My Fair Lazy - Jen Lancaster [83]
However, as part of my culturing-up process, I just reread The Great Gatsby and, oh my God, all the women in it are JACKASSES.
So you’re not like an F. Scott Fitzgerald heroine. You’re better.
Anyway, hope France was lovely!
Jen
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Nightmares, of the Nonkitchen Variety
“How’s the little patient?”
Air rushes out of me like I’m a deflating balloon. “Not great.”
Fletch and I are at brunch with Gina, who’s asking about Maggie, our elderly calico cat.
Gina knits her brow. “I’m so sorry; what’s going on?”
“We’ve been hitting the cat hospital weekly and we’re trying desperately to get some weight back on her. Since the only thing she’ll eat is ten-dollar-a-pound shrimp from the Whole Foods raw bar and she likes it fresh, I’m constantly driving there to pick up supplies. I kind of know what a soccer mom must feel like now, as it seems like all I do is load everyone up in the backseat and drive them around. Did I mention I have to keep taking the dogs in to their vet because somehow the staff can’t take a proper sample from Maisy and her weird cyst. I guess it’s hard to wield a needle when a pit bull’s trying to French-kiss you.”
Gina squeezes some lemon into her green tea. “Maisy can’t help being such a love bug. What’s Maggie’s prognosis?”
I sigh again. “She’s almost seventeen, and she’s lost more than a third of her body weight. She has pancreatitis and there’s a real possibility of intestinal lymphoma. Breaks my heart to say it, but she’s not long for this world. But every day I get up and determine how she’s feeling. So far, she’s still spry and content and greets me at the top of the stairs, where she demands her breakfast.”
With a somber expression, Fletch adds, “She’s a happy little cat. Her spirits are high, so she doesn’t seem like she’s suffering in any way. But the minute we feel like she’s no longer enjoying her life, that’s it.”
“Ack . . . these decisions,” Gina says, laying down her fork. “This is the worst part of being an adult.”
“Tell me about it,” I reply glumly.
“Listen, this may be a bad time to bring this up, but yet another slutty alley cat has brought her family of kittens to live in my backyard. I’ve been in touch with every shelter and apparently it’s ‘kitten season,’ so I can’t get any of them to take them. I’ve been feeding them every day—they’re so cute, by the way—and I keep pestering rescue organizations. So far no luck,” Gina tells us.163
“Any possibility you’ll keep them?” I ask.
“Oh, please, you’ve said it yourself—as long as I’m single, I’m one feline away from becoming the crazy cat lady. There’s no way I can add another to the mix; I don’t have enough spare bedrooms.” Gina has an upstairs cat and a downstairs cat. Upstairs Cat loves Downstairs Cat but Downstairs Cat pees on everything whenever she comes into contact with Upstairs Cat. After four years and a number of consults with behavior specialists, Gina’s pretty sure they’re never going to find détente, so the cats live separate lives in the same house.
I toy with the uneaten part of my pancake. “You know, Fletch, all of our cats are between fourteen and sixteen years old. They aren’t going to be around forever. Maybe we should—”
Fletch sets his coffee down harder than necessary, and it sloshes out the side and into the saucer. “Absolutely not, no way in this world, don’t even entertain it as a possibility,” he asserts.
“But—” Gina and I both blurt at the same time.
“I’m sorry, this is nonnegotiable. We have two dogs and four cats. We can’t have any more.”
“Why not?” I persist. “Our house is plenty big.”
“Square footage is not the issue; the issue is not being reported to the authorities for pet hoarding.”
I grumble, “Hardly hoarding. They live like kings; they’re allowed to sit on or scratch up whatever furniture they like and have all the treats they could want and sleep in bed with us and . . . That’s probably your issue, isn’t it?”
In my defense, I come from a long line of fanatical animal people. When I