work with numbers and hockey players?” Her voice sounds far away, or quiet.
“In a nutshell, yes.” It’s a bit more involved, but only people who do stats can appreciate the art.
“That sounds . . . interesting.”
I can’t tell if she’s mocking me. I don’t even know why I care. She’s my cat sitter, not someone I should be trying to impress. Even though for some reason that seems to be what I’m doing. “Yeah. Anyway, I don’t think I’m going to be much help with the litter situation, since I didn’t even realize it would be an issue.”
“Clearly, considering the state of the litter box. My olfactory senses are decimated thanks to that.”
She doesn’t laugh, so I’m guessing that’s not a joke. Maybe she’s being overdramatic about it. “It can’t be that bad.”
She huffs; it’s an annoyed sound. “If it wasn’t neglectful, I’d leave the mess so you know exactly how disgusting it is when you’re forced to clean it up. Have you ever been to a summer music festival?”
“I don’t get what this has to do with the cat litter situation.” Man, she’s seriously ramped up right now.
“Have you ever had to use one of those portable toilets at a concert?”
“Sure. Yeah.”
“Think about how disgusting they are by the end of the concert. Especially with all the drunk assholes who pee all over the seat and leave it for the next person. Now multiply that by about a thousand, and you might have a chance at understanding how disgusting Prince Francis’s bathroom situation is.”
“Come on, Kitty. You’re exaggerating.” I grimace at my condescending tone and my foot-in-mouth response.
“You would say that.” More huffing on her end. “In the interest of making sure this doesn’t happen again, I’d like to set Prince Francis up with an automatic scooper. I get a promotional discount, which I’ll pass on to you.”
“What does something like that cost?” I’d ask what in the world an automatic scooper is, but she sounds frustrated with me as it as.
“I think you should ask what it will save you. Which is me quitting on you. The really high-quality ones run about six or seven hundred.”
“Dollars? That’s ridiculous. Does it clean itself or something?”
“It removes waste so Prince Francis doesn’t have to step around his own poop. If that’s too expensive, we can go with a basic one, which are about a hundred and fifty dollars and work well enough.”
“For a litter box? Yeesh. This is just more proof that dogs are better pets. Their poop bags cost all of five bucks for a roll of a hundred.”
“Why am I not surprised to hear those words coming out of your mouth? If I didn’t care about Prince Francis and his welfare I would quit right now. And I’ll need to pick up the litter to go with it. And that will be another hundred and twenty, but it’ll give you at least two months’ worth of litter and it works out to about ten dollars a week.”
“Ten bucks a week for litter? That seems inflated. I’ve seen those huge bags at the pet store for the same price.”
“The non-clumping litter is cheap. This is not that. Would you buy one-ply toilet paper for your bathroom?”
“He’s a freaking cat. He licks his own damn balls and his asshole.”
“Well, it would be a lot nicer for Prince Francis if he didn’t have to also lick stray litter out from between his toe beans.”
I can practically see her with her hand on her hip, glaring angrily at me. Why in the world does that jack me up?
“A few hundred dollars to upgrade Prince Francis’s bathroom situation and curb his destructive tendencies seems like a pretty reasonable price to pay, don’t you think?”
“Man, cats are hella high maintenance.”
She makes a noise that sounds a lot like a growl. “Hopefully once this issue is taken care of, he won’t be as hard on your mother’s drapes or her trinkets.”
I nod my agreement, then realize she can’t see me.
Parker pokes his head out into the foyer. We’re in the hotel’s buffet restaurant, and I’m standing in the lobby. “You still talking to Kitty Whisperer?”
I put my hand over the receiver. “Can you fuck the hell off?”
“Excuse me? I’m trying to be helpful here! Keep it up and I’ll report you for improper animal care!” Kitty sounds rightfully indignant.
“Shit. Sorry. Don’t report me. That wasn’t directed at you. One of the players is giving me the gears. Hold on a sec.” I don’t bother to cover the receiver this time. “Parker, you’re not even nineteen yet. You’re barely legal to vote, you can’t buy alcohol here or anywhere in Canada except for Quebec, you still think making fart noises with your armpit is funny, and you only need to shave your face once a week. I’m not going to ask Kitty if she’s interested in dating you, because I’m pretty sure I already know the answer.”
