Model Pet, Page 2

biggest client, Ridge! What he wants is what he gets! Period!”

  “Okay, but…”

  “No buts,” he snarls. “Let me make it simple for you: either you come in at 7:00 a.m. tomorrow with that finished Mason model in hand, or you’re fired. Clear enough for you?”

  That’s it? Five faithful years as their top designer and this is what it amounts to? A last-minute, Friday-night call with a threat to my job? This is just wrong.

  “Fine,” I say, my eyes narrowing as I watch the gigantic lizard stomping a terrified Tokyo into the ground. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  He hangs up.

  No good-bye, no final chest-beating. Just a cold, quick click.

  What a jerk.

  ° ° °

  I look across the room. The mansion I’ve been designing is one of the best I’ve ever done. Ever. It’s taken me the better part of a month, working almost non-stop, but it’s been worth it. Without question, it’s the pinnacle of my career, and arguably the best the firm has ever produced as well. If Mason decides to pass on the project, at least it wouldn’t be because of a sucky mock-up, that’s for sure.

  Can I finish it in the next ten hours? No. There’s no way. At least, not finished by my standards. Can cover the crap factor and make it look good enough for a casual observer? Yes. Yes, I can.

  “Hey! Friskie-face!” I yell. “Get your furry butt in here!”

  Silence.

  “Hey! Dorky McDorker! Where you at?” I walk around the apartment searching for him. I can’t see him, but there’s an odd smell in the air. Something that wasn’t there before his arrival. I start to feel sick when I glance at his litter box in the laundry room. It’s empty. But the distinct smell is getting stronger. “Aw, crap.”

  Now I’m scrambling through the halls to my bedroom, and the unmistakable stench is even thicker. “Crap, crap, crap,” I mutter as I step into the room.

  “What the…?”

  Suddenly I don’t care if I ever eat alfredo with Megan again. The only sensation flooding my body at this point is revenge. With a dash of violence.

  The first thing to catch my eye is the large, wet circle in the center of my pillow on the bed. My fist tightens beside me as I stand there, frozen. I’m about to launch into a frantic hunt for Mister Friskies when I see movement out of the corner of my eye. Something was moving around in my open closet.

  I walk over, pull the door open the rest of the way and look inside. He’s right there, back to me and hunched over, lost in concentration as he squeezes a steady stream of steaming cat poo into a neat pile. On my favorite sandal.

  He looks over his shoulder at me and lets out a hyper-friendly meow before going back to his work in progress.

  “Cat…” I sigh deeply. “I can now honestly say that I really and truly hate your guts.”

  ° ° °

  After locking Sir-Craps-a-Lot in my bathroom and soaking my sandal in a bucket of bleach, I walk back to my office and return to work. He mewls and moans and complains for a good twenty minutes, but I ignore him for the most part. I feel no remorse. It’s a universal truth: animals who take dumps on a person’s footwear tend to lose privileges. When his whining raises a few octaves, so I slap on a pair of headphones, crank up some choice Morcheeba songs, and get to work.

  After working on the model for the next two hours, I’ve sufficiently impressed myself. The spiral steps are spectacular, the doorways are all in place, and even the miniature windows are looking good. I smile, satisfaction spreading throughout my body. You know, I think to myself, I might just survive this crazy night after all.

  I grab the X-Acto knife and start working on the gazebo. It isn’t going to be as difficult as I thought, but it’s clearly going to take some considerable carving time to make the pieces fit the way I want them to. As I begin to cut into the wood, however, there’s suddenly a loud thump above me.

  I jump, managing to not only nick the gazebo, but somehow stabbing myself in the finger to boot. I curse loudly, jumping back from the table, the blade falling to the floor where it embeds itself into the carpet, pointy side down. I squeeze my finger as I glare at the ceiling. How in the hell did that cat get up there?

  “Hate you, hate you, HATE YOU CAT!” I mutter as I run down the hall to the bathroom. I thrust open the door, jam my finger under the faucet, and turn on the cold water. It stings for a few seconds, but soon the blood slows and the pain begins to dull. I grab a handful of toilet paper, press down hard against the wound, and that’s when I see him.

