The Cat Sitter’s Pajamas by Blaize Clement

Come on in!”
    That’s the trouble with lying. Sometimes your lies rise up and smile at you and there’s nothing you can do except take their hand and pretend you’re friends.
    Feeling like an idiot, I slunk out of the Bronco and followed the lavender-haired woman up her driveway to her villa. She was built like a sweet potato, with the retired Floridian woman’s pull-on white knit pants and loose top. Her right foot must have been sore, because she tilted a bit to the left. With a genuinely nice smile, she held the front door open, and I dragged my own feet inside. It was a typical single retiree’s villa: open floor plan with a bar separating the kitchen from the living area, lots of glass to let in the sun, creamy white tile floor, rattan furniture with creamy white linen cushions, creamy white walls hung with big splashy watercolors of sailboats on blue water under blue skies. A big white and yellow long-haired cat was draped over the top of a chair. He looked extremely contented.
    A Pomeranian with electric white hair trotted to sniff my Keds.
    The woman said, “Don’t mind Snowball, she won’t bite.”
    I smiled down at Snowball, who delicately licked my ankle.
    The woman said, “The cat just showed up at my door a few days ago. I’ve been calling him Cecil. He looks like a Cecil, don’t you think? He’s a funny duck. He steals shiny things out of wastebaskets. Foil, or those lids on frozen dinners that are shiny on one side. I can’t put a single shiny thing in the wastebasket anymore. I have to take it straight to the can in the garage.”
    She sounded proud of the cat’s thievery.
    She said, “I had a cat one time that lived to be twenty years old. I cried my eyes out when he died, just like if a child had died.”
    I nodded. “That’s how it is when you love a pet.”
    With a yearning look at the cat, she said, “Where did you say this cat lives?”
    The cat yawned and turned its head away from me.
    I said, “You know what? This isn’t the cat I’m looking for! The cat I’m looking for is a lot bigger and has more white in his coat.”
    “Oh, that’s too bad!” Her eyes twinkled with delight.
    I said, “I wonder if the people in that villa with the white Jaguar convertible in the driveway might have seen my cat. Do you know them?”
    “Those French people? I doubt it. They’re not permanent.”
    “They’re French?”
    She waved her hand. “They speak something foreign.”
    “Could they be Swiss?”
    She was looking at me funny. “I don’t think I caught your name.”
    The question spooked me. I suddenly felt like a criminal about to be thrown in the slammer if I didn’t come up with a cover name.
    “Uh … it’s Bridget. Bridget Jones.”
    Oh, Lord, I had given her the name of a movie! I was not only a total idiot, I was getting myself in deeper trouble with every lie I told.
    I said, “I’m so sorry to take up your time! I’ll just get out of your way and keep looking for the other cat.”
    “Well, if you’re sure it’s not the same cat.”
    “You know, I’ll bet this cat chose to live with you. Cats do that, you know. If you haven’t seen any lost-cat signs in the neighborhood, I think this cat was meant for you.”
    She looked hopeful. “You think?”
    “I really do.”
    “I’ve missed having a cat. I love Snowball, but cats get to your heart in a different way, you know?”
    I was already at the door, trying not to look like an escaping felon. “Thank you so much! Enjoy Cecil! ’Bye!”
    With a nervous fake laugh, I skittered out and pulled the door closed behind me. I broke into an undignified lope down to the sidewalk, where a hibiscus hedge would hide me if she came out to ask where I’d come from. Sweaty with shame, guilt, and anxiety, I made it to the Bronco in record time and zoomed away.
    In my imagination, I saw a TV reporter interviewing the sweet lavender-haired woman with the yellow cat and the white Pomeranian. The woman was saying, “I knew she