High Society: Part 5
DALTON
Dalton was sure he had killed the cat.
The stupid cat. It was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And now it lay there motionless on the road, right in front of Dalton’s house. Dalton, dressed in a new suit, his dark hair slicked back except for a thin, clumped band, which fell languidly over his forehead, as if giving up. And soon, joining him, his neighbour Cleo, a short, round woman whose features always included too much mascara and gin blossoms.
It all went down like this: Dalton frantically storming out of his house, tripping over a pair of sopping-wet shoes he had left on his doorstep last night. Dalton brushing himself off, throwing himself into his car, slamming the door. He started driving away while, unbeknownst to him that obese Persian cat, was in the road. Then came a single thump, causing Dalton to abruptly hit the brakes.
“What are the chances?” Dalton said now, staring at the fat feline.
“Apparently quite good,” said Cleo.
So the cat was surely dead, and Dalton was in a hurry. He needed to transfer money to someone, and he had to do it quickly. A lot of money. But it wasn’t the amount that bothered him. He had plenty of money. What stressed him was how quickly it needed to happen. Dalton was not one to rush. But this deadline—it was bullying him forward.
He needed to go, and he’d never liked this cat anyway. He distrusted it.
What was proper etiquette in this scenario? Should he wait till an owner came by to claim it? The neighbours recognised the peculiar looking cat but didn’t know who owned such an animal. Would it be rude to ask them to take over while he ran his errand? Maybe Cleo could lead the charge? Or the other neighbours, Albert, who was dressed in a bathrobe and, from the looks of it, nothing else?
Dalton crouched beside the huge grey Persian. He put his hands on the cat, slowly, gently, as he, Dalton, decided that he would have to do something, do whatever it took to—
—and then boom: in a snap, the cat jumped to life and it was as if Dalton had been punched in the face. He fell backwards into a puddle of water—a remnant from last night’s downpour—which soaked his suit. Cleo screamed, her hands jumping to her rosy cheeks. Albert also fell backwards, his robe loosening to reveal that he indeed had nothing underneath.
There they all were, in shock, as the cat stared at them with its docile eyes, unable to comprehend the gathering that it had caused. The cat had taken to napping in the middle of the road amongst the piles of rubbish that Dalton had driven over. It really was a very stupid cat.
Dalton sat in the puddle, where—now that he was paying attention—he saw banana peels, sweet wrappers, used tissues and smeared butcher paper floating. I’m going to be late, he thought.
And the cat—happy as can be—wandered off, as if it had never experienced a bad thing in all its life.
Written by Gene Albamonte
Twitter: @genealbamonte
Websites: http://genealbamonte.com/
Next Wednesday- Melody
Part 1– Charlie Malbery
Part 2– Albert
Part 3- Ernest Malbery
Part 4– Ingrid
