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“And I think we’re done here,” I snap, standing up and tugging on Tillie’s hand to bring her up with me. She resists, making me frown.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m only here for a few more days and the last thing I want is to spend it with the town trying to convince you not to pour hot coffee on me.”
“Technically it was just to hit you over the head with a coffee pot,” Dakota yells.
“Yeah, but it had coffee in it and with the way Tillie loves to inflict pain on my balls,” I gripe, and I sit back down, because apparently this isn’t going to end any time soon.
“Oh my God, I do not. Will you stop? People are listening.”
“Buttons, you do. You practically unmanned me at the steakhouse.”
“She did. I have to say I did see that. With the grip she had on Ryder, it’s a wonder the man doesn’t talk like Minnie Mouse permanently. I think she was trying to tear them off,” Ms. Lane says from a corner table.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. It was an accident,” Tillie grumbles.
“How do you accidentally grab a man by the balls and try to tear them off?” Dakota asks.
“Beats me, but I hope her and Ryder aren’t planning on having kids, because I’m thinking that might be near to impossible,” Henry Simpson says. I glance over to his table where he’s eating with his twin brother Homer.
“Balls are very delicate creatures,” Homer says, joining in. Tillie is looking at everyone in horror and if I could make myself move, I’d take her out of here. For the life of me, I can’t seem to make that happen, though. It’s like my feet are frozen. “You remember that old cat I had, Henry?” Homer asks.
“Dangles? Hell, yeah, I remember him. I’m still wearing the scar on my leg where that little asshole bit me and tore the hide off my leg—not to mention my finger,” he complains. “I may be getting old Homer, but I’m not senile yet.”
“Cats don’t strike out without cause,” Ms. Lane instructs. “You must have done something.”
“Ms. Lane, don’t ask,” Tillie whispers, but it’s already too late, the Simpson brothers are already continuing with their story.
“We were trying to neuter him.”
“What?” Ms. Lane asks, clearly appalled.
“Don’t sound so uppity about it. This was like fifty years ago. We lived up in the mountains then and the nearest town was just a hole in the wall and the nearest animal doctor was a good two-day drive. We became the neighborhood vets,” Homer mutters.
“Without a license,” Ms. Lane adds quietly and Homer waves her off like she’s a nuisance.
“The point is we did a lot of neutering back then,” Homer says.
“Sure did,” Henry adds.
“Heck, if we hadn’t, the town would have been known as Pussy Ridge,” Homer adds, clapping his knee like he just told the best joke in the world.
“Mr. Simpson!” Ms. Lane cries.
“He’s telling the truth. They talk about rabbits reproducing, but cats are worse. You start with one pregnant female, and it won’t take six months before a man is swimming in pussy,” Henry adds.
His brother Homer nods and then tilts his head like he’s about to say something confidential and not practically screaming it out in the middle of a diner to a captive, slightly amused—if not plain horrified—audience. “Let me tell you, that sounds like a lot more fun than it is.”
“Henry, can I ask how one goes about neutering a cat?” Brenda asks.
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” Henry says. “It brings back bad memories.”
“It does?”
“The last one we did is how he lost his finger,” Homer supplies. Henry holds up his right index finger and wiggles it, showing he’s missing the top part of his finger—just above the knuckle.
“A cat took your finger?” Tillie gasps
