Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106173 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 531(@200wpm)___ 425(@250wpm)___ 354(@300wpm)
The neighborhood he lives in is upscale, with big houses and driveways with interlocking stone and manicured gardens tended by landscapers. A couple of the neighborhood kids are riding by on their bikes. They both raise their hands in a quick wave as they head toward the park. The woman who lives next door to Mr. Munchies pulls into her driveway. I suppress an eye roll as she gets out of her Mercedes SUV. She’s always dressed like she’s going to a funeral, and her mood seems to match.
She opens the back door as Rufus, her black Lab, jumps out. He bounds through her garden and across Mr. Munchies’s driveway, tongue lolling, tail wagging, barking excitedly as he approaches me.
“Rufus! Come back here! Rufus! Come back!” his human screeches.
Rufus doesn’t heed her command. This isn’t new. But before he can jump up on me, I hold out a hand. “No jumping, Rufus!”
He comes to a halt, but stands up on his hind legs, then bounces three times, like he’s doing his best Tigger impersonation.
“Sit, Rufus,” I command.
And he does. I fight to suppress my grin, because I’m aware that my ability to get this dog to listen to me drives his human up the wall.
I might be a cat person, but I love all four-legged creatures. Except the ones who look at me like I’m a decent meal.
“Good boy, Rufus. Good boy.” I scratch behind his ear while his tail thumps against the ground. “Who’s a happy boy?” I ask him.
His human stalks down her driveway, heels clipping angrily as she traverses the sidewalk and continues to strut toward me and Rufus. “I don’t know why he never listens to me.” She grabs Rufus by the collar. “Come on, let’s get inside.”
I could tell her why, but the last time I offered her advice she nearly bit my head off, so I smile and shrug.
She yanks once, twice, a third time, but Rufus’s butt stays firmly planted on the driveway.
“Come on, Rufus!” Her face is turning red.
I take a step back to give her and Rufus some space, and of course he follows me. Likely because he can smell the treats in my pocket. Eventually she gets him to leave, but he’s reluctant. He stops and plants his butt on the sidewalk three times before she successfully moves him from the driveway I’m standing in to hers. And he barks the entire way.
When I get to my SUV, I punch the new address into my GPS and check the time. It’s a twenty-two-minute drive, which means I’ll arrive shortly after six. I hate being late, especially for an introductory meeting with a potential new client. It sets a bad precedent.
I send Mr. Thorn a quick message to let him know and go on my way. Luck and the lights are on my side, and I manage to make it to the new house at six on the dot. Not early, but not late either. The neighborhood is older and more established, with modest houses. The streets are lined with mature trees, the sidewalks cracked in places. The yards vary: some have lovely gardens, and others are dominated by weeds. One house has fake lawn turf instead of real grass. I would hazard a guess that an elderly person lives there.
I pull up in front of an older, slightly run-down backsplit. The shutters look as though they once were dark blue, but they have faded to a murky blue-gray. The white siding is slightly yellowed. The front gardens need a good weeding, and the driveway is cracked and pitted in places. A gold Buick that’s at least a decade old is parked in the driveway.
It makes me curious about the person who lives here, and whether this Miles person researched my rates before he called. I’m competitively priced, but talking about money is one of my least favorite parts of this job. Not because I don’t think what I do is valuable, but some people don’t understand how I can earn a living taking care of other people’s cats. Often those people are dog people. They can defend dog walkers, but they can’t comprehend that cats need just as much human companionship as their more dependent four-legged counterparts.
A sleek black car passes me and pulls into the driveway. It’s a nice car. Probably expensive. I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror, checking to make sure my hair isn’t a complete wreck since I was driving with the windows down.
I grab the lint roller from the seat beside me, give my cardigan and chest a quick roll, cut the engine, take a deep breath, and give myself a pep talk. “You can people today, Kitty. Humans and cats aren’t that different. Smile, be friendly, and don’t bite.” I roll my eyes at myself. I’m much better with animals than I am with humans. Animals don’t have conversational expectations the way humans do. But I can deal with people in small doses. And I’m successfully running my own business where I converse with clients regularly, so clearly I’m not that terrible with the whole social thing.