  Mister Friskies is sprawled out across my bathmat, not moving. I can’t even tell if he’s breathing. I throw my wad of toilet paper at him, hitting him in the gut. He groggily lifts his head to see what I’m doing, then stretches and yawns before closing his eyes and returning to his comfy coma.

  Stupid cat.

  I think about spraying him with water when a thought slowly begins to percolate in my mind. Wait a second…if he’s in here, then what was…

  Something scurries across the ceiling panels above me, running back toward the office. I stare at the ceiling, then down at the cat. Then back at the ceiling.

  What is that? A rat? No, that sounds too big to be a rat. A raccoon, maybe? Or a possum? Man, I hope not. Those things are just plain nasty.

  Then I have an idea. A brilliant idea. A super-sparkly happy thought.

  “Hey. Snooze-a-Lot.”

  The cat ignores me.

  “Wanna have some fun?”

  ° ° °

  It takes me a few minutes before I find the access panel, but eventually I locate it in the laundry room along with my long-lost step stool. I consider opening it up, sticking my head in quickly and shining the flashlight around to get a good look. Then I remember the gazebo. Forget it. Just stick the cat up there and get back to work.

  I open the panel, grab the cat off the washing machine, and thrust him up into the blackness of the attic.

  “There. You’re free to roam. Go make a new friend or something…” I shut the panel behind him. Then I frown at the thought. “Hey. On second thought? If that’s one of your lady-friends up there? Just leave her alone. I really don’t wanna hear you two going at it. Got it?”

  Silence. Then the fading pitter patter of little feet as he starts to explore.

  I smile. “Nice kitty…”

  ° ° °

  Over the next thirty minutes I completely forget about Mister Friskies, I’m so engrossed in finishing the project. The gazebo’s complete except for the steps leading up to it, but those will only take a few minutes. For the most part? I think I’m done. Done! And it looks fantastic. Better than I had ever hoped.

  I back away from the table, fold my arms across my chest, and admire my work. It really is breathtaking, my attention to detail. Mr. Vancil is going to regret threatening my job, that’s for sure. After creating this masterpiece, I’ll be able to work at any design firm in the city. No question. All I need are some professional, high resolution photos to stick in my portfolio.

  I retrieve my camera and tripod from the closet, setting it up so my first few photos will effectively showcase the whole thing. I’m looking through the viewfinder to adjust the light balance when I hear it.

  The first set of muted thumps makes me smile. “‘Atta boy, Friskies. Give him what for.” But then there’s a loud, low growl followed by sudden scuffling from the middle of the ceiling toward the wall.

  “Hey. Everything alright up there?”

  The growling grows louder, and I watch in horror as the ceiling tile above the desk shakes for a moment, then starts to buckle. Something inside me shrivels up.

  Oh, no… no, no, no, no, NO!!!

  I run toward the desk, but I already know I’m too late. A split-second later the ceiling tile collapses under the weight, and Mister Friskies craters into the dead center of the model, along with something…else…on top of him. While it’s the same size as Friskies, it’s not a raccoon or a possum. Or even a cat, for that ma
tter. In fact, it’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before in my life.

  The creature is all black and covered in what looks like wet, reptilian scales. It holds the cat firmly in its claws, with a thin tail wrapped tightly around his midsection and a stinger that appears to be piercing him in the throat. Mister Friskies thrashes about madly, desperately trying to escape as the creature continues to stab it with its stinger. The two of them roll across the entire desk, crushing what’s left of my life’s best work. My masterpiece. Created in weeks, destroyed in seconds.

  Ignoring the commotion, I quietly pick up my X-Acto knife off the floor. I don’t know what that thing is. I have no freaking clue what sort of twisted, demonic gecko is trying to deflate Mister Friskies with his stinger while destroying what was left of my once promising career.

  But I do know this: I’m going to stab that thing in the head until it looks like moldy Swiss cheese. And when it’s dead? I’m going to find its eyes and stab the sockets until I stop sobbing. And then, when I’m done with that…thing… when I feel I’ve fully avenged myself by killing it and sending it back to whatever hell it came from…

  If he hasn’t died at that point? Then I swear…

  …I’m going to kill that cat.

  Author’s Note

  Here’s the thing about cats: I LOVE cats.

  I actually consider them one of the more intelligent varieties of pets. When Kim and I were first married, we bought a cat. A yellow-eyed, classic black cat named Yahtzee. A