Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81707 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 409(@200wpm)___ 327(@250wpm)___ 272(@300wpm)
Finally, my very good boy listens.
He drops the chipmunk.
For a moment, it’s all fine. The chipmunk hits the outdated linoleum with a nearly inaudible thud. He looks at me, frozen in gratitude, his little whiskers twitching, and I feel like I’ve gone full fucking Snow White. Like this chipmunk is about to hop into my outstretched hand and settle on my shoulder.
Maybe he’ll sing to me. Or sew. I could use another pair of hands. Er, paws.
But then—the moment it all goes to shit—the chipmunk’s expression changes. I swear, that little rodent smirks.
And suddenly, chipmunk insanity ensues.
It’s immediately clear that this chipmunk does not have the personality to be either a Chip or a Dale. He is not a kind chipmunk. He is not a cute chipmunk. He is, as far as I can tell, a villain chipmunk. Yup, I didn’t know they existed either. He’s probably an escapee from the same shelter I got Gary from, because he’s got the same level of gratitude for being rescued.
To make matters worse, it seems he thinks that the kitchen of the governor’s mansion is the place to test out his ninja warrior obstacle course skills, as he’s already zipped up a table leg and is currently launching himself through the air for the countertop.
“Uh, are you okay?”
I whip my head to the left to face Warren. He is totally not freaked out by this chipmunk catastrophe. His strong arms are crossed over his chest, and he’s looking at me like he might actually laugh.
At me. Which was not on my two-step plan.
“Gary, get the chipmunk!” I demand, but not only is Gary ignoring me, he has the audacity to yawn, very dramatically I might add, before stretching out on the floor like he’s got front-row seats for a very exclusive show.
Jerk.
He’s getting like five Temptations treaties later. Tops.
“Duke.” I whirl on the dog as the chipmunk scatters across the counter, sending a canister of something crashing to the floor before he makes the four-foot jump himself and starts zigzagging across the kitchen floor. “Duke, help—”
Duke just smiles, a dog treat already hanging out of his mouth. Because the canister was dog treats and it’s popped open and, well, Duke isn’t going to be any help at all.
“Warren, stop—laughing—and—”
Ugh, forget him. Forget all of them. I’ve got this. The chipmunk has stilled. I think he’s exhausted himself and he’s ready to accept my help. I inch forward and—
The chipmunk launches himself into Duke’s water bowl. You’d think there’d not be that much water in a dog bowl, but it seems there’s enough to cause a small tidal wave. Which I am in the way of, obviously. I get splashed right in the face, and I curse as I lose my balance and wobble, already crouched in a wobbly position to begin with, before I fall on my butt.
This, apparently, is all Warren can handle. He doubles over, wheezing with laughter, and then opens the back door, and, yes, you guessed it, the chipmunk miraculously and promptly beelines out the door.
For the record, ghosts are apparently useless in this kind of catastrophe because that bitch did absolutely nothing to help.
Chapter Sixteen
After the chipmunk fiasco, I realize I need help.
For Gary.
Fine, clearly my seduction techniques need help too, but one problem at a time. And Gary is basically an emergency situation at this point. First the mouse, now the chipmunk. He’s acting out and I need to know why. Thankfully, in New York you can find the answer to just about anything.
There are, either surprisingly or not, depending on your viewpoint, twelve pet psychics in the state. Sure, you would think you could hire a pet psychic from anywhere, since it’s a Zoom appointment. And you’d be right. You can.
But that’s not what I want.
I don’t want just anyone. I want the right someone.
I need someone who will understand Gary, in all his Garyness. He’s a New York cat, and I don’t think a pet psychic in Chicago or Los Angeles would understand or appreciate his very specific New York personality.
At least I think he’s got a New York personality. To be fair, I’ve never owned a cat who grew up anywhere else, so it’s hard to say. Anyway, the point is, I’ve narrowed my search to pet psychics based in New York.
The research was worth it because I’ve decided this is clearly the way to solve all of my problems. With Gary. Unless the pet psychic also has advice about the governor. I’m not in a position to ignore any words of wisdom, you know? Because I haven’t found a single way to encourage Warren to kiss me again. Or a way to kiss him. I’d be willing to give that another try if given the opportunity.
But opportunities have been sorely lacking.
Also, he seems to have lost all interest in my plumbing.